Two months had passed like this. It was January; and these were busy
days for Cornélie, because Mrs. Uxeley was soon to give one of her
celebrated evenings and Cornélie's free hours in the morning were now
taken up with running all sorts of errands. Urania generally drove with
her; and she came to rely upon Urania. They had to go to upholsterers,
to pastry-cooks, to florists and to jewellers, where Cornélie and
Urania selected presents for the cotillon. Mrs. Uxeley never went out
for this, but occupied herself with every trifling indoor detail; and
there were endless discussions, followed by more drives to the shops,
for the old lady was anything but easy to please, vain as she was
of her fame as a hostess and afraid of losing it through the least
omission.
During one of these drives, as the victoria was turning into the Avenue
de la Gare, Cornélie started so violently that she clutched Urania's
arm and could not restrain an exclamation. Urania asked her what she
had seen, but she was unable to speak and Urania made her get out at a
confectioner's to drink a glass of water. She was very nearly fainting
and looked deathly pale. She was not able to continue her errands; and
they drove back to Mrs. Uxeley's villa. The old lady was displeased at
this sudden fainting-fit and grumbled so that Urania went off alone to
complete the errands. After lunch, however, Cornélie felt better, made
her apologies and accompanied Mrs. Uxeley to an afternoon tea.
Next day, when she was sitting with Mrs. Uxeley and a couple of
friends on the Jetée, she seemed to see the same thing again. She
turned as white as a sheet, but retained her composure and laughed and
talked merrily.
These were the days of the preparations. The date of the entertainment
drew nearer; and at last the evening arrived. Mrs. Uxeley was trembling
with nervousness like a young girl and found the necessary strength
to walk through the whole villa, which was all light and flowers. And
with a sigh of satisfaction she sat down for a moment. She was dressed.
Her face was smooth as porcelain, her hair was waved and glittered
with diamond pins. Her gown of pale-blue brocade was cut very low; and
she gleamed like a reliquary. A triple rope of priceless pearls hung
down to her waist. In her hand--she was not yet gloved--she held a
gold-knobbed cane, which was indispensable when she wanted to rise.
And it was only when she rose that she showed her age, when she worked
herself erect by muscular efforts, with that look of pain in her face,
with that twinge of rheumatism which shot through her. Cornélie, not
yet dressed, after a last glance through the villa, blazing with light,
swooning with flowers, hurried to her room and, already feeling tired,
dropped into the chair in front of her dressing-table, to have her
hair done quickly. She was just ready when the first guests arrived
and she hastened to join Mrs. Uxeley. And the carriages rolled up.
Cornélie, at the top of the monumental staircase, looked down into the
hall, where the people were streaming in, the ladies in their long
evening-wraps--almost more expensive even than their dresses--which
they carefully gave up in the crowded, buzzing cloakroom. And the
first arrivals came up the stairs, waiting so as not to be the very
first, and were beamed upon by Mrs. Uxeley. The drawing-rooms soon
filled. In addition to the reception-rooms, the hostess' own rooms were
thrown open, forming in all a suite of twelve apartments. Whereas the
corridors and stairs were adorned only with clumps of red and white and
pink camellias, in the rooms the floral decorations were contained in
hundreds of vases and bowls and dishes, which stood about on every hand
and, with the light of the shaded candles, gave an intimate charm to
the entertainment. That was the speciality of Mrs. Uxeley's decorations
on great occasions: the electric light not used; instead, on every
hand candles with little shades, on every hand glasses and bowls
full of flowers, giving the effect of a fairy garden. Though perhaps
the main outlines were broken, a most charming effect of cosiness
was gained. Small groups and couples could find a place everywhere:
behind a screen, in a loggia; you constantly found a spot for privacy;
and this perhaps explained the _vogue_ of Mrs. Uxeley's parties. The
villa, suitable for giving a court ball, was used only for giving
entertainments of a luxurious intimate character to hundreds of people
who were quite unknown to one another. Each little set chose itself a
little corner, where it made itself at home. A very tiny boudoir, all
in Japanese lacquer and Japanese silk, was aimed at generally, but was
at once captured by Gilio, the Contessa di Rosavilla, the Duchessa
di Luca and Contessa Costi. They did not even go to the music-room,
where a concert formed the first item. Paderewski was playing, Sigrid
Arnoldson was to sing. The music-room also was lighted by shaded
candles; and everybody whispered that, in this soft light, Airs. Uxeley
did not look a day over forty. During the interval she simpered to two
very young journalists who were to describe her party Urania, sitting
beside Cornélie, was addressed by a Frenchman whom she introduced to
her friend: the Chevalier de Breuil. Cornélie knew that Urania had
met him at Ostend and that his name was coupled with the Princess of
Forte-Braccio's. Urania had never mentioned De Breuil to her, but
Cornélie now saw, by her smile, her blush and the sparkle in her eyes,
that people were right. She left them to themselves, feeling sad when
she thought of Urania. She understood that the little princess was
consoling herself for her husband's neglect; and she suddenly thought
this whole life of make-believe disgusting. She longed for Rome, for
the studio, for Duco, for independence, love and happiness. She had had
it all; but it had been fated not to endure. Everything around her was
like one great lie, more brilliant than at the Hague, but even more
false, brutal and depraved. People no longer even pretended to believe
the lie: here they showed a brutal sincerity. The lie was respected,
but nobody believed in it, nobody put forward the lie as a truth; the
lie was nothing more than a form.
Cornélie wandered through the rooms by herself, went up to Mrs. Uxeley
for a moment, in accordance with her habit, whispered to ask how she
felt, whether she wanted anything, if everything was going well, then
continued on her way through the rooms. She was standing by a vase,
rearranging some orchids, when a woman in black velvet, fair-haired,
with a full throat and bosom, spoke to her in English:
"I am Mrs. Holt. I dare say you don't know my name, but I know yours. I
very much want to make your acquaintance. I have often been to Holland
and I read Dutch a little. I read your pamphlet on _The Social Position
of Divorced Women_ and I thought a good deal of what you wrote most
interesting."
"You are very kind. Shall we sit down? I remember your name too. You
were one of the leaders of the Women's Congress in London, were you
not?"
"Yes, I spoke about the training of children. Weren't you able to come
to London?"
"No, I did think about it, but I was in Rome at the time and I couldn't
manage it."
"That was a pity. The congress was a great step forward. If your
pamphlet had been translated then and distributed, you would have had a
great success."
"I care very little for success of that kind."
"Of course, I can understand that. But the success of your book is also
for the good of the great cause."
"Do you really mean that? Is there any merit in my little book?"
"Do you doubt it?"
"Very often."
"How is that possible? It is written with such a sure touch."
"Perhaps just for that reason."
"I don't understand you. There's a vagueness sometimes about Dutch
people which we English don't understand, something like a reflection
of your beautiful skies in your character."
"Do you never doubt? Do you feel sure of your ideas on the training of
children?"
"I have studied children in schools, in _crèches_ and in their homes
and I have acquired very decided ideas. And I work in accordance with
these ideas for the people of the future. I will send you my pamphlet,
containing the gist of my speeches at the congress. Are you working on
another pamphlet now?"
"No, I regret to say."
"Why not? We must all fight shoulder to shoulder, if we are to
conquer."
"I believe I have said all that I had to say. I wrote what I did on
impulse, from personal experience. And then...."
"Yes?"
"Then things changed. All women are different and I never approved of
generalizing. And do you believe that there are _many_ women who can
work for a universal object with a man's thoroughness, when they have
found a lesser object for themselves, a small happiness, such as a love
to satisfy their own _ego_, in which they can be happy? Don't you think
that every woman has slumbering inside her a selfish craving for her
own love and happiness and that, when she has found this, the outside
world and the future cease to interest her?"
"Possibly. But so few women find it."
"I believe there are not many. But that is another question. And I do
believe that an interest in universal questions is a _pis-aller_ with
most women."
"You have become an apostate. You speak quite differently from what you
wrote a year ago."
"Yes, I have become very humble, because I am more sincere. Of course
I believe in certain women, in certain choice spirits. But would the
majority not always remain feminine, just women and weak?"
"Not with a sensible training."
"Yes, I believe that it lies in that, in the training...."
"Of the child, of the girl."
"I believe that I have never been educated and that this constitutes my
weakness."
"Our girls should be told when still very young of the struggle that
lies before them."
"You are right. We--my friends, my sisters and I--had the 'safety' of
marriage impressed upon us at the earliest possible moment. Do you
know whom I think the most to be pitied? Our parents! They honestly
believed that they were having us taught all that was necessary. And
now, at this moment, they must see that they did not divine the future
correctly and that their training, their education, was no education at
all, because they failed to inform their children of the struggle which
was being waged right before their eyes. It is our parents that are to
be pitied. They can mend nothing now. They see us--girls, young women
of twenty to thirty--overwhelmed by life; and they have not given us
the strength for it. They kept us sheltered as long as possible under
the paternal wing; and then they began to think of our marriage, not in
order to get rid of us, but with a view to our happiness, our safety
and our future. We are indeed unfortunate, we girls and women who were
not, like our younger sisters, told of the struggle that lay just
before us; but I believe that we may still have hope in our youth and
that our parents are unhappier and more to be pitied than we, because
they have nothing more to hope for and because they _must_ secretly
confess that they went astray in their love for their children. They
were still educating us according to the past, while the future was
already so near at hand. I pity our parents and I could almost love
them better for that reason than I ever did before."