. .
Eline felt her throat filled with melody. Hunting among her music books for a composition attuned to her emotion, she came upon the waltz from Mireille. She sang it with variations of her own devising, with sustained points d’orgue, finely spun like swelling threads of glass, and joyous trills as clear as a lark’s. She forgot the cold and snow outside. Feeling a sting of conscience for not having practised for the past three days, she began singing scales, by turns brightening her high notes and practising difficult portamentos. Her voice rang out with plangent tones, the hint of coldness in it at once pearly and crystalline.
Although Ben was accustomed to her melodious voice echoing through the house, he stopped turning the pages of his picture book to listen open-mouthed, giving a little start now and then at a singularly piercing ti or do in the top range.
Eline was at a loss to account for her low spirits of yesterday. Where had that fit of gloom come from? She could think of no particular cause for it. How odd that it should have dissipated of itself, for she could think of no joyful occurrence to justify her change of heart. She now felt bright, gay, and in good form; she regretted not having seen the tableaux, and would have liked to have heard all about them from Betsy. She hoped the Verstraetens did not think her indisposition had been an excuse. Such a kind gentleman, Mr Verstraeten, so amusing and fun-loving, and his wife was such a dear! She was quite the nicest person she knew! And as Eline sat at her piano, now practising a roulade, then a series of shakes, her thoughts floated to all the other nice people she knew. All her acquaintances were nice in one way or another: the Ferelijns, Emilie de Woude, old Madame van Raat, Madame van Erlevoort, even Madame van der Stoor. As for young Cateau — she was adorable. And she caught herself thinking how amusing it would be to join in their theatricals herself: she heartily approved of the way Frédérique, Marie, Lili, Paul and Etienne were always happily banding together, always planning diversions and japes. What fun it would be to wear beautiful draperies and be admired by all! And Paul had an attractive voice, too; she did so love singing duets with him, and she quite forgot that only a few days before, during a conversation with her singing master, she had remarked that Paul had no voice to speak of.
So she was in mellow mood, and sang a second waltz — that of Juliette in Gounod’s opera. How she adored Gounod!
It was half-past ten when there was a knock at the door.
‘Come in!’ she cried, resting her slender fingers on the keys as she glanced over her shoulder.
Paul van Raat stepped into the room.
‘Hello Eline. Hello there, little scamp.’
‘Ah, Paul!’
She rose, somewhat surprised to see him. Ben went over to his uncle and tried to climb up his legs.
‘You’re early! I thought you weren’t coming to sing until this afternoon. But you’re most welcome, naturally. Do take a seat, and tell me all about the tableaux!’ Eline said warmly. Then, recalling her recent indisposition, she dropped her voice to a suitably depressed pitch:
‘I was awfully sorry I couldn’t go; I wasn’t at all well, you know. . such an appalling headache.’
‘I’d never have guessed from the look of you.’
‘But it’s true, Paul! Why else do you think I’d miss the opportunity to admire your talent? Go on, do tell me all about it, I want to know every detail!’ She swept the picture books off the couch and invited him to sit down.
Paul finally managed to disentangle himself from Ben, who had been clutching him tightly, teetering on his little heels.
‘Now then, roly-poly, you must let me go! Well, Eline, has the headache cleared up now?’
‘Oh yes, completely. I shall go and congratulate Mr Verstraeten on his birthday, and apologize for not being at the party. But in the meantime, Paul, do tell me what it was like.’
‘Actually, what I came to tell you is that I shan’t be coming to sing this afternoon, as I have no voice left. I did so much shouting yesterday that I’m quite hoarse. But it was a great success, all things considered.’
And he launched into an elaborate description of the tableaux. They had been his idea, and he had done much of the work himself, including painting the backdrops, but the girls too had been very busy for the past month, getting up the costumes and attending to a thousand details. That afternoon Losch would be coming to take photographs of the final tableau, so even if he had been in good voice he wouldn’t have been able to come by to sing with her. Besides, he was as stiff as a board, for he had slaved away like a carpenter. As for the girls, they must be quite exhausted too. He had not taken part in the performance himself, as he had been far too busy making all the arrangements.
He leant back against the Persian cushions beneath the overhanging aralia, and brushed his hand over his hair. Eline was struck by how much he resembled Henk despite being his junior by ten years: of slimmer build, of course, and much more lively, with finer features and an altogether brighter look. But the occasional gesture, such as the raising of an eyebrow, brought out the resemblance to a startling degree, and while his lips were thinner beneath his light moustache than Henk’s beneath his bushy whiskers, his laugh was much like his brother’s: deep, and warm and hearty.
. .
‘Why don’t you take proper painting lessons, Paul?’ asked Eline. ‘Surely, if you have talent—’
‘But I haven’t!’ he laughed. ‘So it wouldn’t be worth it. I just dabble, you know, whether it’s in painting or singing. None of it amounts to anything.’
And he sighed at his own lack of energy for making the most of what little talent he might possess.
‘You remind me of Papa,’ she said in a wistful tone, as she evoked the poeticised image of her father. ‘He had enormous talent, but his health was poor and in the end he was too weak to undertake anything on a big scale. He had just started work on a huge canvas, a scene from Dante’s Paradiso, as I recall, and then. . then he died. Poor Papa! But you, you’re young and fit; I can’t imagine why you have no ambition to do something great, something out of the common.’
‘You know I’m to be working at Hovel’s, don’t you? Uncle Verstraeten saw to that for me.’
Hovel was an established lawyer, and as Paul had indeed, after alternate bouts of studiousness and sloth, graduated at a relatively early age, Uncle Verstraeten thought he would be doing the young man a good turn by commending him to his friend. So it was settled that Paul would join Hovel’s office until such time as he set up a practise of his own.
‘At Hovel’s? A very nice man! I like his wife very much, too. Oh, but that’ll be splendid, Paul.’
‘Let’s hope so.’
‘You know, if I were a man I’d make sure I became famous. Come along now, Ben, be a good boy, sit down on the floor and look at those pretty pictures. Wouldn’t you love to be famous? You see, if I weren’t Eline Vere, I’d want to be an actress!’
And she broke into a roulade, which poured from her lips like liquid diamonds.
‘Famous!’ he said with a dismissive shrug. ‘Oh no, such a childish idea, wanting to be famous! It’s the last thing I’m interested in. Still, I’d like to be good at painting, or at singing, for that matter.’
‘So why don’t you take lessons, either in painting or in music? Shall I speak to my singing teacher?’
‘No thanks, not grumpy old Roberts. And besides, Eline, honestly, it wouldn’t be worth it. I’d never stay the course, whatever it was. I have these sudden moods, you know, when I feel I can do anything, and off I go looking for some great subject for a painting. .’