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Updated: June 21, 2025
Madame von Marwitz was its centre; pearl-wreathed, silken and silver, she leaned opulently on the cushions of the sofa where she sat, and Karen at the tea-table seemed curiously to have relapsed into the background place where he had first found her. She was watching, with her old contented placidity, a scene in which she had little part. No, mercifully, though in it she was not of it.
She came, with her indolent step, the thunder of hands and voices greeting her; and those who gazed at her from the platform saw the pearl-wreathed hair and opulent white shoulders, and those who gazed at her from beneath saw the strange and musing face. Then she stood before them and her dark eyes dwelt, impassive and melancholy, upon the sea of faces, tumultuous and blurred with clapping hands.
There was spirit in plenty, but no sorrow. White shoulders rose from clouds of pink gauze, and the hair was powdered and pearl-wreathed and piled high in a coronet. It was not the face of the woman that I knew. I said so, and returned the portrait to the Englishman. He could not resist baiting me. "You do not like it, monsieur?" I shook my head. "It is nothing to me.
But to the enchanted ear of the multitude, professional and unprofessional, the essential vitality was there, the vitality embodied to the enchanted eye by the white figure with its drooping, pearl-wreathed head and face sunken in sombre ecstasy.
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