She was now with Mrs Uxeley and occupied two charming rooms of the huge twelve-roomed villa, with a view of the sea and of the Promenade des Anglais. Urania had helped her arrange them. And she lived in an unreal dream of alienation, non-existence, of soulless being, of unfelt actions and gestures, in accordance with the will of others. In the mornings she would visit Mrs Uxeley in her boudoir and read to her: American and French newspapers, and sometimes an extract from a French novelette. Humbly, she did her best. Mrs Uxeley thought she read well, but simply said she should cheer up now, that her sad days were over. No mention was made of Duco and Mrs Uxeley acted as if he did not exist. The great boudoir, with its balcony doors open, looked out over the sea where the morning promenade was already beginning, with the colourful and patchy shapes of parasols, delicately garish against the deep-blue sea, a sea of luxury, water of wealth, wavelets that had an expensive look before charmingly consenting to break into foam. The old lady, already made up, with her wig on and a white lace cap over it against the draught lay on her chaise-longue piled with cushions in the black and white lace of her white silk peignoir. With her lorgnette, initialled in diamonds, in her wrinkled hand, she liked to peer at the brash patches of the parasols outside. Now and then a rheumatic twinge would suddenly make her wince so that her face became a single crumpled surface of wrinkles, beneath which the even sheen of her make-up almost cracked, like craquelé china. In daylight she seemed scarcely alive, she seemed an automaton assembled from desiccated limbs, which still spoke and gesticulated. She was always a little tired in the mornings, at night she never slept; after eleven she took a nap. She lived according to a strict regime, and her doctor, who called every day, seemed to breathe new life into her every time, enabling her to hold out till evening. In the afternoons she drove around, got out at the Jetée and made her calls. But in the evenings she revived, with a hint of real animation, dressed, put on her jewels, recovered her exuberance, her exclamations, and her poses … Then it was balls, parties, the theatre. Then she was not a day over fifty.
But those were the good days. Sometimes, after a night of unbearable pain, she stayed in her bedroom, the previous day’s make-up not retouched, a black lace shawl over her bald head, in a black satin morning coat, which hung round her like a comfortable sack, and she groaned, screamed, shouted and seemed to be begging for mercy from her torment. This went on for a few days and occurred at regular three-week intervals: then she gradually revived again.
Her hectic conversation was limited to a regularly recurring discussion of all kinds of family matters. She explained to Cornélie all the family relations of her acquaintances, American and European, but was particularly fond of expanding on the great European families that she included among her acquaintances. Cornélie could never bear to listen and immediately forgot the acquaintances. It was sometimes intolerable to listen for so long, and for no other reason, as if compelled, Cornélie found the strength to talk a little herself, tell an anecdote or a story. When she saw that the old woman was very partial to anecdotes, riddles, puns, especially with a slightly risqué edge, she collected as many as she could from the Vie Parisienne and the Journal pour Rire, and always had them to hand. And Mrs Uxeley found her amusing. Once, noticing Duco’s daily letter, she made an allusion, and Cornélie suddenly realised that she was dying with curiosity. So she calmly told the truth: her marriage, her divorce, her liberal ideas, her meeting and relationship with Duco. The old woman was a little disappointed that Cornélie should talk about this with such simplicity. Her only advice was that the proprieties should now be observed. What friends said about the past was less important. But there must be no offence given now. Cornélie meekly gave her word. And Mrs Uxeley showed her albums, her own portraits from when she was a young woman, and the portraits of all kinds of men. And she talked of this friend and that, and in her vanity hinted at a very turbulent past. But she had always observed the proprieties … That was her pride. What Cornélie had done was not good …
The time between eleven and twelve-thirty brought relief. The old woman regularly had a siesta at that time—her only sleep—and Urania would come to collect Cornélie. They drove round a little or walked along the Promenade or sat in the Jardin Public. It was the only moment when Cornélie appreciated some of her newfound luxury and to some extent flattered her vanity. Walkers looked round at the two beautiful young women in their immaculate linen outfits, whose fashionably hatted heads withdrew under the twilight of their parasols and they admired the gleaming victoria, the impeccable livery and the grey horses of the Princess di Forte-Braccio.
Gilio was diffident and modest in his dealings with Cornélie. He was polite, but at a courteous distance, if he joined the two ladies for a moment in the garden or on the Jetée. Since the night in the pergola, after the sudden flash of his angry dagger, she was afraid of him, partly because she had lost much of her courage and her pride. But she could not be any cooler to him in her replies than she already was, since she was grateful to him, as she was to Urania, for looking after her for the first few days, and for the tact with which they had not left her immediately to the mercy of Mrs Uxeley, but had kept her at their place where she had regained some strength.
On those mornings off, when she felt released from the caricature of her life, from the old woman—vain, selfish, insignificant, ridiculous—she felt herself, with Urania’s friendship, regaining her old self, became aware of being in Nice, saw the colourful bustle around her with clearer eyes and lost the sense of unreality of the first few days. And it was as if she were seeing herself again for the first time, in her light linen walking suit, sitting in the Garden, her gloved fingers playing with the tassels of her parasol. She could still scarcely believe in herself, but she could see herself. She kept her longing, her homesickness, her oppressive discontent, deep inside, hidden even from Urania. Sometimes she felt she would choke. But she listened to Urania and talked and joined in the laughter and looked up at Gilio with a laugh, as he stood in front of her posing on the toes of his shoes, his walking stick dangling in his hands, behind his back. Sometimes—as in a vision swirling through the crowd—she would suddenly see Duco, the studio, her past happiness fading away for a brief moment. And then placing her fingertips between the lace strips curling in front of her bolero she would feel his letter of that morning and crumpled the stiff envelope against her breast like something of his that caressed her. There was no escaping it: she saw herself, and Nice around her, and she felt her new life: it was not unreality, although for her soul it was not real: it was sad play-acting in which, dull, tired, weak and listless—she played a part. …
XLV
EVERYTHING WAS ARRANGED as if according to a strict regime, which excluded even the slightest variation: everything was fixed as if by law. The reading of the newspaper, her one and a half hours off; then lunch, after lunch the drive, the Jetée, the visits; every day the calls, afternoon teas; occasionally a dinner, in the evenings generally a ball, a soir é e, a play. She made scores of new acquaintances and immediately forgot about them, and when she saw them again could never remember whether she knew them or not. In general she was quite well treated in those cosmopolitan circles, as it was known that she was a close friend of Princess Urania. But like Urania herself, on the female side of the old Italian names and titles, who sometimes made their dazzling appearance in those circles, she experienced devastating haughtiness and contempt. The gentlemen were always introduced to her, but whenever she was occasionally introduced to their ladies, a vague, astonished nod of the head was the only response. It mattered little to her personally, but she felt sorry for Urania, for she saw clearly, at Urania’s own soirées, how they scarcely regarded her as the hostess, how they surrounded and fêted Gilio, but gave his wife only a minimum of politeness due to her as Princess di Forte-Braccio, without forgetting for a moment that she was Miss Hope. And such lack of respect was harder for Urania to endure than for her. She assumed her role of lady’s companion. She kept a con
stant watch on Mrs Uxeley, repeatedly joining her for a moment, fetching a fan that Mrs Uxeley had left behind from another drawing-room, constantly performing some small service or other. Then, alone in the hectic hubbub of the room, she sat down against the wall, looking indifferently ahead of her. She sat there, still elegant, in an attitude of graceful indifference and dull boredom. Tapping her foot, or opening her fan. She paid no attention to anyone. Sometimes a few gentlemen would come over to her, and she would talk to them or dance a little, indifferently as if she were bestowing a favour. Once, when Gilio was talking to her, she seated and he standing, and the Duchess di Luca and Countess Costi came up together and, still standing, began bantering exuberantly with him without giving her so much as a look or a word, she first sat and looked the ladies up and down with mocking irony, then slowly rose and taking Gilio’s arm said, giving them a piercing needle-like look from narrowed eyes:
“I’m sorry … you’ll have to excuse me if I steal the Prince di Forte-Braccio away from you; I need to speak to him privately for a moment …”
And with the pressure of her arm she forced Gilio two steps further, immediately sat down again, made him sit next to her and began whispering to him in a familiar tone, leaving the duchess and the countess standing two metres away open-mouthed at her impudence, and moreover spread her train wide between herself and the ladies and waved her fan as if to keep a distance. She was able to do this with such calm, such tact and hauteur, that Gilio was tickled to death, and giggled with her in delight.
“Urania should be able to act like that occasionally,” he said, grateful as a child for the amusement she had accorded him.
“Urania is too sweet to be so spiteful,” she replied.
She did not make herself popular, but people became afraid of her, afraid of her calm spitefulness, and henceforth were wary of offending her. In addition, the gentlemen found her beautiful and attractive, partly attracted by her indifferent hauteur. And without really wanting to, she gained a position, apparently with the greatest diplomacy and in reality, of course, a step at a time. While Mrs Uxeley’s egoism was flattered by her little attentions, which she remembered religiously and performed with a charming youthful maternal air, in contrast to which Mrs Uxeley delighted in posing as a young girl, she gradually gathered an entourage of gentlemen around her, and the ladies became cloyingly polite. Urania often told her how clever she thought her, what tact she had. Cornélie shrugged her shoulders: it all went of its own accord, and she did not really care. Still, slowly, she regained something of her cheerfulness. When she saw herself standing in the mirror opposite, she could not help but admit that she was more beautiful than she had ever been, as a young girl, as a newly married woman. Her tall slim figure had a line of pride and languor, which gave her a special grace; her neck was noble, her bosom fuller, her waist slimmer in these new outfits, her hips were heavier, her arms had become plumper and though she no longer had that sheen, that happiness across her face that she had had in Rome, her mocking laugh, the indifferent irony gave her a special attraction to those strange men, something that enticed and provoked more than the most outrageous flirting would have done. And Cornélie had not wanted this, but now it came of its own accord, she accepted it. It was not in her blood to refuse. And apart from that Mrs Uxeley was satisfied with her. Cornélie could whisper so sweetly to her, “Ma’am, you were in such pain yesterday. Shouldn’t you go home a little earlier tonight?” Whereupon Mrs Uxeley postured like a girl being warned by her mother not to dance too much that evening. She loved these niceties, and Cornélie, indifferent, gave her what she wanted. And they amused her more on those evenings but the amusement was mixed with self-reproach the moment she thought of Duco, of their parting, of Rome, of the studio, of past happiness that she had lost through her weakness.
XLVI
AND SO SEVERAL MONTHS had passed; it was January and these were busy days for Cornélie, since Mrs Uxeley was soon to give one of her famous parties, and Cornélie’s morning breaks were now taken up with running all kinds of errands. Urania usually drove with her and was very supportive. They had to go to wallpaperers, patissiers, florists and jewellers, where Cornélie and Urania chose presents for the cotillon. Mrs Uxeley did not go out shopping, but at home concerned herself with every detail and there were endless discussions, followed by further drives to the shops, since the old lady was far from easy, conceited about the reputation of her parties, and frightened of that reputation being lost through the slightest slip.
On one of those drives, as the victoria turned into the Avenue de la Gare, Cornélie started so violently that she grabbed Urania by the arm and could not suppress a cry. Urania asked her what she had seen, but she could not speak and Urania made her get out at a confectioner’s to drink a glass of water. She was on the point of fainting and was white as a ghost. She was not able to finish the shopping, and they drove back to the villa. The old lady was not happy about the fainting fit and made such a fuss that Urania went off to do the rest of the shopping herself. By the afternoon Cornélie had recovered, made her apologies and accompanied Mrs Uxeley to an afternoon tea.
The following day, sitting on the Jetée with Mrs Uxeley and some acquaintances, she appeared to see the same thing again. She went as white as a sheet, but kept her composure and laughed and chatted cheerfully. These were the days of preparation. The date of the party approached; finally the evening arrived. Mrs Uxeley was a-tremble with excitement like a young girl, and found the strength to inspect the whole house, which was ablaze with lights and flowers. And with a sigh of contentment she sat down for a moment. She was dressed. Her face was as smooth as porcelain, her hair, waved, glittered with diamond pins. She was dressed in a low-cut gown of light-blue brocade, and she sparkled like a saint’s shrine. A constantly winding necklace of fabulous pearls came to below her stomach. In her hand—she was not yet wearing gloves—she held a gold-topped walking stick, indispensable for standing up. And only when she got up was she aware of her age, when she worked her way upright like a gymnast, with the pain on her face, with the twinge of rheumatism that shot through her. Cornélie, as yet undressed, after a final inspection of the villa, blazing with light, swooning with flowers, went to her room, and sank wearily into the chair in front of her dressing table to have her hair quickly done. She was nervous and hurried the chambermaid along. She was ready just as the first guests arrived, and was able to join Mrs Uxeley. The carriages rolled up; Cornélie, at the top of the monumental staircase, looked down into the hall-cum-vestibule, into which guests were pouring, the ladies still in their long cloaks—almost even more sumptuous than their gowns—which they then carefully deposited in the busily buzzing vestiaire. And the first guests came up the stairs, being careful not to be the first, to be smiled at by Mrs Uxeley. The drawing-rooms soon filled. Besides the reception rooms the hostess’s own rooms were open and there was a continuous suite of twelve rooms. While the corridors and staircases were decorated with arrangements of just red and white camellias, in the rooms the floral decorations were in hundreds of vases and bowls, which were placed everywhere and, together with the naked candle flames, gave an intimate atmosphere to the party. This was the special feature of Mrs Uxeley’s decoration of the reception rooms: no electric light, but candles in protective holders everywhere, the dishes and glasses full of flowers on all sides, making it like a fairy garden. If it lacked an overall unity of line, it gained a charming cosiness, allowing groups to form at will, behind a screen, in a loggia, everywhere there were intimate spots; and perhaps this was the reason for the rage for Mrs Uxeley’s parties. The villa, fit to host a court ball, gave only parties of luxurious intimacy to hundreds of people who were total strangers to each other. The coteries found their own niches, and were immediately at home. A tiny boudoir, all in Japanese lacquer and Japanese silk, was intended for general use but was immediately commandeered by Gilio, the Countess di Rosavilla, the Duchess di Luca and the Countess Costi. They did not even venture into the mus
ic-room, where a concert was the first item on the programme. Paderewski was on the bill and Sigrid Arnoldson was to sing. The music-room was lit in the same way and it was generally whispered that in this delicate light Mrs Uxeley looked forty. In the interval she fluttered around two very young journalists, who were to write a piece on her party. Urania, sitting next to Cornélie, was addressed by a Frenchman, whom she introduced to her friend as the Chevalier de Breuil. Cornélie knew that Urania knew him from Ostend, and that his name had been mentioned in connection with the Princess di Forte-Braccio. Urania had never talked to her about De Breuil, but Cornélie now saw from her smile, her blushes and the sparkle in her eyes that people were right. She left the two of them alone, feeling sad for Urania. She understood that the young princess was consoling herself for the indifference of her husband—and found this whole life of appearances disgusting. She longed for Rome, for the studio, for Duco, for independence, love, happiness. She had had everything, but had not been allowed to stay. She had been forced back into pretence, convention, the disgusting comedy of life. It surrounded her like a great lie, more glittering than in The Hague, but even falser, more impudent, more perverse. People no longer even pretended to believe the lie: there was an impudent honesty in this. The lie was held in honour, but no one believed it, no one imposed the lie as truth; the lie was nothing but a form. Cornélie walked through the rooms alone, joined Mrs Uxeley for moment—as usual—asked whether she wanted anything, whether everything was in order, and continued on alone through the rooms. She was standing by a vase, arranging some orchids, when a woman in black velvet, blonde, with a low neckline, spoke to her in English.
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