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 music-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.
“I’m Mrs Holt: you may not know my name, but I know yours. I’ve been dying to meet you. I’ve been to Holland a lot and read a bit of Dutch. I read your pamphlet on the Social Position of Divorced Women, and I was interested in much that you wrote.”