Three Women in a Mirror by Éric-Emmanuel Schmitt, Alison Anderson Read Free Book Online Page B

an der Wien, and then having dinner at the Sacher?
    Even though my glass walls let me see the horizon all around, I bump up against them, I cannot go through. I am doomed to see the same people, the fish that are trapped in here with me. It is useless to try and find a way out. I can no longer isolate myself, I go round in circles.
    I am sure you will say this is merely the complaining of a spoilt child?
    A child, to be sure.
    And spoiled as well.
    However, you must understand, a part of me is suffering. I feel like a mistake. A complete mistake. In fact, I cannot rise to the level of anything, neither what life offers me nor what it expects of me.
    This aquarium I am talking about is filled with women, a dozen or so who have decided to look after me, so I am surrounded by their solicitude and their good intentions.
    Let me explain.
    No sooner did I arrive at our house—I should really refer to it as our palace, there are so many splendid rooms and gardens—than the von Waldberg women began their stream of visits. As I expected, they all gazed meaningfully at my belly. One question was nagging them: had I come back pregnant from my honeymoon? At the mere sight of my hips, tone needn’t be an eminent obstetrician to conclude that I had not; yet, because they hoped, they asked all the same.
    â€œWell, Hanna, have you come back to Vienna with a new Waldberg?”
    â€œNo, not yet. But you can be sure that Franz and I thoroughly familiarized ourselves with the operating instructions while we were in Italy, and we are still hard at work.”
    They smiled, satisfied that our little couple was behaving as a little couple should.
    But you cannot get rid of such creatures in two sentences! They redoubled their onslaught. These guardians of the family produce heirs like brood hens, and they have been at it for centuries; they were here when Vienna had ramparts, they were here before Vienna had ramparts, they were here long before Vienna even existed; in actual fact, they are the ones who built Vienna and everything that resembles anything like a family, a dynasty, a community, a city, a country, an empire. To consolidate their power, they made sure they reproduced themselves to start with, from mother to daughter, from aunt to niece, from sister to cousin, from neighbor to neighbor. These women are so good at closing ranks that even if you sent a brigade of anti-reproduction Amazons against them, they would be unable to get through. In short, after only one week of armistice, Franz’s mother, who has always intimidated me, launched an investigation: her husband was dispatched to have a man-to-man conversation with his son—Franz told me about it, and couldn’t stop laughing—to find out if anything was going on in our bed, if we were doing it properly, if we were doing it often. As Franz’s replies had all been positive—and we all know that men are often guilty of bragging where these private matters are concerned—my mother-in-law decided to verify this information for herself, with me. She was smart enough to suspect that I would never confide in her, and so she sent her sister Viviane, commonly known as Vivi, the black sheep of the family, who collects lovers openly and publicly and in plain sight of her gout-ridden husband. Although no one approves of her and everyone envies her, she nevertheless avoids reproof because she has two very highly placed lovers—one in government, the other at court—and they are very useful to the family.
    Aunt Vivi’s behavior and manner of speaking are so free that in five minutes she can create an atmosphere of familiarity and a euphoric lack of restraint. She invited me to take tea with her in her garden, where the lilacs were in bloom, and she regaled me with stories that were as spicy as her gingerbread.
    Then once the bounds of modesty had been pushed aside, she said, “Well then, is my tasty nephew making you happy?”
    â€œOh,