It was a few days after St. Nicholas’ Eve when Eline went out one
afternoon, taking little Ben by the hand. The previous evening she had
been, together with Madame Verstraeten, Marie, and Lili, to the opera,
to see Il Trovatore, and that morning she had asked her old grumbler of
a singing-master to accompany her in
“La nuit calme et sereine.”
He shook his head; he did not care for those bravura arias of the
Italian school, about which Eline was often at variance with him; she
thought Bellini, Donizetti, Verdi most graceful and melodious music, as
though written for her ringing soprano. He on the other hand considered
them childish with their rippling airy little tunes, and was never
tired of dwelling upon the richer depth of Wagner. But she had him
completely under her thumb, and he played whatever she wished him to.
“Come, Ben, walk properly, there’s a good child!” said Eline to the
sturdy little chap. “Come, keep up with auntie. Isn’t it nice to go
into all the nice shops?”
Last evening, when at the opera, during the cavatina of the Comte de
Luna, Eline had an idea rising in her mind. In the window of a
photographer’s she had noticed some portraits of Fabrice in various
characters and dresses, and a sudden desire overtook her to possess
one. So now she was on her way to buy one of the portraits. And she
smiled to herself as though she enjoyed the secret pleasure of it, as
she pictured him with his big heavy frame, his fine head of hair, and
his black beard. How glorious to be an actor!
From Fabrice her thoughts wandered back to her new fan, which she had
used last evening. Betsy thought she had acted very foolishly in taking
it with her before she knew the giver, but she had taken no notice of
her sister’s objections; on the contrary, she thought there was
something fascinating in that uncertainty which had a peculiar
attraction for her romantic nature; indeed she had already formed quite
a little romance for herself out of the little incident. Fabrice had
noticed her in the Verstraetens’ box; he was quite captivated by her;
in future it was only to her that he sang, and his heart was filled
with disappointment whenever he did not see her at the opera. It was he
who had sent her the fan with its modest superscription, “Mdlle. E.
Vere”; he had seen her use the fan last night, and one time or other he
would be sure to betray himself by a glance or a certain note in his
song.
She smiled at her own romancing, at the wildness of her fantasy. She
remembered last summer at the picture academy to have seen several fans
by Bucchi, and now she also recollected with what admiration she had
gazed at them, and how she had expressed the desire to possess one. Who
could have had the delicate attention to meet her in that desire? With
whom had she been to that exhibition? With Emilie de Woude, with
Georges perhaps—surely Georges could not have—or her dancing-master,
who had proposed to her, but whom she had refused? Oh! it was too
stupid; no, she would think no more about it—one day she would know.
By way of the Parkstraat and the Oranjestraat she had reached the
Noordeinde and was close to the picture-shop, when all at once the
thought struck her—would not the shopkeeper think it absurd for a young
girl to purchase such a portrait? No; she would never summon up
courage. But already she stood before the window, behind which masses
of engravings, photographs, groups of statuettes in marble and
terra-cotta, and numbers of various objects of art were displayed in
elegant confusion; actors and actresses, singers and painters, with
their names attached: Estelle Desveaux, Moulinat, Théo Fabrice.
“Come, Ben,” she said, and gently pushed the child inside. There were
some ladies in the shop, selecting photographs, and they looked at her.
She could not help it, but really she thought she blushed under her
white tulle fall.
“May I see some of your New Year’s cards, like those in your window?”
she asked the shopkeeper. “Don’t touch those statuettes, Ben.”
A number of cards were shown her. She looked at them attentively, took
them up with the tips of her well-gloved fingers, and laid a few aside.
Then she looked round her, noticed a heap of portraits, and with her
languid indifference she took them up. Fabrice’s were among them.
Which should she take? This melancholy-looking one in the black velvet
costume and lace collar, representing Hamlet; that one as Tell? No,
this one, as Ben-Saïd, the character in which she had first seen him.
But she would also take that one of Moulinat, the tenor, and of Estelle
Desveaux, the contralto; then it would not be remarked that she had
come expressly for Fabrice. But then she might just as well take
another of Fabrice, as Hamlet.
“Will you let me have these cards, and these four portraits?”
“Shall I send them to you?”
“Oh no, I will take them. How much is it altogether?”
She paid the money, took the envelope in which the shopman had enclosed
them, and left the shop with Ben, under the firm impression that the
ladies, who were still engaged with the photographs, looked at her as
though they would read her inmost thoughts.
A glow of pleasure came over Eline’s face when once she was outside. At
last she had summoned up courage to do what she had long determined,
and she spoke in a gentle motherly way to Ben. And when, on reaching
the Hoogstraat, she saw Jeanne Ferelyn in her winter cloak, wide as a
sack, and her modest little black hat, walking on the opposite side
without noticing her, she took Ben’s hand, and quickly crossing the
street between two carriages, greeted Jeanne with smiling cordiality.
They walked on a few steps together, Jeanne telling her that Dora was
getting on nicely, but that she had been obliged to engage a nursemaid,
as she could not always leave the children to the care of Mietje, who
was so slovenly and careless, and that it had somewhat crippled her
finances. Eline forced herself to be attentive to the tale of her
latest troubles; but soon Jeanne began to speak with more animation
about Frans, her father, and Doctor Reyer, with whom she was getting on
better now. Then as she saw how sympathetically Eline looked at her,
and how gently she spoke to Ben, she raked up some of the recollections
of her school-days, and they laughed about their childish pranks, and
about the cherries she used to pick out of Eline’s cape. Jeanne was
annoyed at herself for having formed such an unfavourable impression of
Eline when she met her at the van Raats’ dinner-party; now she found
her quite unaffected and amiable.
“But don’t let me detain you any longer, Eline,” said she, stopping
short; “I have to make a few trifling purchases, order some saucepans,
and a milk-jug. Mietje has been breaking some things.”
“Oh! I have nothing to do, I’ll walk with you so far, if you don’t
think I’m de trop, and if Ben isn’t tired. Are you tired, little man?
No, eh? Oh! he is such a good one at walking!”
They walked on, and Jeanne ordered the saucepans, and Eline went into
the china-shop and chose a milk-jug for her. At the same time her mind
was still running on Fabrice, and at times she felt an irresistible
longing to open the envelope and look at his portraits. She was so
passionately fond of music, and Fabrice sang with such pathos, with so
much more feeling than other actors. He was still young, she thought;
he would yet be famous, and make his début in Paris. Jeanne never went
to the opera, and probably had never yet seen him.
Would she, Eline, meet him one day in the street, she wondered? And how
would he look, in his everyday clothes? Yes; one morning she would
pretend to have an early call to make somewhere, and she would pass by
the opera-house. Perhaps there might be a rehearsal, and if so she
would probably meet some of the artistes in the neighbourhood of the
building. Absorbed in her own thoughts she did not always hear what
Jeanne was saying; but she continued to look at her, as she walked by
her side, with those sympathetic eyes and that winning smile, which
were among Eline’s greatest charms.
Meanwhile they had turned the corner, and on reaching the Hoogewal, she
took leave of Jeanne.
“Well, good-bye, I’ll come and look you up soon, Jany; remember me to
Ferelyn, do you hear? Come, Ben, shake hands with the lady.”
In her longing after affection, Jeanne felt something like a grateful
glow of warmth at the sound of that name Jany; it seemed like an echo
of former days, when as a girl every one called her Jany.
And she hurried back to the Hugo de Grootstraat, full of high spirits,
longing once more to be in her little home, with her husband and her
little darlings of children.
Eline smiled to herself as she passed through the Willemspark on her
way home. The bare branches over her head glistened with hoar frost,
and the frigid air was clear and seemingly full of vague echoes. She
felt a strong impulse to give expression to her happiness in that free
atmosphere, by an outburst of joyous song. Was she a little smitten
then—with that——
No, no, it was too absurd; it was only that he sang well!