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Gounod’s opera. How she adored Gounod!
    It was half-past ten when there was a knock at the door.
    â€˜Come in!’ she cried, resting her slender fingers on the keys as she glanced over her shoulder.
    Paul van Raat stepped into the room.
    â€˜Hello Eline. Hello there, little scamp.’
    â€˜Ah, Paul!’
    She rose, somewhat surprised to see him. Ben went over to his uncle and tried to climb up his legs.
    â€˜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:
    â€˜I was awfully sorry I couldn’t go; I wasn’t at all well, you know . . . such an appalling headache.’
    â€˜I’d never have guessed from the look of you.’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜Now then, roly-poly, you must let me go! Well, Eline, has the headache cleared up now?’
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜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.
    . . .
    â€˜Why don’t you take proper painting lessons, Paul?’ asked Eline. ‘Surely, if you have talent–’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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,