CHAPTER I.
They were close to each other in the dining-room, which had been turned into a dressing-room. In front of a mirror stood Frédérique van Erlevoort, with her hair hanging loose, looking very pale under a thin layer of powder, her eyebrows blackened with a single stroke of the pencil.
“Do hurry up, Paul! We shall never get ready,” she said, a little impatiently, glancing at the clock.
Paul van Raat was kneeling at her feet, and his fingers draped a long thin veil of crimson and gold in folds from her waist. The gauze hung like a cloud over the pinkness of her skirt; her neck and arms, white as snow with the powder, were left free, and sparkled with the glitter of the chains and necklaces strung across one another.
“Whew, what a draught! Do keep the door shut, Dien!” Paul shouted to an old servant who was leaving the room with her arms full of dresses. Through the open door one could see the guests—men in evening dress, ladies in light costumes: they passed along the azaleas and palms in the corridor into the large drawing-room; they smiled at the sight of the old servant, and threw surreptitious glances into the dining-room.
They all laughed at this look behind the scenes. Frédérique alone remained serious, realizing that she had the dignity of a princess of antiquity to keep up.
“Do make haste, Paul!” she pleaded. “It’s past half-past eight already!”
“Yes, yes, Freddie, don’t get nervous; you’re finished,” he answered, and adroitly pinned a few jewels among the gauze folds of her draperies.
“Ready?” asked Marie and Lili Verstraeten, coming out of the room where the stage had been fixed up, a mysterious elevation almost effaced in semi-darkness.
“Ready,” answered Paul. “And now calmly, please,” he continued, raising his voice and looking round with an air of command.
The warning was well needed. The three boys and the five girls who did duty as ladies’-maids, were rushing about the room laughing, shouting, creating the greatest disorder. In vain Lili tried to save a gilt cardboard lyre from the hands of the son of the house, a boy twelve years old, while their two rascally cousins were just on the point of climbing up a great white cross, which stood in a corner, and was already yielding under their onslaughts.
“Get away from that cross, Jan and Karel! Give up that lyre, you other!” roared Paul. “Do look after them, Marie. And now, Bet and Dien, come here; Bet with the lamp, Dien at the door; all the rest out of the road! There’s no more room; look on from the garden through the window of the big drawing-room; you’ll see everything beautifully, at a distance. Come along, Freddie, carefully, here’s your train.”
“You’ve forgotten my crown.”
“I’ll put it on when you’re posed. Come on.”
The three girls hurried to get away, the boys squatted in a corner of the room, where they could not be seen, and Paul helped Freddie to climb on to the stage.
Marie, who, like Lili, was not yet draped, talked through the closed window with the fireman, who was waiting, muffled up, in the snowy garden, to let off the Bengal light. A great reflector stared through the window like a pale, lustreless sun.
“First white, then green, then red,” Marie called out, and the fireman nodded.
The now deserted dressing-room was dark, barely lit by the lamp which Bet held in her hand, while Dien stood at the door.
“Carefully, Freddie, carefully,” said Paul.
Frédérique sank down gently into the cushions of the couch; Paul arranged her draperies, her chains, her hair, her diadem, and placed a flower here and there.
“Will that do?” she asked with tremulous voice, taking up the pose she had studied beforehand.
“You’re delicious; beautiful! Now then, Marie, Lili, come here.”
Lili threw herself on the floor, Marie leaned against the couch with her head at Frédérique’s feet. Paul draped both girls quickly in coloured shawls and veils, and twisted strings of gems round their arms and in their hair.
“Marie and Lili, look as if you were in despair. Wring your hands more than that, Lili! More despair, much more despair! Freddie, more languishing, turn your eyes up, set your mouth in a sadder expression.”
“Like that?”
Marie screamed.
“Yes, that will do! That’s better; now be quiet, Marie. Is everything ready?”
“Ready!” said Marie.
Paul arranged one or two more things, a crease, a flower, doubtful whether everything was right.
“Come, let’s start,” said Lili, who was in a very uncomfortable position.
“Bet, take away the lamps; Dien, shut that door, and then come here, both of you, one on each side of the folding doors of the big room.”
They were all in the dark, with beating hearts, while Paul tapped at the window, and joined the boys in the corner.
Slowly and doubtfully the Bengal light flamed up against the reflector, the folding doors opened solemnly, a clear white glow lit up the tableau.
Smiling and bowing, while the conversation suddenly changed into a muffled murmur, the guests pressed forward into the large drawing-room and the conservatory, blinded by a burst of light and colour. Men got out of the way of a couple of laughing girls. In the background boys climbed on the chairs.
“The death of Cleopatra!” Betsy van Raat read out to Mrs. Van Erlevoort, who had handed her the programme.
“Splendid! magnificent!” one heard on every side.
Ancient Egypt seemed to have come alive again in the white glow of the light. Between luxurious draperies something like an oasis could be perceived, a blue sky, two pyramids, some palms. On her couch, supported by sphinxes, lay Cleopatra, at the point of death, an adder curling round her arm. Two slaves were prostrate in despair at her feet. The parti-coloured vision of oriental magnificence lasted a few seconds; the poetry of antiquity revived under the eyes of a modern audience.
“That’s Freddie,” said Betsy. “How lovely!” and she pointed out the dying queen to Mrs. Van Erlevoort, who was dazzled by all this luxury. Now, however, the mother recognized her daughter in the beautiful motionless statue lying before her.
“And that’s Marie, and the other—oh, that’s Lili—irrecognizable! What beautiful costumes! how elaborate! You see that dress of Lili’s, violet and silver? I lent her that.”
“How well they do it,” murmured the old lady.
The white glow of the light began to flicker, the doors were closed.
“Splendid, auntie, splendid!” Betsy cried, as Mrs. Verstraeten, the hostess, passed her.
Twice the tableau was recalled, first in a flood of sea-green, then in fiery red. Freddie, with her adder, lay immovable, and only Lili quivered in her forced attitude. Paul looked out from his corner with a beaming face; everything was going well.
“How quiet Freddie lies! And everything is so rich, and yet not overdone. Something like a picture of Makart’s,” said Betsy, opening her feather fan.
“Your daughter is tired of life very early, madam,” lisped young de Woude van Bergh, bowing towards Mrs. van Erlevoort, Freddie’s mother.
After the third repetition of the tableau Mrs. Verstraeten went to the dressing-room. She found Frédérique and Lili laughing while they got out of their Egyptian attire, looking for endless pins in every fold. Paul and Marie stood on the steps, and, lighted by two of the servants, pulled Cleopatra’s dress to pieces. Dien fussed about, picking up the dropped draperies and the fallen chains. The three boys rolled over one another on a mattress.
“Was it pretty, mamma?” cried Lili.
“Was it pretty, madam?” cried Frédérique, at the same time.
“Beautiful! They would have liked to see it again.”
“What again! I’m nearly dead already,” cried Lili; and she tumbled into an arm-chair, throwing a great bundle off it upon the floor. Dien gave way to despair; at that rate she would never get done.
“Lili, rest yourself,” cried Paul, from the top of his steps in the other room; “you’ll get tired in that attitude. Aunt Verstraeten, tell Lili to rest herself,” and he threw some coloured carpets off the cords on which they had been hanging. Dien went on folding up.
“Dien, white sheets and white tulle this way, quick,” cried Marie. Dien misunderstood her, and came back with the wrong article.
Then all began to talk at once, and every one asked for something else, and there arose a very Babel of confusion. At the top of the staircase Paul made a gesture of despair, but no one took any notice.
“I am utterly worn out!” said he, crouching down in impotent rage. “No one does anything. It all falls to my lot!”
Madame Verstraeten, having in her turn begged Lili to rest herself, had gone to tell the servants not to forget the youthful artistes. As a result, the men soon came in, carrying big trays laden with glasses of wine and lemonade, pastry and sandwiches. The confusion only increased. The three boys were served with various good things on their mattress, over which one of the servants spilt a stream of lemonade. Up flew Marie, in a torrent of rage, and with Dien’s assistance quickly pulled the mattress away from under the boys, into the next room.
“Frédérique, do give a hand there,” cried Paul, in a voice shrill with irritation. As for keeping any further sort of control over the three lads, that he had given up as hopeless. Ere long, however, the noisy young customers were driven, loudly shrieking and stumbling one over another, out of the room by Dien.
Then there was a little more quietness, but everybody was doing something, except Lili.
“There’s a muddle!” she muttered to herself. Then she sat down and brushed her hair, wavy and blond cendré, and that done, she took up her powder-puff, and sprinkled a snowy layer over her arms.
Dien returned, very much out of breath, shaking her head, and with a kindly smile on her face.
“Dien, white sheets and tulle quickly,” Freddie, Marie, and Paul all cried together. Paul came down from his place on the stairs, placed the big cross, the weight of which nearly crushed him, on the platform, and at the foot he laid the mattress and a snug arrangement of pillows.
“Dien, white sheets and tulle; all the tulle and muslin you can find.”
And Dien and the other servants brought it, one soft mass of white.
Madame Verstraeten sat down beside her niece, Betsy van Raat. She was married to Paul’s elder brother.
“What a pity Eline is not here! I had so depended on her to fill up the long intervals with a little music. She sings so nicely.”
“She was really not feeling well, aunt. She is very sorry, you may be sure, that she can’t be here, in honour of uncle’s birthday.”
“What is the matter with her?”
“I don’t quite know. Nerves, I think.”
“She really ought not to give herself up to these fits. With a little energy she could easily get over that nervousness.”
“Well, you see, aunt, this nervousness is the modern bane of young women, it is the fin de siècle epidemic,” said Betsy, with a faint smile.
Madame Verstraeten sighed and nodded.
“By the bye,” said she, “I suppose the girls will be too tired to-morrow evening to go to the opera. Would you care to have our box?”
Betsy reflected for a moment.
“I have a little dinner to-morrow, aunt; but still I should like the box. It is only the Ferelyns and Emilie and Georges who are coming, but the Ferelyns are going early because little Dora is not well, so I could easily go with Emilie and Georges, and be in time to see an act.”
“Well, that is settled then. I shall send you the tickets,” said Madame Verstraeten rising.
Betsy rose too. George de Woude van Bergh was just about to speak to her, but she took no notice. She thought him a terrible bore that evening; he had spoken to her twice, and each time said the same thing, something about the tableaux. No; there was no conversation in him at all. And to-morrow night too she would have to meet him again; what an enjoyable prospect! Aunt’s box was quite a godsend. There stood her husband, in the conservatory, together with some gentlemen, Mr. Verstraeten, Mr. Hovel, Otto and Etienne van Erlevoort, they talking and he listening, his heavy body crushing the leaves of a palm, a somewhat stupid smile playing about his expressionless, good-humoured face. Oh, how he bored her! She thought him insufferable. And what a figure he cut in a dress coat! In his great-coat at all events he had a manly appearance.
Walking towards him she said, “Do say something to somebody, Henk. You look like a fixture in that corner there. Can’t you move? you do appear to enjoy yourself. Your necktie is all on one side.”
He muttered something and fumbled about his neck. She turned away and was soon at her ease in the midst of a noisy little group. Even melancholy Madame van Ryssel, Freddie’s sister, formed one of them. Emilie de Woude was unmarried and bore her thirty-eight years with an enviable grace: her pleasant, animate features charmed all who met her. She was much like her younger brother George, but about her there was something genial—a great contrast to his studied ceremoniousness.
Attracted by her amusing anecdotes, Emilie sat, the central figure in a joyous little group. She was just telling them of her recent fall on a patch of frozen snow, at the feet of a gentleman who had remained motionless, staring at her, instead of helping her to her feet.
“Just fancy my muff on the left, my hat on the right, myself in the centre, and right in front of me a man staring at me with open-mouthed amazement.”
There was the tinkling of a bell; Emilie broke off her story and ran away from her audience. The folding doors were opened, and there was a general rush to the front.
“I can’t see at all,” said Emilie, rising on tiptoe.
“Come here on my chair, miss,” cried a young girl behind her.
“You are a little dear, Toos, really. Will you allow me to pass by, Madame van der Stoor? your daughter has come to my aid.”
Madame van der Stoor, who, under a pseudonym, dabbled much in poetry, moved a step back, with an acrid smile about her lips. She felt a little disgusted at Emilie’s sans-gêne; she herself never made an attempt to get a better view, it was not the thing to show an unfashionable interest in the entertainment.
Emilie and Cateau van der Stoor were soon standing on one chair, holding each other’s waists.
“Oh, how pretty!” cried Emilie, and then remained silent in rapt attention. From out of the billows of a foaming sea arose a rough-hewn cross of marble whiteness, round the base of which a fragile fair woman clung in mortal agony, whilst a heaving wave of tulle covered her feet; and with the fierceness of despair her slender fingers grasped the Rock of Ages.
“It is Lili,” was heard here and there.
“How graceful she is, that Lili!” whispered Emilie to Cateau. “But how can she hang there like that? How can she bear it so long?”
“She is surrounded with pillows; but still it must be very tiring,” said Toos. “Of course you can’t see anything of the pillows, miss.”
“Of course not. But it is very nice; I have never seen anything so poetic before.… Say, Toos, I thought you were going to take part?”
“So I am, but only in the last tableau, with Etienne van Erlevoort. I shall have to be going soon to dress.”
Quickly she got down from her chair. The light grew dim, the folding doors were closed. Applause rang throughout the room. But ere long the white vision of surging foam was repeated, and an angel hovered over the cross, and held out her hand to the swooning woman.
Stronger and stronger grew the applause.
“Of course Marie cannot keep a serious face again,” said Emilie, shaking her head. “She will burst out laughing in a moment.”
And really something like a smile seemed to be trembling about the little mouth of the angel, the nervous twitching of the eyebrows contrasting very oddly with the pathetic expression of her features.
Although it was evident enough that the artistes were tired, not one of them being able to remain perfectly motionless, the last tableau was received with enthusiastic cheers. It was encored again and again. The tableau consisted of an allegorical representation of the Five Senses, the parts being taken by the four young girls, attired in rich dresses—cloth of gold, brocade ermine —and by Etienne, Frédérique’s youngest brother, who, in the garb of a minstrel, represented the sense of Hearing.
The tableaux were concluded.
It was now two o’clock, and Mr. and Madame Verstraeten received the thanks of their guests as they left them.
“Do you remain to supper with Cateau?” said Madame Verstraeten to Madame van der Stoor; “quite sans cérémonie, you know.”
Madame van der Stoor, however, feared it was too late; she would just wait for her daughter.
The artistes who had doffed their costumes entered the room and were overwhelmed with the thanks of those guests still remaining, while Emilie played a march on the piano. As an intimate friend she stayed to supper with van Raat and Betsy.
“You are coming to-morrow, are you not, Toos? the photographer is coming at two,” said Marie.
“Yes,” said Cateau, “I shall be here.”
Utterly worn out, the artistes flung themselves down in the comfortable chairs in the conservatory, where a dainty little supper was served.
“What was prettiest? What was prettiest?” all cried together
Then there was a general expression of opinion, to the accompaniment of clattering plates and forks, and the jingling of glasses.