Eline Vere

by Louis Couperus

She heard no more. She had but one single thought: to fly from that house, away from a shelter where she was reproached for her presence. She saw nothing more; she saw neither Gerard nor the servants, who stood looking at her in blank amazement; she hurried along the vestibule, flung open the glass doors, and quickly drew the bolt from the street-door. But now, now she heard behind her a rattling noise; the door fell to with a bang, shattering the glass on the floor with a loud crash.

Then the street-door too slammed behind her, and she found herself in the street. The rain was falling in torrents, and the blustering wind blew open her cloak, and beat in her face as with a damp thong. It was impossible for her to plod on in the teeth of that boisterous hurricane, and she turned the other way and allowed herself to be driven along aimlessly by the force of the wind, which flew at her back like a gigantic vampire, with big, tearing claws. Aimlessly she let herself be carried along in that pitiful, that dismal night. In the street she saw no one, and in her loneliness, in the lowering gloom, in the splashing downpour, in the wild gusts of the storm, she at length felt herself conscious of her position, and a chill, indefinable terror overtook her. It seemed to her as though she had been suddenly wrenched away from out of the midst of every-day life, and found herself plunged into a sphere full of nameless, terrible anxiety and blank, dismal despair. She nearly died with fright at the darkness that enveloped her like a black shroud of grief, at the deluge which was pouring [[236]]down upon her bare head, utterly without protection from the wind gusts which nearly blew her cloak from her shoulders, and numbed her with cold in the thin black silk dress that fluttered about her in the buffeting wind. Her little patent shoes went splashing along through mud puddles and thick mire; her dishevelled hair hung dank and dripping down her temples; and under her thin cloak she felt a chill moisture gliding down her neck and down her bare bosom. She knew no longer where she was; she started in fright at the twigs that fell about her, at the howling of a watch-dog in a house she passed. And she saw no one, no one.

But her condition brought her to herself. She felt conscious of having fled from her sister’s house. She would fain have stood still for a moment to reflect, but the strong wind thrust her forward, as though she were one of the autumn leaves that were whirled about her head. And she let herself be blown along, and collected her thoughts, while tramping forward with involuntarily hurried footsteps. Despite her pitiful condition, she felt neither remorse nor regret at the step she had taken. And suddenly she felt astounded at her own courage. She would never have imagined herself possessed of the pluck to run away in such a night, without knowing whither to go. But she forced her thoughts to take some practical shape, she could not continue wandering about in this way, she must have an object.

All at once she noticed that she had reached the Laan Copes van Cattenburgh. Driven forward by the wind, she hurried along the rain-sodden, muddy path, while the storm swept in sullen fury across the Alexanders-veld.

Continually she had to step back before the shower of loose twigs which the wind blew from the trees, and she began to perceive that she was in danger of being crushed by some falling trunk. A fear for her life prevented her from thinking, but the more intensely that fear numbed her heart, the more eagerly she nerved herself to do so. Whither in Heaven’s name should she go? A chill tremor seized her—a vague, undefined dread—while her wide, staring eyes were trying in vain to peer through the dense gloom. To whom was she to go? To old Madame van Raat? No, no, fond as she was of her, the old lady would be sure to take the part of her son and her daughter-in-law! To the Verstraetens—her brother-in-law’s relation? Everything began to surge around her, and she—she felt herself lost in her black solitude, and gradually [[237]]sinking lower and lower into an abyss of grief and of mire! Otto’s figure rose to her mind, and she would have given all that remained her of her life could he have come to her at that moment, could he have there and then borne her away in his arms, clinging to his heart, to some abode of warmth, light, love, and safety. Her courage all but failed her to go farther, she could have flung herself down in that mire through which she plodded, and remain lying there, letting the winds sweep over her until her last breath should have escaped her! But no! that would be all too cowardly after the pluck she had already shown, and now she must, she would set her mind to think of some place of refuge. Not Madame van Raat—not the Verstraetens—in Heaven’s name whither should she go then? And all at once, like a lightning flash darting through the gloom of that night of blank despair, an idea struck her, and her mind reverted to a certain suite of humble apartments, to Jeanne, her friend of former days. Yes, thither she must go: she knew no one else, and she could not for ever go on wandering along in that pouring rain, in that howling storm; and, bracing herself up to face the buffeting wind, she hurried round—numbed, chill, and wet to the skin—by the Alexanders-veld in the direction of the Hugo de Grootstraat. There, over on the opposite side of the field, she could just see the backs, lit up here and there with a faint gas glimmer, of the houses on the Nassauplein, but she could not distinguish which of them was theirs—hers no longer. A wild, longing remorse now filled her poor, despairing heart at the recollection of all she had lost yonder, at the thought that she had yet to plod on for so long through the raging storm ere she could reach the Ferelyns. And she was tired, tired unto death, tired from her quarrel with Betsy, tired with the rain that was unceasingly beating down upon her face, cold and cutting as thongs of steel, tired with the wind against which she struggled as with an immense black monster, that was dashing her to and fro as though she had been a human battledore. She felt more fatigued with every step she took in her little patent shoes, which were bespattered with mud, and with every movement threatened to slip from her feet. And oh! she could have died with misery, with distress, with grief.

But forward, still forward she must go, and she fought and struggled on with the monster and slowly gained upon it. In this way she reached the Javastraat, and then she turned to the right, [[238]]towards the Laan van Meerdervoort. The hurricane shook her as though it would break her like a reed, and a heavy branch struck her on the shoulder, and scratched her face so that she screamed with pain. And suddenly, with despair overmastering her body and soul, desperate with fear and grief, she made an attempt to start running, running as if for very life, and fly—fly to the Ferelyns. But the furious wind stopped her, it was in vain, she could only proceed slowly, painfully, step by step.

“Oh God! What have I done?” she cried in wild despair. Those familiar streets, along which she trod almost daily, seemed to her, in that noisome darkness, as the unknown ways of a demon city along which she was doomed to wander like some accursed phantom. She passed by Madame van Raat’s house, and she had to summon forth all her courage, all the strength of her will, not to knock at that door, that would surely open to her, and admit her to light and warmth. But no, it was too late, Madame would be asleep; besides, she would reproach Eline with her flight from the Nassauplein. And she plodded on, driven forward by the wind and by an obstinate fixed idea, towards the house of the Ferelyns. She went on, on, although with every step she took she felt her thin little saturated shoes growing heavier, heavier than lead. She turned at the Spiegelstraat—how much longer should she have to suffer? She counted the minutes—then—then she entered the Hugo de Grootstraat. And the furious rain beat down more savagely than ever on her face, more roughly than ever the wind tugged and tore at her cloak, when—thank God!—she stood at their door. She could see no light anywhere, but she did not hesitate. Here only could she find safety. And she rang the bell violently, roughly, passionately, as with a tintinnabulating cry for help.

The time to her seemed unendurably long before any one answered. But at last she heard steps coming down the stairs, the bolt was drawn with a grating sound, then the door was slowly, stealthily opened, and a face appeared at the opening.

“In God’s name!” she cried imploringly, and pushed the door quite open and rushed inside. “It is I, Eline.”

The door closed and she stood in the darkness before Frans Ferelyn, who, in utter amazement, shouted out her name. At the top of the stairs appeared Jeanne with a lamp, and in her longing [[239]]for light, for warmth, for glow, her will once more got the better of failing strength, and she hastened up the stairs.