Three Women in a Mirror (9 page)

She found that as he listened, the Stranger, became fascinated: he could hear more than mere sentences; his unexpected smiles, the twinkling of his eyes, made her sense that behind her words he could distinguish other thoughts, ones that lingered in the shadow and which even Anne did not know.

“What are your feelings for this Philippe?”

“I am prepared to love him.”

“And yet?”

“I like him, but I despise his love. He tied me up, did he not?”

“He wants to possess you. Like an object. Besides, did he not buy you?”

“From whom?”

“From you. By suggesting you love him in his way.”

She sighed.

“I sense that I must go elsewhere . . . further into love . . . and without him! Am I foolish?”

“Not at all.”

He gave her a kindly look.

“What do you intend to do now?”

She shrugged.

“It's obvious! I will follow your advice. That is why you are here, no?”

He blushed, lowered his brow, and murmured, “‘He that cometh after me is mightier than I, whose shoes I am not worthy to bear.'”

Distracted by a cracking sound, Anne jumped.

“Oh, look there, on the branch . . . ”

Already affected, the Stranger was greatly moved by the sight of the dove she was pointing to. He turned crimson, his trembling lips stifled his words, he looked for a point in the sky, and let the tears fill his eyes, then he lay on his stomach face down in the ground, his arms spread wide.

“Thank you!”

Who was he talking to?

Anne looked from the bird to the recumbent man. Was the creature on the tree delivering an important message? She wondered whether the Stranger, who was older and more educated than she, greater in wisdom, was receiving a message she could not detect.

Suddenly the dove flew away, as if it had concluded its prayers.

The Stranger got up and mumbled, “Let's be on our way, we have to get to Bruges.”

During the journey they spoke little, taking long strides; the important thing was to make progress before darkness stopped them.

The man knew the forest well. Without hesitating, a hazelnut branch in his hands, he cleared their way through the ferns. Their ears were burning, stung by the birdsong of the flirtatious oriole, the imperious blue tit, the exasperated blackbird, and the bitter ravens.

Following a dirt track, they crossed flat fields: some were planted, others abandoned. After the thick, varied undergrowth, Anne found the nature here monotonous; disappointed, she focused her attention on the horizon, preferring to stare at what was invisible rather than at the thick plows, scrawny dogs, bent peasants.

Finally, beneath a darkening sky, Bruges was visible in the distance, its belfry a high square tower standing triumphantly, ninety feet high, an architectural marvel that had just been built, the pride of the town, the sign of its prosperity. When they drew near, Anne trembled and stopped the Stranger.

“Are you sure? Can we not spend one last night outside?”

“You would sleep badly. You would be frightened for the next day.”

She lowered her head, puzzled.

“Are you going to send me back to Philippe?”

“Certainly not.”

“Well, then where are we going?”

“To your family. I want to speak to them about your future.”

She protested, “No one will understand me.”

“Why not?”

“Because I'm different.”

What did she mean by the word? She could not say exactly; by “different” she was referring to the abyss she saw between her own joys and those of other people, the solitude she felt when people talked about what fascinated them, her reticence to share her thoughts, which no one ever understood. The currency of languages and ideas that was common among men was not something Anne knew how to use: the words never had the same meaning for her and for those with whom she spoke. Whether she was among family or out among society, she felt excluded.

The Stranger seemed to know this: “It's true, you are different. You must be proud of it.”

They continued along the road. Reinvigorated by his declaration, Anne explored a new dimension of herself. Did this mean she could be pleased with who she was?

The church bells tolled.

They passed through the city gate. Anne showed the Stranger which labyrinth to follow to reach Aunt Godeliève's home; she lived neither alongside the canals nor on the Grand-Place where houses were so expensive, accessible only to the affluent—drapers, bankers, eminent merchants. She lived farther along, beyond the streets of craftsmen and tradesmen, at the end of a warren of streets in a poor neighborhood that backed onto the city walls.

It was getting dark. Golden candlelight flickered inside solid buildings; in the homes of ordinary citizens, the hearths glowed red. Groups of noisy, dirty children teased each other, laughing.

Anne knocked on the door of a brick building.

When Aunt Godeliève, plump and kind, saw the young woman, she felt her heart leap, rushed outside, and picked her up in her arms.

“My sweet, I was so afraid for you! Oh, what a relief! I could not believe what Ida was saying, that you'd gone mad, that you had beaten her and bitten her, that you stubbornly insisted on staying in the woods. She also told me there was a man with you there, a monster, a giant who—”

Just then, the Stranger emerged from the shadows and stood in front of Godeliève. She raised her eyebrows.

“But—”

“This is my friend,” explained Anne.

“Your friend? Who are you, sir?”

The Stranger removed his hood. A shock of straight, matted blond hair sprung up on his scalp, freed at last after so many hours beneath the black wool.

“I am the monk Braindor.”

He bowed.

In the darkness, the combined apparition of his name—Braindor—and the gleaming gold mop of hair dazzled both Anne and Godeliève. Now that he had removed his hood, the Stranger seemed much younger and less frightening; to be sure, he was still exceptionally tall, but without his aura of mystery he was just another lanky Flemish lad of the kind one often saw in Bruges.

“You are a monk?” stammered Godeliève.

The man rummaged in his cassock and pulled out a crucifix with his right hand.

Godeliève nodded, delighted with the turn of events. Brain­dor felt he ought to reassure her: “I accompanied your niece to your home to discuss what is happening to her.”

“Then do come in, Father, if you will accept my hospitality.”

Godeliève led them to the long wooden table, then cooked an omelet on the embers.

The two young cousins, Hadewijch and Bénédicte, came down from upstairs, shy at first, then bolder once the giant had smiled to them. They embraced Anne enthusiastically. Sullen, withdrawn, Ida kept in the darkness to one side of the hearth, displaying equal scorn for her cousin and the Stranger.

When they had eaten their fill, Braindor put down his empty plate, and rubbed his palms on the table.

“Now, let us speak about Anne.”

“I'm listening, Father,” said Godeliève, sitting down opposite him.

“Do you remember how our Lord Jesus Christ wandered for forty days in the desert?”

He looked each of the women in the eye, one after the other; they batted their eyelashes to indicate that, yes, they knew the Scriptures. He continued, “Everything changed during that solitary time. At the end of it our Lord, who had never given sermons before that time, expressed himself at last and set off on his mission throughout the land, bringing about conversions, gathering his disciples around him and performing his miracles. In his life, exile marked a border: he had one life before the desert, and another after the desert. Sand and rocks gave us the Jesus Christ, whom we have been honoring for fifteen centuries.”

“That is no doubt true,” murmured Aunt Godeliève, unsure of what he was getting at.

“Our Lord showed us the way. One must sometimes be lost, the better to find one's self.”

He pointed at Anne.

“This young woman has just undergone the trial of the desert: in the middle of the woods she was in search of her truth.”

“Her truth?” said aunt Godeliève, surprised, failing to understand a thing.

Ida emerged abruptly from the shadow to confront Braindor: “Well then, let her tell us what it is, her truth!”

All eyes turned to Anne.

Her eyes round, she tried to think what she might share, opened her lips, changed her mind, began again, hoped, sighed, moaned, then stared desperately at the ground.

Ida said triumphantly, “There you have it, her truth: nothing!”

“She does not yet know how to say it,” replied Braindor, calmly.

“Anne is a simpleton!” screamed Ida. “She's a half-wit! Until now no one listened to me because they all thought I was jealous. Jealous of what?”

She turned hotly upon the monk: “There is no one but you, a beggar, to take her defense.”

Braindor stood up, which made him instantly threatening, and frowned.

“Her behavior will show you the way. You have concluded that she is lost and yet it is she who is guiding you, because she has assimilated so much that you do not even suspect to exist.”

He turned to Godeliève.

“Now, my sister, I would like for her to have permission to grow. She must no longer be thwarted in her vocation, nor forbidden from loving the way she sees fit. Please, let her love go where it must.”

The women did not understand a word of his harangue. Finally, Godeliève said, “What are you talking about?”

“God!” thundered Braindor. “It is perfectly clear that this child is intended for God.”

Their mouths were round with astonishment.

God, Anne's vocation? No one had thought of that.

Not even Anne.

Vienna, June 2, 1905

 

Dear Gretchen,
Have I told you about my collection? I began it in Italy, merely by chance, then I became so enthralled that I had to buy three additional trunks to store it during our journeys. Now since our return to Vienna it has claimed all my attention.

Forgive me, I am going on and on and not explaining anything . . . I am absolutely mad about millefiori and sulfide paperweights! Glass globes like solidified water, containing violets, daisies, prairies, butterflies, faces: I hunt, I track, I bargain, I purchase them, and I think I'd even be prepared to steal them.

My furniture is crumbling beneath my Bigaglia, Baccarat, Saint-Louis, and Clichy paperweights. They are displayed on the shelves of my boudoir, which is where I have collected them. Naïve, joyful, virginal, and innocent, they sit and sparkle like bubbles with their bright colors, and their bases make one think of barley sugar. They are seductive little imps, entrancing even the light, which they attract and hold in their heart, like spiderwebs capturing a rainbow.

I daydream as I sit and look at them. My eyes wander over their unchanging flowers, my gaze follows their curves: in their crystal globes they are drops of air, transformed into eternal dewdrops, and my imagination takes flight. Not only do I know of nothing more superb, but never has an object inspired so many ideas or feelings in me.

I have not made these marvelous objects into a collection, but rather it is they that have made me into a collector. Before, I had no inclination to indulge in such a mania. But when visiting a studio in Murano I fell in love at first sight.

Whenever I bring any new ones home, I feel as if I am rescuing them from the street, providing them with a roof, and also liberating them because I enjoy them for what they are, my lovely silent friends; I have freed them from their domestic purpose of minding papers, or acting as bookends or finials on a newel post. Here they become works of art once again.

Why am I telling you all this? Because I want to share with you these nuggets of joy sprinkled throughout my life.

Apart from this, my life remains strange; or rather the way in which I inhabit it seems to be getting more and more bizarre.

I ought to be happy, and yet I scarcely am.

But I do try . . . Every day I remind myself that I am wealthy, beloved, and desired, that I live in a palace, and have been introduced to the best society in Vienna; every hour that goes by I must admit that I am in excellent health, that I eat well beyond my fill, that I spend my time among amusing people, that in this capital of the Empire all I need to do is go to the opera, the concert, the theater, or the galleries to see works of human genius. Every night I study my husband's gracious sleeping form and I tell myself that nine Austrian women out of ten would gladly steal my place. But in spite of my soul-searching, and all my best will, I have failed. I know which way happiness lies, yet I do not feel it.

There is uneasiness in the air . . .

If only I could put a name to it . . .

Why do I get up in the morning? Apart from my collection, nothing about the day ahead entices me. Nevertheless, I put on my uniform like a good girl, rehearse my role, go back over my lines, double-check my entrances and exits, and prepare for the comedy of my existence. Perhaps I am yearning for a miracle . . . What miracle? To stop watching myself act. To be no longer the actress or the spectator of my own life. To stop judging and criticizing who I am, feeling like an imposter. If only I could, at last, like a sugar lump in water, melt and dissolve into reality.

Up to now, I have kept them all off the scent, and my acting is fine. No one can see, beneath my miming and eloquence, how distraught I am. Last night, Franz shouted enthusiastically, “I am proud of you!”

Proud of me? I cannot tell whether his declaration was encouraging or deeply distressing . . . On the one hand, I was relieved that I have made this exquisite man happy; on the other hand, I suffer from the knowledge that my husband, with whom I share my days and my nights, and to whom I am supposed to be close, could not detect my torment.