She hopped down from her chair. The light flickered, the sliding doors closed. There was a clatter of applause, after which the white vision of foaming gauze reappeared; an angel now leant over the cross, extending an arm to raise the hapless maiden swooning at the base.
There was more applause, louder this time.
‘Of course Marie won’t be able to keep a straight face,’ said Emilie with a toss of her head. ‘She’ll burst out laughing any moment now.’
And sure enough, a tremor of unseemly mirth was seen to be hovering about the lips of the angel, whose soulful expression acquired a somewhat comical cast beneath a pair of nervously raised eyebrows.
. .
Although everyone could see that the artistes were tired, since none of them were able to keep perfectly still, the final tableau was received with great jubilation. Four or five encores were demanded. It was an allegory of the five senses, enacted by the four girls, all of whom were richly draped in heavy fabrics — cloth of gold and silver, brocade and ermine — and by Etienne, the youngest of Frédérique’s brothers, who was garbed as a minstrel in personification of Hearing.
Then it was all over.
Due to the long intervals between the tableaux it was now two o’clock, and the guests gravitated towards the host and hostess to take their leave.
‘Will you stay to supper with Cateau?’ Madame Verstraeten murmured to Madame van der Stoor. ‘Nothing formal, you know.’
But Madame van der Stoor deemed the hour too late; she would go as soon as her daughter was ready.
The artistes, having changed as quickly as they could, repaired to the salon, where they received congratulations on their acting skills and good taste from the last departing guests. In the meantime a triumphal march could be heard being played on the piano by Emilie, who, being a close friend of the family, would stay to supper along with Henk and Betsy.
‘But you’ll be coming tomorrow afternoon, won’t you, Cateau? The photographer will be here at two!’ called Marie.
The following day was Thursday; Cateau would not be going to school in order that she might rest, and she promised to be there at two o’clock.
The fatigued artistes sat sprawled in the easy chairs of the spacious conservatory, where a light repast was laid out — turkey, salad, cake and champagne.
‘Which one was the best? Which did you like most?’ they clamoured.
Opinions were compared and contrasted, booed and cheered, amid the general clatter of plates, forks and spoons and the clinking of glasses filled to the brim and rapidly emptied.
II
At half-past two the Van Raats made their way homeward to Nassauplein. All was quiet at the house, the servants having gone to bed. As Henk slipped his key back into his pocket and drew the bolt across the front door, Betsy was reminded of her rosy little boy upstairs in his white crib, asleep with bunched fists. She took the candle from the newel post and started up the stairs, while her husband stepped into the dining room with the newspapers. The gas light was on, tempered to a wan glow from a small, fan-shaped flame.
Betsy’s dressing room was likewise illuminated. She turned the knob, causing the light to flare up brightly, and drew her fur wrap off her shoulders. In the small grate a flame leapt upwards like the fiery tongue of a heraldic lion. There was something soothing about the room, something reminiscent of a warm bath and the sweet perfume of Parma violets. For a moment she stood over the white crib in the darkened adjoining nursery, then returned and with a sigh began to undress, letting the lace gown slide down her hips like a black cloud. The door opened and Eline came in, looking rather pale in a white flannel peignoir, with her hair loose and flowing.
‘Why Elly, not in bed yet?’
‘No, I. . I’ve been reading. Did you enjoy your evening?’
‘Yes indeed, it was very nice. I only wish Henk weren’t so insufferably dull. He never said a word, just stood there fidgeting with his watch chain and looking awkward, except when they played whist during the intervals.’
Somewhat tetchily, Betsy wedged the toe of one foot against the heel of the other and kicked off a dainty shoe of gilded leather and beadwork
Eline stretched herself languidly.
‘Did you tell Madame Verstraeten I was indisposed?’
‘Yes I did. But you know me, Sis, after a late night like this I can’t wait to get to bed. We’ll talk tomorrow, all right?’
Eline was used to her sister being mildly out of sorts after an evening out, regardless of whether she had enjoyed herself, desiring only to shed her clothes as soon as possible.
Nevertheless, she was tempted to make some sharp reply, but in the next instant felt too lethargic and feeble to do so. She touched her lips to Betsy’s cheek and, without thinking, leant her head against her sister’s shoulder in a sudden craving for tenderness.
‘You’re not really ill, are you?’
‘No. Just feeling a bit lazy, that’s all. Goodnight then.’
‘Sleep well.’
Eline, languorous and graceful in her white peignoir, retired. Betsy picked up her lace gown from the floor and continued undressing.
. .
In the corridor Eline felt a vague sense of banishment, which caused her momentary displeasure. She had been quite alone all evening, having giving in to a whim of indolence and ennui not to go out, and any length of solitude tended to bring on melancholy, making her long for some company and light-hearted banter. She paused in the dark, undecided, then groped her way down the stairs and entered the dining room.
Henk had flung his tailcoat on the sofa, and now stood in his waistcoat and shirtsleeves preparing his nightly hot toddy. Swirls of steam rose from the glass as he replaced the kettle on the hot plate.
‘Hello, my dear!’ he said heartily, an affable smile spreading beneath the bushy blond moustache as he regarded her with his sleepy, blue-grey eyes. ‘Weren’t you very bored this evening, all by yourself?’
‘A little, yes. Not as bored as you, maybe,’ she responded with a coy smile.
‘Me? Quite the contrary; the tableaux were really rather good.’
He stood straddle-legged, sipping his hot drink with audible relish.
‘Has the youngster been good?’
‘Yes, sound asleep all evening. Are you staying up?’
‘I just want to have a look at the papers. But why aren’t you in bed yet?’
‘Oh, no reason. .’
Turning to the pier glass, she stretched her arms again lingeringly, then twisted her loose hair into a sleek, dark chignon. She felt a need to confide in him, to have a heart-to-heart talk, but in her vacant, dreamy state she was at a loss for any particular topic to engage his sympathy. She wished she could break down and weep, overcome by some not-too-lacerating grief, for the sole purpose of hearing his gentle, bass voice consoling her. But she could think of nothing to say, and continued to stretch herself with languishing gestures.
‘Is anything wrong? Tell me, my dear, is anything the matter?’
Widening her eyes, she shook her head from side to side. No, nothing was wrong.
‘You can tell me, you know!’
‘Well, I’m just a bit upset, that’s all.’
‘What about?’
She gave a little moan, pouting her lips.
‘Oh, I don’t know. It’s just that I’ve been feeling rather nervous all day.’
He laughed his gentle, sonorous laugh.
‘You and your nerves! Come now, little sister, it’s time you cheered up. You’re such good company when you’re not in one of your moods; you really shouldn’t give in to them.’
Feeling insufficiently eloquent to persuade her of this, he grinned and changed the subject:
‘Care for a nightcap, Sis?’
‘Thank you. Yes, I’ll just have a sip of yours.’