Chapter Text
The boarding house was hectic, but at the same time calm, as the mademoiselles of Matron de Perrieaux's finishing school were settled in the various rooms of that first-class institution, as the peace of Vevey spread around them.
Narrow colorful alleys of old town, colorful splendor was dazzling, like the view from the narrow, high windows, sparkling Lake Geneva and the snowy peaks of the Alps.
All manner of girls walked down the stairs, in seminary school dresses, day dresses, blonde hair, dark braids, dark chestnut colored hair, ladylike essences, to be molded and made anew. Embroidered handkerchiefs, Latin and geometry exercises, sheet music, stacks of letter paper, girlish hidden whispered secrets in the silence of dormitories, or private rooms, well-kept gardens at evensong time, as well as packages, from home, all over Europe and United States, Canada, all over provinces.
Dorothy Gardner resolutely swept her heavy dark brown curls over her shoulders and tied them carelessly, with a red ribbon, in that style which among the girls was called le vie bohemienne. Vevey almost seemed to be throbbing, or perhaps it was midsummer magic. Dorothy could barely concentrate on Aline's latest letter, as its content was even more bitter than usual, and that already said something because usually all of Aline's letters were so socially polished that in previous years Dorothy had used them as a blueprint in her own compositions.
Aline's accomplished cursive was hurried, and certain sentences caught Dorothy's eye. With a pensive frown Dorothy put her sister's letter in a pile with her the other correspondnce as she wondered why Aline was so bitter that one of their cousins was apparently engaged or nearly so as rumous claimed. Marriage was a common goal to all.
A little amused, Dorothy thought that one reason for Aline's mood might be that she had no steady beaux, or even a prospect that Mama wouldn't have chased away. Aline's character was too rigid, and she was afraid of fun or larks. The ideals of New Woman had also risen here, as everywhere, but very slowly, but surely. Women had begun to move forward in a rigid society as opportunities opened up. New Woman was a result of the growing respectability of postsecondary education and employment for women who belonged to the privileged upper or secondary classes of society. It was an agenda that Dorothy herself was fully behind, just as the lovely example of Anne Shirley was a guarantee that the class system had to be broken into pieces eventually. Anne Shirley, now Blythe, had risen through the ranks, breaking down prejudices, and now she was in a socially significant position, in Summerside, not to mention the position that would come to her with her future marriage as a doctor's wife.
Dorothy took out a piece of writing paper and began to draft a letter, for it was high time to keep that old promise made in the garden of Pattys Place in the May glow. Dorothy weighed carefully what she could write to Anne about her years, first in Paris and then in Switzerland, first in Lausanne and now in Vevey, sometimes still Dorothy bemoaned in her journal that she didn't get to study at Redmond, as it wasn't the Gardner way, it never had been, not for girls that nonsensical tradition, which was maintained for a reason which Dorothy herself had never found out, but which had come to her inexorably all the same.
A small gilded neoclassical clock ticked, as the cream-colored letter pages smelling of violet perfume were filled with stylish calligraphy. Suddenly the peace of the modest room was broken by fierce footsteps, as a cheerful voice inquired, "Dorothy ma belle, leave your letter inside, for now. The bicycles are already waiting, it is time for our usual excursion!"
Smiling, Dorothy slipped the letter into the envelope and placed it between Elizabeth Barrett's Aurora Leigh. There was a haphazard pile of books on the table, with volumes of Ibsen´s play Dolls House, Tolstoy´s Anna Karenina bound in blue cloth, floral endpapers, Sarah Grand´s Ideala, and two marbled volumes of the Story of an African Farm.
Lightly Dorothy grabbed a light wide-brimmed straw hat and stuck a long hatpin through it, the Medusa on the end of the hatpin glittered in the bright light. The narrow mirror showed the image of two girls who were about sixteen in twin pairs of well made Bicycle Suits.
Impishy Dorothy tied a little crimson silken bow around her neck, and said in her jovial way, "Our usual constitutional awaits!"
In no time at all two bicycles almost flew down the narrow streets of Vevey, among the promenades as bright girlish laughter sparkled in the warm, almost sultry afternoon.
And then in the emerald green grass, in the middle of well-kept bushes and flowerbeds, a little carefree picnic soon commenced after rigorous bout of cyckling. Dorothy, noticed that a tortoiseshell hairpin was coming out of Simone's light brown hair. Simone leaned in her usual way towards the sun with carefree lightness, like a brilliant Nettle Butterfly flying into a flower. Dorothy wrinkled her crimson bow, back and forth restlessly, because at this moment everything is suddenly different, even familiar scent Simone's light rose water, her tired attentive expression, as she glanced at Dorothy with a squint, so that those pale vintage sherry-colored eyes narrow charmingly, as she whispers, with a demure smile, "Are you suffering from the heat Do-Do, or why are you so quiet now?"
Dorothy smiles, that smile is wan one, as she notes, "Hold on" and in one smooth motion, she removes the tortoiseshell hairpin from the messy but silky light brown hair. The tortoiseshell hair pin is cool in Dorothy's hand, with slippery, slightly trembling fingers, Dorothy places the pin in place, at a rakish angle.
Simone leans closer to Dorothy and caresses her gloved hands, pressing a light kiss to her cheek, exclaiming, "How attentive you are, I would be filled with sorrow and woe if I had lost it dearest Dorothy, you are the best friend anyone could have."
Those words, so familiar and neutral they suddenly hurt, and feeling glum and blue Dorothy got on her bicycle again, she observed how shadows shimmer on Simone's back, the pale arch of her slender neck.
Flower vendors sold flowers with shrill cries, the roses smelled, and for a moment Dorothy wanted to stop, the bicycle brakes howling, and buy a handful of beautiful roses and hand them in the sweet, throbbing twilight of a darkening midsummer evening to Simone, they would be a secret promise, of a kind.
Simone's breathless laughter echoed in Dorothy's ears as she exclaimed, "Do, come on, we'll be late soon!"
The roses were not bought, but the association they evoked was not forgotten.Dorothy wavered, uncertainty, and an unnamed feeling seemed to choke her, it rendered her almost mute.
Royal Gardner was sitting on a small chair in the lawn of Gardner House in the shadiest corner, the well-kept rose bushes smelled intoxicating, and he was writing calculations in a black notebook. Christine's latest letter was carelessly folded on the grass. The summery heat became too suffocating so Roy got up and slipped the letter into his notebook.
It was tea time.
The smell of cinnamon clove apple spice cake wafted from the kitchen.
Aline found her brother in the library, where a shiny tea set had been carried, and the soft aroma of Ceylon tea combined with the aroma of the cake was very evocative. Roy was engrossed in studying the art book, and noticing Christine's familiar handwriting on the envelope, Aline said good-naturedly, "Chrissie hardly writes to you about the wedding preparations, and the arguments with Mother Dawson, the wedding has been postponed twice already, I don't understand how Christine's patience can handle that, but I understand that Andrew wants to be more independent in their transactions, more established still."
Aline noticed that Roy said with a bit of vague concentration, "Andrew Dawson is right. A man has to be established before marriage can take place, three years of engagement is a long time, but I think Christine can wait awhile still, as electricity is on the rise now and Andrew has his hands full, as it should be. On another note, Christine wrote that she wants a copy of a painting, for one of her salons in her future house, well if you want to read it yourself."
Smiling, Aline glanced at Christine's cursive handwriting, at the letter that Roy had handed out to her, ink was midnight blue as always, in her correspondence.
Mangolia Crecent
New Orleans
Dearest Roy !
It seems so pointless to make detailed plans like buying furniture, when I could be doing something much more useful with my time. In recent years some wonderfully captivating new music has come out, thankfully. I do what I can to keep my skills up, Mother Dawson thinks I'm immoral when I'd rather study sheet music than write luncheon invitations to her circle of matrons or read Godey's Ladies Book. I always point out that I have a final degree from the Conservatory after all.
Sometimes when she comes to have afternoon tea, I have made sure that I am in the middle of the exercises, my Countess, Manon Lescaut, and Vitellia, have saved me from many a boring moment, as the look of barely hidden fury in Mother Dawsons drawn features is always so lovely. I do know, that I should not test her so, but on certain occasions I simply must tweak her nose tiny measure, but I always try to be polite to her, as it is my duty to be, she is my future mother-in law, after all. It is so dreadful, what all we have to do to endure by society before we reach happiness.
My lovely Andrew often sits in his clubs in the evening. Nevertheless he often escorts me out, socially, and when that happens we have such larks and capers. At the end of one evening, I saw a painting in a private cabinet, a copy of which I have already ordered. That painting is infamous, as it is Le Sommeil by realist painter Gustave Courbet, as you know, I love Courbet's style, and realism as an art trend in literature as well, you are more of a romantic than I am, dearest friend, although you may want to deny it.
I have planned, sketched the room for that painting, pearl gray walls, pure carmine red velvet curtains, a small pink divan, and a narrow bookshelf. I know that I sound atypically domesticated, but I have never been a homebody, unlike Aline, it is in its own way, but it is pleasant to know that in the future, perhaps even years from now, I have built an intimate, peaceful salon, a place where one can just be at peace if the mood strikes.
Andrew just good-naturedly laughs at me as he eagerly plans flower plantings, if the climatic conditions of our future home allow roses. New Orleans is famous for its flowers, camellias, azaleas and crape myrtles are associated with Southern-style gardens, as is tender mangolia, as you know.
Also, another point of contention is that Mother Dawson loathes, well she loathes canines of all kinds. So she is not at all a stereotypical lady waving her fan in silk and an old-fashioned hoop skirt, with a poodle or a gorgeous redfurred setter or a keen lovely terrier sleeping on the carpet next to her skirts. I'm sure I will prevail, in the future there will be several small dogs' paws running around my house, I just have to be patient.
I was delighted when you wrote news about my former pianist in your last letter, it's great that Miss Dobson got such an opportunity to perform at all luminaries, that new library of the Music Society, it seems like an enchanting place. When in our Redmond years I walked past that empty building I was always a bit morose, but not gloomy, at the state of it, so it's pleasant that it now gets a new life, because as you know Art in its various forms is important to both of us, perhaps of paramount importance, even if your family's business demands take your time away from your own collection of paintings and litographs.
With my love and greetings to all.
CAS
Aline looked up from Christine's letter, as she did so she asked, "Perhaps you are looking for information about the painting, when you seem so focused on that work, quite odd, that she didn't mention what the painting was about, except the name. What kind of painting is it?"
A slight mirth sparkled in Roy's eyes as he looked up from the pages of the art book and remarked with stately reserve, "Chrissie is courting trouble, but I think she's doing it on purpose. I'll just say this, it's not for women's eyes, not even Chrissie's, not really, but she does what she wants, in her own way, as always."
Nettled, Aline recognized coolly, "Royal, I'm no prudish wall-flower, so if there's any reproduction or lithograph of the painting in that book, I want to see it, please."
With slightly exaggerated gestures, wiping invisible wrinkles from his light linen suit, and correcting the position of his colorful handkerchief. The signet ring on his finger glinting in the light, Royal flipped through the tome's index for a moment, and then he slid the open tome over to his sister.
Royal saw the color drain from Aline's delicate face, her brows drew together as she murmured between pursed lips, "Oh." That sound was merciless and cutting like a sudden shot.
Royal, sat down at the piano, as gently quivering notes of Bharms were pulsating in that sensual room.
Aline glanced sharply at her brother, as she noted in her often emulated way, "Don't be immoral, dearest brother."
On the threshold of the library, rustle of skirts rustled, slightly.
Aline turned, and said bitingly, "Claire, how lovely that you have come to visit us, this afternoon, how quaint it is. I think you would have other things to think about now, if I'm not mistaken, congratulations are in order, or they soon will be?"
Royal turned, Brahms chords slowly faded into the ether.
Aline noticed that Claire was standing as if framed in the doorway, dressed in a dress with a high narrow high-collared bodice of dark blue silk, shiny pearl buttons shimmered, its lines were like a riding dress, if any riding dress had been covered with cream-colored ecru lace, the narrow bustle skirt was simply elegant. The dark blue silk rustled impressively, in the silence of the room.
Royal noticed that Claire was pale, and unsmiling, her eyes were very grave, perhaps the heat was bothering her too.
Claire nodded slightly, in response to Aline, as by rote.
Roy found that Claire was tense, and trying to find a suitable point of comparison, he found that she resembled Anna Karenina, a similar restrained fervor, and impatience seemed to bubble up from her, under her carefully polished way, as if time was running out for her in some way.
Claire walked over to Royal and quietly asked, "Could you play that again."
With a smile, Roy assented, as again Brahms' tender notes sparkled, as Op.94 sparkled dreamily.
The roses smelled deliciously delicately in the crystal vases, and the shadows of the roses were reflected on the walls.
Roy noticed that Claire's eyes had a vague middle-distance look.
Faintly Roy remembered how the tribunal had assembled, on a cool misty rainy day, as the thick door had closed after Claire, but of course the engagement wasn't the end of the world. Uncle Robert had been in his lofty mood, as he had arranged the matter with his usual efficiency and flair for detail, but no further information had seeped through the familliar grapewine, or if it had, it had not reached his ears.
Maman´s most recent letter from Switzerland seemed contented, of the matter as well, and one part had caught Royal's attention.
Vevey,
Dear Roy!
Perhaps you should too when the time comes to look for a wider selection there are several charming girls here from excellent families, Aline too, although she had pleaded her case of certain Kingsportian medical student, that she has seemingly pinned her hopes on him, but we´ll shall see, if it lasts. Aline really should be settled soonish, but that is between your sister and me dearest Roy.
I saw Do-Do last week and I'm happy to report that your youngest sister is making great progress, although I don't like that she and a few other girls have taken up cycling, although it's great that they're taking care of their bodies, it's just so unfeminine, in my mind.
with all my love
Mama
PS, When I visited Paris last time, I happened to find a very charming perfumerie shop that had your favorite fragrance in its selection, you are partial to orange blossom water. The successful owner a certain Monsieur Frêche seemed quite a pleasant acquaintance, he mentioned that he has an unmarried daughter, named Valentine, a strange boyish name that is, who helps in the shop sometimes.
Roy gently inquired of Claire, “Are you coming to the Midsummer dances, later this evening, they are one of the highlights of the summerseason in Kingsport?"
Aline sniffed in censorious style, to that question, as Claire murmured, " It is expected of me, is it not, but to be honest, I don't think so, because I have other things to do tonight, my itenary is quite, quite full."
Aline slinked away from the library, her pale yellow-striped hems rustling meaningfully.
Silence fell.
Royal noticed that Claire was looking at an open art book, where clearly not at all shrouded lines of Corbet's painting was clearly visible. Hastily and embarassed Royal said, " That is not suitable, it just happened to be open from that opening my cousin, pay no mind to it."
Claire's gloved finger gently touched the surface of the painting, as if caressing, as she murmured, quietly gravely, somewhat intermittently, " The purpose of art is to show the truth, and this painting does that, at least one version of it. How illuminating and lovely to behold it is, that abundant, bright private moment captured."
With charmingly impish glance, towards Roy, Claire read aloud, " Le Sommeil also known as the Two Friends, Les Deux Amies, and Indolence and Lust, Paresse et Luxure (1866), by Gustave Courbet. Oil on canvas.
Warm humor warmed her voice as Claire noted, in an arch way, " Are you perhaps acquiring a copy of this painting for your own collections, wouldn't it be something that would be expected from an up and coming gentleman like you, something titillating piece to have amid the usual fare of landscape paintings and Baroque opulence?"
Feeling utterly wrong-footed, totally discombulated Roy exclaimed, "Not in the least, not for me."
Claire's muted smile was cynical, as she murmured, "Well, not for you, yet, but perhaps in time you too will become a cognac-cabinet-businessman, nobody knows what the future will bring."
Later, surrounded by fragrant flowers, all the largest parks of Kingsport were filled with dancers, as strains of various orchestras' music mingled together into a sweet Babylonian tumult, as midsummer dim sparkled in the clear sky that was slowly darkening.
The orchestra played Schubert's Nacht und Träume, and in the crowd, intoxicated by dances, and balmy evening Roy noticed Aline, who seemed transformed even, as she gracefully leaned in the swirls of the waltz on the arms of a man with a Redmond rosette on his suit collar.
While dancing, Roy barely paid attention to his ever changing dance partners, his thoughts were still busy with Claire's words, in them there had been the echo of an uncomfortable possible future, as polish polonaise pulsed, sparkled in the evening.
Madeleine could barely hear the constant, frantic, ever-increasing knocking, it would stop sooner or later.
It wasn't Mrs. Siddons, because she got her rent money, regularly, in the evenings, sometimes at night, Madeleine put it in an envelope, under a certain colorful towel in the kitchen. Rivka had gotten married in July.
The harsh rain of September tapped on the roof, which leaked, water dripped into the room, water drops kept falling into the enamel bowl like a pendulum.
Tip, tip, tip.
That sound, its continuity, tore at Madeleine's nerves.
There was a large damp patch on the ceiling.
Madeleine closed her eyes.
Under her cheek was a letter that had been read many times, every curve of that beloved handwriting was sweeter than sugar.
She concentrated on remembering, that enchanting, wonderful Midsummer night, when Claire had still been with her.
They had walked all through their places, slowly, unhurriedly, with the dancing Midsummer dance in a circles and pairs around them, and the bright chords of Schubert playing. Claire had suddenly seized Madeleine's hand, and pressed it to her waist, the cream-colored ecru lace had felt delightfully rough through Madeleine's gloves, and for a moment they had joined the dancing couples, in a few beats that seemed like an eternity.
Then a tall, blond youth had loudly exclaimed, "Come and dance, there are handsome youths here, you don't have to dance among yourselves, there are all kinds of dancers here."
Hand in hand they had scapered away, from crowds.
Later in that familiar hotel room, Claire had whispered low, “Look at that mirror, how dim it is, dearest let's write our names on it to remember forever how fast eternity can be, just one seemingly endless night before the dawn reddens the sky."
There had been a slightly lost expression in Claire's dark eyes, which Madeleine had tried to kiss away, without success. Claire had clung to Madeleine with an almost desperate force, and her usually light kisses had been sharp, sharper than in the past years. And sensing Claire's need, Madeleine had licked, teased, pressed a soft, long kisses all over Claire's bare from. At those attentions Claire had slowly bent over, her nails had scratched bloody rivulets on Madeleine's back. Claire's caresses and lingering kisses had been precise, as her fingers were mapping every inch of Madeleine's skin, lingeringly, longingly.
The cherry cologne had smelled faintly as Madeleine had nestled near Claire´s warmth, as the sheets beneath them were pleasantly cool, she murmured, "I would have liked to show you Muskoka."
Madeleine remembered how Claire's breathing had stuttered for a moment, and then those narrow fingers caressed her neck, lightly, as she murmured, "Something always remains unfinished."
That was the last evening, the last dawn, and how brilliant it was pinkish purple glory, as it spread across the sky like a flag, with palest purple, coral pink, and hints of crimson.
The knocking continued, and then Isabelle's irritated voice noted from behind the door, "Madeleine, open the door, this has been going on for days now. There is an ad in the Kingsport Herald that may interest you, please open the door."
Listlessly, Madeleine got out of bed with involuntary, tired steps without glancing at the small mirror and the jade green teapot, which shimmered with color in the gloom of the room. Messy piles of clothes and dirty teacups were everywhere, and crumpled stationery, a broken quill snapping under Madeleine's steps. Dark curtains covered the windows.
The room smelled of sadness, and of unspeakable sadness, the empty bottle of lavender water clattered on the floor.
The lock clicked, and with indescribable relief, Isabelle lowered her hand, which had been raised to knock again.
Isabelle frowned.
Madeleine looked terrible, pale and unkept, as if she had fallen into hard times.
She seemed gaunt. Her dark curls were matted and there was an indifferent expression on that face that Isabelle always wanted to see in a smile.
Bracingly Isabelle said, "Well, then, I'd say you need a long bath and then a spot of tea will help too. And warm platefull of toast with a bit of butter or marmalade, it will do you a good turn."
Balefully Madeleine didn't seem to react at all to those words, and now very worried, Isabelle said in her best coaxing way, "Tell all, dearheart."
At those words, Madeleine shuddered, as she mumbled with listless voice, "She, she is gone."
Isabelle pressed her index fingernail sharply to her thumb, firmly, as she noted, to herself with cutting irony, that once again some polished posh upper-class lass, before her eventual engangement or marriage had broken a heart.
With a winning smile that wavered a touch, Isabelle resolutely stepped inside that rented room for the first time and looked around attentively, and sympathetically, and pity squeezed her heart, as the room was completely in chaos.
The freckles on Isabelle's face were clearly visible in the wavering light, there was an attentive look in her large pale green eyes as she glanced at Madeleine for a time. In the grayish light, Isabelle´s reddish-brown hair, which was curled at the nape of her neck, seemed to absorb all the light in the dim room, which flooded in through the narrow windows, the heavy curtains drawn aside.
Isabelle lightly noted, "Lene, you have let yourself sink into despair to the depths, but never fear, salvation is here, I have experienced the same. It will be easier in time, that is a promise."
And in a soft commanding voice, the same one that, years later, aroused admiration in many, Isabelle announced, "Lene, go take a bath, when the water has warmed sufficently, or do you want me to sit at the door and watch that you really do what you're supposed to, you know very well that I can."
Isabelle carefully spread an ad cut out of the Kingsport Herald on a small chair. It read unequivocally, "Library and Archives Training Begins in November at Redmond University, details upon request."
Madeleine glanced at the newspaper ad quietly, as Isabelle remarked, "I've been thinking that might be a useful skill to have." Madeleine, felt how the orchid-scented shawl, which was a burgundy shade, was carefully spread over her shoulders, she felt hollow, all scooped out, there was nothing left.
Soon the scent of well brewing tea and the aromas of warm toast wafted from Mrs. Siddons' kitchen as Mrs. Siddons crossed her stout arms and thanked God that Miss Friesen hadn't found a lifeless body after all from Miss Dobson's rented room.