Three Women in a Mirror

By Eric-Emmanuel Schmitt

“A miraculous book in praise of women, in praise of both their shortcomings and their strengths” from the internationally bestselling author (l’Express).

Anne, Hanna, and Anny. Three young women, free spirits all, each one at odds with the age in which they live. Despite the centuries that divide them, their stories intersect—a surprising narrative technique that lends increasing tension and richness to this novel, which builds to a thrilling crescendo of unexpected revelations.

Anne lives in Flanders in the sixteenth century. She’s a mystic who talks with animals like Saint Francis; she finds God in nature and cannot understand the need for religious rituals. Yet her ideas run against the temper of the times and result in her being branded a heretic, with tragic consequences. Hanna lives in Vienna at the start of the twentieth century. She is a young noblewoman, dissatisfied with bourgeois conventions, who will find a method for uncovering the roots of her malaise in a new cure developed by a Viennese doctor by the name of Sigmund Freud. Anny is a Hollywood star of the 2000s, addicted to celebrity and to variety of illicit substances. Both her curse and her solace, acting will give her the key to an open a new chapter in her life where she will find love, companionship, and the meaning she has been searching for.

“Schmitt writes movingly about three women, divided by time and distance, whose lives connect when they attempt to break free of expectations imposed by society . . . Schmitt’s three complex stories are beautifully translated and masterfully written.” —Kirkus Reviews (starred review)

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Jul 2, 2013
• ISBN: 9781609451660

Eric-Emmanuel Schmitt

Eric Emmanuel Schmitt's bestselling novels and plays have been translated into more than twenty languages and produced in thirty-five countries. Oscar and the Lady in Pink was published by Atlantic Books in 2005 and the stage adaptation, starring Rosemary Harris, ran in the West End and was directed by Associate RSC director John Caird (Les Misérables).

Book preview

1

I feel different," she murmured.

No one paid any attention to what she said. The matrons fussed over her—adjusting a veil, her braid, her ribbons; the haberdasher shortened her skirt and the surveyor’s widow put embroidered slippers on her feet, but all the while the motionless young girl was beginning to feel as though she were an object—a fascinating one, to be sure, sufficiently alluring to inspire the neighbors’ vigilance—but a simple object nonetheless.

Anne gazed at the beam of sunlight slanting across the room through the squat window. She smiled. This attic room, with its fountain of gold breaking through the darkness, was like a forest surprised by dawn, where the laundry baskets were ferns, and the women were deer. Despite the ceaseless chattering, Anne could hear a silence drifting through the room, a strange, peaceful, dense silence, which came a long way to deliver its message beneath the gossips’ jabbering.

Anne turned her head, hoping that one of the ladies might have heard her, but she could not catch anyone’s attention; doomed to submit to their decorative obsessions, she wondered whether she had made herself clear: I feel different.

What could she add? In a few hours she would be getting married, and yet from the moment she had awoken, all she could see was the springtime unbuttoning its flowers. She was drawn to nature more than to her fiancé. She suspected that happiness was hiding out of doors, behind a tree, like a rabbit; she could see the tip of its nose, she could sense its presence, its invitation, its impatience . . . In her limbs she could feel a desire to run, to roll in the grass, to hug the tree trunks, to breathe her lungs full of air dusted with pollen. For her the event of the day was the day itself—cool, dazzling, generous—and not her nuptials. This thing that was happening to her—marriage to Philippe—was insignificant compared to this splendor, the month of April enhancing field and forest, a new strength causing cuckoos and primroses and blue thistles to blossom. She wanted to run out of this tiny room where the nuptial preparations were being made, she wanted to tear herself from the hands that were prettifying her, and throw herself naked into the nearby river.

Opposite the casement, the beam of light had cast the shadow of the curtain lace against the uneven whitewashed wall. Anne dared not disturb this fascinating beam. Even if someone had told her the house was on fire, she would sit there glued to her footstool.

She shuddered.

What are you thinking about? asked her cousin Ida.

Nothing.

You’re dreaming about him, aren’t you?

Anne lowered her eyes.

As the future bride had just confirmed her suspicions, Ida burst out laughing, a shrill laugh filled with lubricious thoughts. These last weeks she had been struggling with her jealousy, and all she could do was convert it to a bawdy mockery.

Anne thinks she’s already in Philippe’s arms! she proclaimed glumly to the assembled company. The wedding night will be hot. I would not like to be their mattress.

The women grunted, some to approve Anne, the others to stigmatize Ida’s triviality.

Suddenly the door opened.

Majestically, theatrically, Anne’s aunt and grandmother entered the room.

At last, my child, you will see what your husband will see, they declared in unison.

As if unsheathing a dagger from the folds of their black dresses, the widows brought out two carved ivory boxes and opened them slowly and gingerly: each box contained a mirror ringed with silver. A hush of surprise accompanied their revelation, for all the women knew they were witnessing a most unusual spectacle: mirrors were not part of their daily lives unless, exceptionally, they happened to own one; and if they did it was surely a rounded pewter mirror of polished metal, with a hazy, lumpy, dull image; but these glass mirrors reproduced reality with sharp features and vivid colors.

There were cries of admiration.

The two magicians received their compliments, eyes closed, then with no further ado they set to work. Aunt Godeliève positioned herself opposite Anne, Grandmother Franciska stood behind her neck, and each held her instrument with outstretched arms as though it were a shield. Solemnly, aware of their importance, they told the young girl how to use the mirrors.

In the front mirror, you can see the mirror behind you. Thus, you can see yourself from behind or in profile. Tell us where we should stand.

Ida drew nearer, envious.

Where did you find them?

The countess has lent them to us.

All the women praised this clever initiative: only a noblewoman had treasures of this kind at her disposal, because the peddlers did not offer them for sale to the common people, who were too poor.

Anne peered into the round frame, examined her intriguing features, admired the artful tresses woven in her blonde hair to elaborate her refined hairstyle; she was surprised to see how long her neck was, how tiny her ears. However, she had a strange sensation: while she saw nothing unpleasant in the mirror, she did not see anything familiar either: she was gazing at a stranger. This inverted face, from the front, side or back, might as easily have been another’s as her own; it did not resemble her.

Are you pleased?

Oh, yes! Thank you.

Anne was replying to her aunt’s solicitude; she was not especially vain, and she had already forgotten the experience with the mirror.

Do you realize how fortunate you are? said Grandmother Franciska.

But of course, protested Anne, I am so fortunate to have you.

No, I was talking about Philippe. In this day and age there are virtually no men left.

The women standing near them nodded gravely. In Bruges, men were extremely rare. The town had never known such a penury; the men had vanished. Who was left? One fellow for every two women? Perhaps only one for every three. Poor Flanders, the country was afflicted with a strange phenomenon: a scarcity of the virile sex. In a few decades, the male population in the north of Europe had diminished to a worrisome degree. Many women resigned themselves to living as spinsters, or in lay communities with other women; some abandoned the idea of having children, and the more robust among them learned Herculean professions such as ironwork or carpentry, so that nothing was lacking.

The haberdasher thought she heard criticism in her friend’s tone, and shot her a severe look.

It is the will of God!

Grandmother Franciska shuddered, fearing she might be accused of blasphemy. She corrected herself: Of course it is God who has sent us this ordeal. It is God who called our men to the Crusades. It is for God that they are dying, fighting the infidels. It is God who drowns them at sea, on the road, in the forest. It is God who kills them at work. It is God who calls them to Him, before calling us. It is He who leaves us to rot without them.

Anne understood that Grandmother Franciska despised God; she was expressing more terror than adoration, describing Him as a pillager, a torturer, and a murderer. It did not seem to Anne that God was any of those things, or that He acted in the way her grandmother described.

You, my little Anne, continued the widow, you will have a traditional life: a man to yourself, and many children. You are blessed. What’s more, your Philippe is not an ugly man, is he, ladies?

They all laughed, some of them embarrassed, others titillated by having to express themselves on such a subject. Philippe was sixteen years old, and was the perfect example of a robust Flemish lad: sturdy, long-legged, thin-waisted, broad-shouldered, with tawny skin and hop-colored hair.

Aunt Godeliève exclaimed, And do you know that the fiancé is down in the street, awaiting his betrothed?

No?

He knows that we are preparing her, he is steaming with impatience. Toss water on the fire! If a body could die of impatience, I think by now he would be dead.

Anne went over to the window, whose oiled paper frame had been opened to allow the springtime to enter; careful not to block the stream of light, she leaned sideways and saw Philippe below her on the greasy pavement, a smile on his lips, chatting with his friends who had come from Bruges to Saint-André, the village where her grandmother Franciska lived, one league from the great town. It was true, from time to time he would glance up at the top floor of the house; eager and exuberant, he was waiting for her.

This warmed her heart. She mustn’t doubt herself!

Anne had been living in Bruges for a year. Before that, she had known nothing but an isolated farm in the north, among the damp and malodorous lowlands crushed by cloudy skies; she had lived there with her aunt and cousins, her only family since her mother died bringing her into the world, never revealing her father’s identity. As long as her uncle had been running the farm she had never sought to leave; but when he died, aunt Godeliève decided to move back to Bruges where her brothers lived. Not far away, her mother, Franciska, was living out her last days in Saint-André.

For Godeliève Bruges represented a reassuring return to her origins, but for Anne and her three cousins, Ida, Hadewijch, and Bénédicte, it had been a shock: the country girls had to learn to be city dwellers; the children, young women.

Ida, the eldest, was determined to throw in her lot with a man as quickly as possible, so she approached the available boys with a boldness and almost masculine spirit that did not help her cause. Philippe, for example, had been courted in the shoe shop where he worked, and after responding to Ida’s greetings, he set about conquering Anne, bringing her a flower every morning, shamelessly showing Ida that she had served merely as a stepping stone to help him reach her cousin.

Confronted with this maneuver—quite ordinary in its way—Ida had been left with more scorn for Anne than pride. Anne did not view her fellow humans the way her companions did: while other young women saw a lusty fellow in the apprentice cobbler, Anne saw a child who had just grown up, perched high on his long legs, surprised by this new body that went bumping into doors. She felt sorry for him. She could see his girlish side—his hair, his tender mouth, his pale skin. Beneath his low, resonant voice, in the occasional inflection or hesitant emotion, she could still hear the echoes of a little boy’s high-pitched voice. When she went to market in his company, she studied the human landscape within him—shifting, unstable, changing—and it was to that landscape more than anything that she grew attached, for even a growing plant was a source of fascination to her.

Would you like to make me happy? Philippe asked her one day. Blushing, she had reacted, promptly and sincerely.

Yes, of course!

"Happy, happy?" he pleaded.

Yes.

Be my wife.

This prospect was less enchanting: what, him, too? He was reasoning like her cousin, like all the people who bored her to death. Why such convention? Spontaneously, she began to bargain: Don’t you think I can make you happy without marrying you?

He stepped back, suspicious.

Might you be that sort of girl?

What are you talking about?

There were times when boys had such incomprehensible reactions. What had she said that was so scandalous? Why was he frowning when he looked at her?

After a pause he smiled, relieved to see that there was nothing evil lurking in Anne’s proposition. He continued, I would like to marry you.

Why?

Every man needs a wife.

Why me?

Because I like you.

Why?

You are the prettiest and—

And?

You are the prettiest!

So?

You are the prettiest!

As she had been probing his thoughts without any flirtatiousness, the compliment did not engender any vanity in her. Once she was back at her aunt’s home that evening all she could think was, Is it enough to be pretty? He is handsome, I am pretty.

The next day, she asked him to clarify his thoughts.

Why you and me?

With our looks, you and I will make magnificent children!

Alas, Philippe was confirming what she dreaded. He spoke like a horse breeder, the farmer mating his finest stock so that they would multiply. Was this love, then, among humans? Was there nothing more? If only she had a mother to talk to.

Reproduction? This is what the women around her spoke of so impatiently. Even the untamable Ida.

Pensive, Anne did not reply to his proposal of marriage. The overzealous Philippe took her placidity for consent.

Intoxicated, he began to announce their union, sharing his good fortune with anyone who would hear it.

In the street, Anne was congratulated; she was surprised but did not deny it. Her cousins congratulated her, including Ida, who was glad that her alluring cousin would thus be off the market. Finally, Aunt Godeliève clapped her hands, jubilant, her eyes brimming with tears, relieved to have fulfilled her duty to send the daughter of her much-regretted sister to the altar. Anne was trapped: bound to silence, unable to disappoint Godeliève’s kind soul.

Thus, because she had not denied it, the misunderstanding took on the colors of truth: Anne was going to marry Philippe.

With each passing day she found it more and more ridiculous that her family was displaying so much enthusiasm. Convinced that some essential element had escaped her, she allowed Philippe to grow bolder, to hold her and kiss her.

You will love me, and me alone!

That’s impossible, Philippe. There are already others whom I love.

Pardon?

My aunt, my cousins, Grandmother Franciska.

Any boys?

No. But I do not know many, I haven’t had the opportunity.

When she shared these details with him, he glowered at her, mistrustful and incredulous; then, because she held his gaze without flinching, he finally burst out laughing. You tease me, and I believe you. Oh you are naughty, to frighten me so . . . so clever! You know how to act with a man, to make him persist, to make him even more infatuated, so that he thinks of no one but you.

As she did not fully understand his reasoning, she did not insist, particularly when he was upset and clung to her, his eyes shining, his lips trembling; and she enjoyed letting herself go in his arms, she liked his skin, his smell, the firmness of his feverish body; she pressed against him, giddily, and chased away his doubts.

A shadow fell across the attic. The density of the room suddenly changed.

Anne started: Ida had just broken the beam of light.

The future bride felt a pain in her belly, as if her cousin had opened her womb with her fist. She shouted, reproachfully, No, Ida, no!

Her cousin stopped, surprised, defensive, ready to scratch, completely unaware that her skirts were blocking the ray of sunlight.

What? What have I done?

Anne sighed, fearful that she would never manage to explain to her that she had just destroyed a precious treasure, a pure masterpiece the sun had been forging in the room since dawn. Pathetic Ida! Rustic, pig-headed Ida who, with her wide, obscene hips, had destroyed a monument of beauty without even realizing it.

Anne decided to lie: Ida, why don’t you take this opportunity to look into the two mirrors? Stand here in my place.

Then, turning to her aunt and grandmother, I would be overjoyed if my three cousins could also share this gift.

Initially Ida was startled; she stood next to Anne and pleaded with the two women. They made a face and then, touched by Anne’s cordial simplicity, they nodded.

Hadewijch, the youngest, rushed over to the stool.

My turn!

Ida made an acrimonious gesture to prevent her sister from going ahead, then stopped, aware she must maintain her composure as the elder sister. In a fit of pique she went over to the window.

Anne was disgusted: Ida went on blocking the ray of light without even noticing that it was falling upon her chest and face. She did not even feel it. What a brute!

On seeing Philippe in the street below, Ida smiled. A moment later, she was frowning.

He’s disappointed. He’s looking for you, not me.

Her features twisted, her gaze empty, Ida swallowed, hurt. Anne leaned toward her, seeing how pained she was, and reached out her hand to her cousin and said, I would have gladly left him to you.

Pardon?

Ida jumped, certain she had misunderstood.

I would gladly leave him to you. Philippe.

Oh?

If he were not in love with me.

Anne thought she had said something kind.

There was the sound of a slap.

Hussy! hissed Ida.

Anne, because she felt a sudden warmth on her cheek, realized that she was the one who had been slapped; Ida had struck her.

All conversation fell silent, and the women turned to look.

You snotty-nosed trollop, what makes you so sure that no man will ever desire me? I’ll prove you wrong! I’ll show you! You’ll see, there will be dozens of men after me! Hundreds!

One would suffice, corrected Anne gently.

A second slap resounded.

Confound it! You do go on! You are convinced I won’t have even one! What a pest! You are wicked!

Aunt Godeliève intervened. Ida, do calm down.

Anne is driving me to the edge, Maman. She insists I am ugly and repulsive.

Not at all. Anne has merely said what I think: one man will suffice, you do not need to charm ten, let alone a hundred.

Ida glared defiantly at her mother, as if to say, Say what you like, we shall see. Godeliève raised her head and said, Apologize to Anne.

Never!

Ida!

In response, her eldest daughter, red with spite, the veins in her neck bulging, screamed, I’d sooner die!

Godeliève handed the mirror she was holding to the surveyor’s widow and rushed over to her daughter. Ida stepped aside; she crossed the room fearlessly, pushed her sister off the stool, and ordered the women: Now it’s my turn.

Godeliève refrained from embarking on a struggle she knew she might lose, and signaled to her friends to obey the irascible girl. Then she went over to her niece.

I suppose she is jealous of you, Anne. She was hoping to be the first to marry.

I know. I forgive her.

Her aunt kissed her.

Oh, if only my Ida had your good nature . . .

She will be better when she gets what she wants. Some day she will let go of her anger.

Pray God you are right! said Godeliève, caressing her niece’s temple. In any case, I am sad and happy for you. Sad because I will see you less often. Happy because you have found a good man.

When she heard her aunt Godeliève’s tranquil voice mapping out her fate, Anne took heart and stopped wondering. Calm once again, she turned her face to the cool air.

A butterfly came to land on the edge of the roof. Its wings, lemon yellow on the inside, green on the outside, fluttered, like a breath. The insect had come to preen itself, thinking it was alone, unaware it was being watched; it rubbed its proboscis with its forelegs. Anne was dazzled; it seemed to her that the insect had caught all the light in the sky with its gilded scales, the light concentrating on him, imprisoning him. The butterfly was resplendent, and everything around it turned to gray.

He’s lovely, said Godeliève with a shiver.

Isn’t he? murmured Anne, delighted to share her emotion with her aunt.

Wonderful, confirmed Godeliève.

Yes, I could stay like this for hours, just watching him.

Godeliève shrugged.

Anne, that is what you shall do from now on. You will have the right to do so—the duty, even.

Anne swung round to face her aunt, surprised. Godeliève persisted: You will belong to him, but he will also belong to you.

Anne smiled. What? She would belong to a butterfly . . . that would belong to her? What sort of extraordinary trick was her aunt suggesting? This was definitely the best news of the day. Her aunt was speaking like the good fairy from a children’s tale. Filled with anticipation, her whole being illuminated.

Godeliève, in a flush of tenderness, placed her palms on her niece’s cheeks.

Ah, you do love him! she exclaimed.

Turning back to the window, she pointed down into the distance.

You must admit that hat suits him.

Confused, Anne turned to where Godeliève had pointed and realized she was staring at Philippe down in the street; he wore a felt cap with a feather. She shuddered.

I’m not normal, she thought. And she was getting worse! Through a window that made it possible to see two things, Philippe and a butterfly, the fiancée’s gaze lingered on the butterfly, and her aunt’s on the fiancé.

A sudden scream rang out in the room. What is that? What is that spot?

Sitting on the stool, Ida was pointing at the mirror, pale with anger.

Afraid she might go into a fit of rage, grandmother Franciska withdrew the rear mirror.

It’s nothing. You’re imagining things. There’s nothing there.

Then do not remove the mirror.

Trembling, the old woman held up the mirror again.

Ida stared at the violet splash on her neck, familiar to everyone except Ida herself.

Oh! It’s repulsive! Horrible!

Ida leapt up from her seat, foaming and furious.

Startled, Grandmother Franciska dropped what she was holding.

It went crashing to the floor.

Glass shattered.

A concerned silence greeted the sound.

The mirror was broken. While the silver frame remained intact, within it there were only jagged shards, reflecting scattered corners of the room willy-nilly, as if in fright.

Franciska moaned.

Godeliève hurried over.

Dear Lord, what will the countess say?

The women gathered around the pieces of mirror as if watching over a corpse. Ida bit her lips, hesitant, uncertain which catastrophe she must bewail, the birthmark on her neck or the shattered mirror.

In hushed tones they debated what to do, their voices hollow, their breathing labored, convinced the aristocrat could already hear them.

We must find someone to repair it.

But where? Here in Saint-André no one—

I have an idea. In Bruges, there is a painter—

Don’t be stupid: first of all I must tell the truth.

Whether you tell the truth or hide it, you must still buy a new mirror.

My God, how?

I will pay, asserted Franciska, this is my home and I’m the one who dropped it.

Because Ida pushed you—

I will pay, repeated the old woman.

No, I will, said Ida.

And with what money? grumbled Godeliève.

When they had listed all the possible solutions, the stout village church bell began to toll, reminding them that Anne must soon be married.

Godeliève looked up.

Anne?

The young woman did not answer. Godeliève trembled.

Anne, come back and join us!

All the women looked for her, in the closet, elsewhere on the upper floor; the fiancée was no longer there.

She’s gone to see her admirer, concluded Grandmother Franciska.

Godeliève picked up a pair of shoes.

Without her clogs?

The surveyor’s widow pointed to the gift by the footstool.

And without the embroidered stockings I lent her?

Ida hurried over to the window.

Philippe is still downstairs waiting for her.

Then where is she?

Anne’s name echoed through the grandmother’s house while the women searched the rooms.

When Godeliève opened the back door on the ground floor that gave out onto the fields, she discovered faint traces of bare feet in the damp earth, vanishing into the meadow grass that extended to the woods beyond.

What! She’s run away?

The footprints were spaced well apart, showing only the toes, proof that Anne had used the episode with the mirror to sneak out the door and run lightly through the countryside toward the woods, where she had disappeared.

2

Lake Maggiore, April 20, 1904

Dear Gretchen,

No, my dear, you are not mistaken, this is your cousin Hanna writing to you. If you look at the portraits I have enclosed, next to the radiant young man posing like a prince and beneath the extravagant multitiered hat you will see a dumpy woman with an embarrassed smile: me again. Yes, you are allowed to laugh. Oh, you already are? You’re quite right, I look stupid. What do you expect? Franz has two shortcomings, which he hid from me when we were engaged: a passion for millinery, and a mania for collecting memories. What does this mean? Whenever we visit a hat shop he transforms me into a bird cage, a fruit basket, a flower vase, a rake with a harvest of ribbons, or a peacock’s tail; after, delighted, he drags me off to the photographer’s in order to immortalize my ridiculous self.

It takes an uglier woman than I to pull off such flamboyance—someone like our aunt Augusta, whose hooked nose is much improved beneath the shelter of a felt hat—or someone far more beautiful, like you. But Franz is so fond of hats that he hasn’t noticed that hats are not fond of me.

An Italian countess in Bergamo to whom I related this tragedy scolded me severely by saying, You wrong yourself, child. Franz idolizes you so much that he has failed to notice that hats do not suit you.

I confess her opinion unsettled me. Everything upsets me, offends me, bothers me these days; I am confronted with a glut of unexpected situations.

And incidentally, you will ask, how is the honeymoon?

I suppose I must reply, idyllic. Franz is superb—tender, thoughtful, generous. We have great fun together, and six months after leaving Vienna, here we are discovering Italy, one sublime town after another, such enchanting countrysides and astounding churches. Let us not forget that for centuries the peninsula has given its all to charm newlyweds: museums overflowing with masterpieces, refreshing hotel rooms, delicious cuisine, exquisite ice cream, sensual sunshine that implores one to take a siesta, and servants who look on lovers with a knowing eye.

In a word, my honeymoon is impeccable. But am I cut out for honeymoons?

Yes, you did read that, dear Gretchen, the woman writing these pages no longer knows what to think. I fear I am different. Terribly different. Why can I not be happy with something that would fill any other woman with enthusiasm?

I’m going to try and explain to you what is going on and perhaps by the time I’m done I will understand, too.

My childhood lasted a long time. When you, dear cousin, were already married and raising three infants, I insisted on remaining a child, lifting my skirts only to run across a field or step through a stream; the idea of becoming a woman could not have been further from my thoughts; if I happened to meet any boys, they did not arouse the slightest curiosity.

And so I enjoyed this happiness . . .

But because all I ever heard was that fulfillment was only to be found in a man’s arms and on the day I delivered a baby from my womb, I grew tired of all the haranguing and eventually found myself a role to play. I opted for the stuck-up snob who would only marry someone from the highest ranks of society.

Ironically, fate obeyed me. Although I had dreamt up this comedy merely to protect myself and banish any potential suitors, my attitude served me well: I could bide my time, and so I eventually met Franz von Waldberg.

Do you remember those incredible pocketknives in Geneva that contained, in addition to their blade, a can opener, a screwdriver, and an awl? All the gentlemen were mad about them. Well, that’s Franz for you! He’s not a man, he’s a Swiss Army knife. He has every quality—decorative, rich, intelligent, sensitive, noble, and courteous. In short, he’s the one you don’t say no to.

Perhaps I married him out of pride?

I fear the truth is worse than that. My marriage to Franz was pure calculation on my part. Mind you, this was neither the plot of a schemer climbing the social ladder by lying on her back nor the rational strategy of an ambitious woman. No, it was the deliberate ploy of a desperate woman: when he asked for my hand, I reasoned that if I could not find fulfillment with this man, I would never find it anywhere. I married him the way you test a remedy.

A remedy for what? For myself.

I do not know how to be the woman our era expects me to be. I struggle to show an interest in so-called ladies’ topics: men, children, jewelry, fashion, homemaking, cooking, and my own little self. For femininity requires us to indulge in self-worship: the worship of face, figure, hair, appearance. Such vanity is foreign to me; I dress like the devil, I neglect cosmetics, and I eat too little. When I see myself on the photographs that Franz collects, dolled up like the ace of spades, what I reproach myself for is that I haven’t managed to look even more grotesque, because then, at least, it would be downright amusing.

Can you believe it? Every morning, I masquerade as a lady. They seem incongruous, all these petticoats, corsets, laces, miles of ribbon and fabric with which I harness myself, mere borrowed clothing. Rest assured, it’s not that dream of changing into a man. I am simply a little girl who is lost in the country of women, forced to imitate adults and live as an imposter.

And what about the wedding night? you will ask. With my talent for womanhood, one could fear the worst for me . . .

The experience went well. Franz was satisfied. Insofar as I had prepared myself for what awaited me, I felt as if I were in the middle of a gymnastics lesson, putting into practice the figures I had studied, applying myself to make the appropriate gestures, and accept his in return, and never mind if some of them offended me. The next morning I was quivering with satisfaction: I had passed the exam.

The trouble is that, since then, I have not moved beyond this feeling of pride. Yet I do like Franz: his skin is soft, his body gives off a sweet smell, his nakedness does not shock me unduly. Intellectually, I appreciate the hunger that drives him to me—his moist eyes, his lips that want to eat me, the shivering that runs through his limbs, his breathing as it grows hoarser and deeper, the fever that drives him daily to take me to bed, sometimes several times a day; his desire fascinates me but does not disturb me; and it flatters me too.

But I don’t share it.

I never feel that sort of desire for him.

I give myself to Franz out of an obliging sense of kindness and altruism, because I have decided to fulfill him in every way I can. I carry out my duties as a housewife. I am not moved by appetite, desire does not pierce me, and I do not find much pleasure there, beyond the gratification of having given alms, or the emotion of seeing this big fellow fall asleep on my shoulder, sated.

Is this normal, dear Gretchen? We were close enough in childhood that I feel I can ask you such an embarrassing question. Although you may be only ten years older than me on this earth, dear Cousin, in terms of wisdom you are far older. Is there a similar imbalance between you and Werner? Is it simply woman’s lot, to tempt without being tempted?

In one week I’ll be back in Vienna and we will finish moving into our future home. Write to me there, dear Gretchen. Naturally I would much rather come to you in Innsbruck so we could spend some time together, but first I must play mistress of the house, and finish the furnishing, choose the flowers, and give a few arbitrary orders to assert my authority over the servants. And face the visits from my in-laws . . . Apparently the first thing these aristocrats will look at is my hips, in order to ascertain whether I have come back from our expensive adventure with a Waldberg heir in the oven. But my belly is flat, flatter than before our marriage, hollow even, after all the walking we’ve done, and our travels and gymnastics—if anything all this activity has made me even thinner. At the hotel, once we’ve finished lunch, the minute Franz goes off to smoke with the men I go back up to our suite and undress in front of the mirror to take a close look: no sign of anything. I’m already dreading the sorrowful expressions on the faces of his parents and the Waldberg aunts and uncles. Although this will prove them right: I am a disappointing wife.

I subscribe to their opinion.

Don’t forget me, dear Gretchen, and do write back to me, particularly if you think I am being maladroit. Hugs and kisses. Give my regards to Werner.

Reviews for Three Women in a Mirror

[smiler69 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Three different women, three different time periods and destinies, but what if they are one and the same woman? This is what we are meant to reflect upon as we read the alternating narratives, which start with beautiful Anne, in Bruges, sometime in the 16th century. She is getting ready for her wedding day, and everyone envies Anne her gorgeous fiancé, especially her cousin Ida, who envies her beyond all common sense. But Anne is more interested in staring at butterflies and the way a ray of sun spreads across the room, and soon she is running away to freedom and nature to hide in the woods and commune with an ancient tree. Some think she has the makings of a saint. Others think she is in league with the devil. Hanna is living in Vienna at the beginning of the 20th century. She has just married into one of the wealthiest and most prestigious families of the upper classes. Her husband adores her and desires her constantly; every night she goes to concerts and performances of the highest caliber, when she's not invited to elegant dinner parties; she wears to most up-to-date fashions, and her private fortune can afford her every luxury, yet she is unhappy and deeply neurotic. A relative introduces her to a strange new fad called psychoanalysis. She can't be seen by Freud himself because he is a Jew and good families don't mix with those people, but things are arranged for her to meet with one of his disciples. Then there is Anny. She's the hottest commodity in Hollywood and her favourite pastime is drinking, taking drugs, and sleeping with every man she can get her hands on. Things quickly get out of control and an accident lands her in hospital where she meets Ethan, a male nurse who wants to help her get healthy, but will her publicist let her make the right choices? I have mixed feelings about this book. One the one hand, I was captivated with the stories of both Anne of Bruges and Hanna in 20th century Vienna. All three women have independent spirits and are at odds with what society expects of them. Or at least, Anna and Hanna are, but Anny seemed like too much of a cliché of the kind we see in tabloids every day, and I couldn't stop the image of Lindsay Lohan forming in my mind every time her turn came around. But Schmitt writes beautifully and since his Mr. Ibrahim and the Flowers of the Koran—the only other book I've read by him so far—he can do no wrong in my eyes. This is his latest venture and a hot commodity on the French market. It should make it's way to the English world before too long. I'd be surprised if it didn’t: it's got too much bestseller potential not to.