The flaming fire cast great, quivering shadows, like dancing, black
spectres, on the walls and ceiling of the dark room. Now and then a
momentary flash of brightness would hover about an antique silver ewer,
or glint along a carved sideboard, which, like a vague dark mass,
filled up an angle in the room, or play about a set of old china, or a
pair of antique vases over the mantelpiece.
Vincent Vere lay stretched on his sofa, and looked around with
half-closed eyes, each time there was a flickering of light over the
room. That strange prevailing gloom, penetrated by fitful gleams of
ruddy light, made him pleasantly forgetful of his prosaic rooms, where
a stray object of vertu of his own was in screaming contrast with the
shabby gentility of the furniture. And he lay musing awhile in the
Dantesque twilight.
These last few days he had felt very worn and exhausted. A languor
seemed to numb his limbs; it was as though it were warm water instead
of blood that coursed through his veins; at times a mist seemed to hang
before his eyes, so that he could neither act nor think. His eyelids
drooped wan and limp over his lack-lustre, light blue eyes; his lower
lip hung down heavily, and about his small mouth there was a very
pained expression. He had often felt like that, but this time he
ascribed it to the atmosphere of the Hague, which well-nigh suffocated
him, and he longed for more space and more air, and could not
understand why he should have gone to a city, which had always had so
little attraction for him. Yes, he remembered—through the mist of his
exhaustion—he had wished for a span of rest, after all his restless
wanderings; but already, notwithstanding his fatigue, he felt a nervous
stimulation to action, and an inward spur once more to throw himself
into a vortex of change. Rest and monotony had a dulling effect upon
him, and in spite of his weakness he felt continually excited to
movement and action, and an insatiable longing for an ever-changing
horizon. And yet he lacked the energy to devote himself with
determination to any kind of labour, whilst his changeable nature
constantly drove him onward in a restless search after some
surroundings, some sphere or occupation in which he might feel at home,
and which he ever failed to find.
The two weeks which he had spent in the Hague seemed to him an age of
ennui. The day after he had met Betsy and Eline at the opera, he had
been to take coffee at the van Raats’, and had asked Henk to lend him
500 florins; he was daily expecting some money from Brussels, he said,
and he would repay him at the very first opportunity. Henk, though he
knew him to be exceedingly forgetful in such matters, did not like to
refuse, and handed him the amount, and so Vincent lived on, one day
allowing the money to run as water through his fingers, the next with
parsimonious economy hesitating to spend a dubbeltje, while the drafts
from Brussels continued to stay away.
About the future he troubled himself but little; he had ever led a
hand-to-mouth existence; he had known days of luxury in Smyrna, and
suffered privation in London and Paris; but in whatever circumstances
he might have found himself, that feverish desire for change had
spurred him on, in continual dissatisfaction with the present; and at
that moment, while he was living on his 500 florins, he felt so
unnerved that the very burden of his listlessness at times almost made
him forget his weakness.
Then he mused on, gazing into the darkness, now and again lit up by the
ruddy flames, as they shot forth from the hearth and fell in spectral
relief about the gloom-hidden furniture. He mused on, in coldest
pessimism. Why should he be other than he was? He would again want
money, and he would get it somehow; why not? There was neither good nor
evil in the world; everything was as it should be, and the inevitable
result of an unbroken chain of causes and reasons; everything that was
had a right to be; no one could alter that which was, or was to be; no
one had a free will; every one was only a different temperament, and no
one could act in any way but in accordance with the demands and nature
of that temperament, influenced by circumstances and surroundings; that
and that alone was truth, yet mankind with its childish idealism,
eternally prating about virtue, and provided with a handful of
religious poesy, was ever seeking to hide it.
“Great heavens! what a life it is!” he thought, and his fingers
wandered about his light brown curls. “The life at least that I am
leading now, for a year of it, would kill me, or drive me mad.
To-morrow is like to-day, nothing but one blank monotony.”
And he threw himself into an ocean of memories, as he thought of what
he had lived through, and scenes in many climes and pictures of various
cities rose before his mind.
“And yet, what a struggling, what a toiling for nothing at all,” he
muttered, and his eyes closed, whilst swiftly a veil appeared to
descend over his memory, and light drops of perspiration formed on his
brow. There was a singing in his ears, and suddenly, a vague space,
terrible in its extent, unrolled before his closed eyes.
But this state of weakness, bordering almost on a swoon, lasted only a
few seconds; and a deep sigh escaped his bosom.
There was a noise of rapid footsteps up the stairs, and a cheerful
voice was heard exchanging a word of greeting with the lady in the
fancy shop below. He was expecting a few acquaintances that evening.
The door opened.
“The deuce, how dark it is! It looks like hell here, with that terrific
fire. Where are you hiding, Vere?” cried Paul van Raat, standing by the
open door.
Vincent rose and walked towards him, and grasped Paul by the shoulders.
“Here, old chap, don’t be alarmed. Wait, I’ll light the lamp.”
He sought some matches, lit a couple of old-fashioned lamps on the
mantelpiece, and blinked his eyes, dazzled by the sudden light. The
Dantesque halo that hung over the room was soon dispelled by the yellow
petroleum light, but the bright burning fire still looked sociable,
although the antique sideboard with the silver ewer and a few Oriental
objects of art looked sorely out of place among the old-fashioned
furniture in threadbare red Utrecht velvet, and the antique pieces of
china seemed like so many misplaced aristocrats among the ugly, cheap
engravings and common oleographs which lined the walls.
It was the first time that Paul had entered Vincent’s abode, and he
looked admiringly at the ewer and the china plates.
“Yes, they are not bad; the ewer is cracked, but the workmanship is
very fine, do you see? I called upon an old Jew dealer to-day; I want
to get rid of the things. You see, they only take up the room. He was
going to call to-morrow. Or perhaps you would like them? They are to be
had.”
“No; my room—or my studio, if you like—is too full already.”
“Well, a few plates more or less——”
“No; thank you.”
“After all, I would rather sell them to the Jew. Perhaps I can manage
to best him a bit, and, of course, I should not care to do that to
you.”
“Much obliged. And suppose he is too sharp for you?”
“Well, then he must best me, that’s all. It’s always thus in the world,
isn’t it? You have had tea, I suppose?”
“Yes—no, thank you; never mind. But, tell me, how long are you going to
stay in the Hague?”
They sat down, and Vincent shrugged his shoulders. He really did not
know; he had not yet received any information about the situation in
the quinine factory in Java; but he heard they would give the
preference to a chemist, which he was not. So he would most likely give
up the idea; and, besides, he didn’t think the Indian climate would
agree with him. In the meantime, staying in the Hague, to find
something there, was out of the question. He was already getting tired
of the Hague—it was so kleinstättig; every one knew every one else, at
least by sight, and everywhere he met the same people, intensely
tiresome! He had not yet made up his mind what to do, but he was
expecting letters and remittances from Brussels. And he concluded by
asking Paul if he could lend him a hundred gulden for a day or two.
Paul thought he could manage it, but he could not yet say for certain.
“You would really be doing me a service; shall I hear from you then
to-morrow? or do you think me indiscreet?”
“Oh no; not at all. Yes, all right, I shall see to-morrow.”
“Well, thanks in advance. You know the two Erlevoorts and de Woude are
coming this evening. I have asked them to come and drink a glass of
wine,” said Vincent, in an altered tone.
“Yes; I saw them this afternoon at the Witte,” answered Paul.
Vincent leant back against the old red bench, and the lamp-light cast a
yellowish reflection on his sallow features, and a care-worn expression
formed about his mouth. Paul was struck by Vere’s remarkable
resemblance to his uncle Vere, Eline’s father, as he lay back, and
raised his arm behind his head, with a gesture such as he had
frequently remarked in Eline.
A little later, some time after nine, Georges de Woude van Bergh and
Etienne van Erlevoort came, the latter apologizing for his brother, who
had been prevented from coming.
Otto felt no sympathy for Vincent, although he had never had any
unpleasantness with him whatever; with his own practical, manly
character never disturbed in its healthy equilibrium, with his hearty
brusquerie, he could cherish no friendship towards a man who, in his
opinion, gave himself completely over to a morbid, hyper-sensitiveness,
without making the slightest effort to raise himself out of it. Otto
was one of the few persons whom Vincent could not succeed in drawing
towards him. Almost every one on coming into contact with him felt
conscious of something that repelled even while it attracted; something
like a sweet, alluring poison, like the overpowering fumes of opium.
His continued travelling had given Vincent a good deal of knowledge of
human nature, or rather of tact in dealing with all sorts of people,
and he could, when he chose, assume any character to suit the
circumstances, with the same ease as a serpent writhes itself into
various coils, or as an actor interprets various rôles. But Otto, with
an involuntary pride in his own healthy strength, which ever went
straight at its object, despised Vincent, because of the poisonous
fascination which he had the power to shed about him, and the seduction
of which others were unable to resist.
Ere long a bluish smoke filled the room, Vincent having offered cigars
round, although he himself did not smoke. He took a couple of bottles
of St. Emilion from a cupboard, uncorked them, and placed four glasses
on the table. Etienne, with his usual spirits, sat relating story after
story, with an amount of mimicry and gesture, and a strong flavouring
of youthful patois, that gave him somewhat the air of a singer at a
café chantant. Paul and Georges laughed. But Vincent shrugged his
shoulders, with a blasé smile, and as he filled the glasses muttered
contemptuously, in his light voice—
“What a baby you are, Eetje, Eetje!”
Etienne, however, took no notice of the remark, and continued his
stories, growing more and more spicy as he went on, whilst the others
listened and enjoyed the bouquet of their wine. But Vincent could not
resist the temptation to chaff him.
“What a naughty boy that young Erlevoort is to talk about such things,
eh? What a sad dog!” he said, and the mocking laugh about his mouth was
too encouraging that Etienne should desist.
Vincent once more filled the glasses, and Georges praised the wine. He
had never very much to say when amongst young men; he generally gave
himself up to quiet enjoyment. It was only for the society of ladies
that he reserved all the sparkle of his brilliant wit. Vincent asked
him one or two questions about his work at the ministry for foreign
affairs.
“I suppose you will be attached to some legation or other one day?” he
said.
“Very likely,” answered Georges.
“Well, at all events, it is a situation which gives you the chance of
seeing something of the world. But how any one can pass his whole life
in an office, I can’t conceive. It would kill me. There’s Erlevoort,
now—I mean your brother, Eetje.”
“You let Otto alone,” said Paul. “He has a great career before him, you
shall see.”
“Yes, you know, Otto is cut out for a cabinet minister or a
governor-general—at least, so his mother always says. ’Tis I alone who
am the outcast of the family,” cried Etienne.
“Yes; the spoilt child, eh?” laughed Vincent “How far are you now in
your studies?”
“Oh, I’m going on all right. I am not at college, you know, I am
studying in the Hague.”
“Do you think it so enjoyable in the Hague, then, in July?” asked
Vincent, in a tone of contempt.
“Yes; it’s not so bad.”
“How, in Heaven’s name, is it possible? You fellows are very easily
satisfied then, I must say, or rather you haven’t any idea of what the
world is like. The Hague makes me sleepy and dull, there’s something
drowsy in the atmosphere.”
“That’s your own doing, I dare say,” laughed Paul.
“Possibly; and maybe ’tis my fault too that I think the life you
fellows lead here too soul-killing. Now what is it you are doing here,
I should like to know? You are continually running about in one little
circle, like a horse in a roundabout at the Kermis. Should you be in a
situation, you have always exactly the same little jobs to do, and when
you have done, the same little amusements await you in the evening.
Great Scott! how insipid!”
“But what is it you would have us do then?” asked Georges.
“As far as I am concerned you can go on vegetating here, if you like;
but I can’t understand you fellows not even wanting to see something of
the world.”
“Well, now there’s yourself; you have seen the world, as you call it,
haven’t you? and what have you gained by it? you are a
Jack-of-all-trades, and a master of none; and up to now you haven’t
achieved any very brilliant results!” cried Paul, a little out of
humour at the contemptuous way in which Vincent had referred to him.
Behind his eye-glass an angry gleam shot forth from Vincent’s dull blue
eyes, whilst his thin lips closed.
“And you are forgetting your duties as a host, with your
philosophizing,” cried Etienne, pointing to his empty glass.
“I suppose the fact is that I am of a more excitable temperament than
you fellows,” said Vincent, in a languid voice. He again filled up the
glasses, and sank down wearily beside Georges, and his eyes wandered
listlessly about the room.
It was growing very warm, and the tobacco smoke hung in thick clouds
about the ceiling. Vincent opened the door. Etienne, who could not take
much wine, had become very excited, there were red circles about his
eyes, and he had broken his glass. Georges and Paul continued to enjoy
his jokes. Vincent, however, listened to him with a faint smile.
And in his mind there arose a strange wondering, a wondering that a man
always retained his own individuality, without the power of
transforming himself into the personality of any one else. Often,
without the slightest cause, he would find himself lost in wonder at
this idea, in the midst of the most cheerful company, and he would be
filled with an indescribable feeling of ennui at the thought of his
inevitable fate ever to remain what he was—Vincent Vere; that he never
could be transformed into some entirely different being, which would
breathe under entirely different circumstances and in an entirely
different sphere. He would have liked to have lived through various
phases of life, to have existed in different ages, and to have sought
his happiness in constantly changing metamorphoses. And this desire
appeared to him at the same time very childish, because of its
ridiculous impossibility, and very noble because of the grandiose
unattainability which it involved; and he believed that no one but him
cherished such a desire, and thought himself very much exalted above
others. In his musings it seemed to him as though the three others were
very far removed from him, as though they were separated from him by
the smoky haze. A feeling of lightness suddenly passed through his
brain; it was as if he saw every object in brighter colouring, as if
their laughter and chat sounded louder and more metallic in his ear, as
if the flavour of the tobacco, mingled with the aroma of the wine,
assumed a more pungent odour, whilst the veins in his temples and pulse
throbbed as if they would burst.
This excitement of his nerves continued for a few seconds, then he saw
his guests laughingly looking at him, and although he had not
understood a word of what they said, he also laughed lightly, that they
might think that he shared their amusement.
“I say, Vere, ’tis getting confoundedly close here, my eyes ache with
the smoke,” said Georges; “couldn’t we open a window?”
Vincent nodded his head and closed the door, whilst Paul, who sat by
the window, opened it. A rush of cool air quickly entered. Outside it
was very quiet; now and again voices might be heard to the
accompaniment of measured footsteps, or a shrill street tune re-echoed
through the stillness.
The chill air brought Vincent quite to himself again, and his strange
desires vanished, now that his nerves grew calmer. Now, on the
contrary, he envied the three that same physical and moral Nirvana
which he had looked upon with such contempt a short while since; Paul
he envied his vigorous health, just a trifle enervated by a somewhat
languid æstheticism; Georges his calm equanimity and contented mind;
Etienne his joyous youthfulness. Why indeed was he not like them,
healthy, contented, and youthful? why did he not enjoy life as it was?
why was he continually seeking after a something which he could not
even define himself?
It was close upon one when the three young men rose, and Paul declared
that they would have to take Etienne home, as his early excitement had
given way to a mood of melancholy, and he was continually talking about
suicide.
“I say, Eetje, have you got your key?” he asked.
“Key?” asked Etienne with dull staring eyes, and husky voice. “Key?” he
repeated, reflecting. “Yes, in my pocket, yes—a key—in my
pocket—here——”
“Come, let us go then,” said Georges.
Etienne approached Vincent and took him by the shoulders, while the
others listened in amusement.
“Good-bye, Vere, thanks for your hospi—hospitality. I always had a
liking for you, Vere; you’re a trump of a fellow, do you hear, Vere? I
feel much, very much sympathy for you, do you hear? Only this afternoon
at the Witte I was saying—Paul was there—and heard me—I said, Vere,
that your heart was in the right place. They misjudge you, Vere, but——”
“Come, allons!” cried Paul and Georges, with impatience, taking hold of
his arm; “cut it short.”
“No, no; let me have my say—they misjudge you, Vere; but don’t you take
any notice of it, old boy; ’tis just the same with me, they misjudge me
too. ’Tis sad, very sad, but so it is; good-bye, Vere; good-night,
Vere; sleep well.”
Vincent saw him to the door with a lighted candle, and Etienne walked
to the steps, supported between Georges and Paul.
“Vere, be careful now. Don’t catch cold standing at the door, and don’t
you take any notice; they misjudge you, but I will take your part——”
Vincent nodded smilingly at Georges and Paul, and closed the door.
“Deuced pleasant chap, that Vere!” stammered Etienne.