Inevitable (6 page)

“W
HAT DO YOU CARE
about those strange people?” he asked.

They were sitting in his studio, Mrs Van der Staal, Cornélie and the girls, Annie and Emilie. Annie poured tea and they talked about Miss Taylor and Urania.

“I’m a stranger to you too!” replied Cornélie.

“You’re not a stranger to me, to us … But I couldn’t care less about Miss Taylor or Urania. Hundreds of ghosts haunt our lives: I don’t see them and feel nothing for them …”

“And aren’t I a ghost?”

“I’ve talked to you too much in Borghese and on the Palatine to think you a ghost.”

“Rudyard is a dangerous ghost,” said Annie.

“He has no hold over us,” replied Duco.

Mrs Van der Staal looked at Cornélie. She understood the look and said, with a laugh,

“No, he has no hold over me either … Yet, if I had had need of religion—I mean church religion—I’d rather be Roman Catholic than Calvinist. But now …”

She did not finish her sentence. She felt safe in this studio, in this soft, multi-coloured swirl of beautiful objects, in their sympathetic presence: she felt in harmony with all of them: with the charming and worldly air of the rather superficial mother and her two beautiful girls: a little doll-like and vaguely cosmopolitan, quite vain about
young marquesses with whom they danced and cycled, and with the son, the brother, so completely different from the three women and yet visibly related in a movement, a gesture, the occasional word. It also struck Cornélie that they accepted each other lovingly as they were; Duco his mother and sister with their stories about the Princesses Golonna and Odescalchi; Mrs Van der Staal and the girls, him, with his old jacket and dishevelled hair. And when he began talking, especially talking about Rome, when he put his dream into words, in words that were almost fit for a book, but which flowed so gradually and naturally from his lips, Cornélie felt harmonious, felt safe, interested, and lost a little of the urge to contradict that his artistic indolence sometimes awakened in her. And apart from that his indolence suddenly seemed to her only apparent, and perhaps affectation, since he showed her sketches, watercolours, none of them finished, but each watercolour vibrant with light, especially with light, with the light of all Italy: the pearly sunsets across the fluid emerald of Venice; Florence’s towers drawn with dreamy vagueness in tender rose-coloured skies; fortress-like Siena blue-black in bluish moonlight; orange sunflares behind St Peter’s, and especially the ruins and in every light: the Forum in fierce sunlight, the Palatine in the evening twilight, the Colosseum mysterious in the night, and then the Campagna: the dream skies and hazy light of the cheerful and sad Campagna, with soft pink mauves, dewy blues, dusky violet, of the brash ochres of pyrotechnic sunsets, and fanning clouds like purple phoenix wings. And when Cornélie asked him why nothing was finished, he replied that nothing was any good. He saw the skies as
dreams, visions and apotheoses, and on paper they were water and paint, and paint could be finished. And then he lacked self-confidence. And then he abandoned his skies, he said, and copied Byzantine Madonnas.

When he saw that his watercolours nevertheless interested her, he went on talking about himself, telling her how he first enthused about the noble and naive Primitives, Giotto and especially Lippo Memmi … How subsequently, spending a year in Paris, he had found that nothing compared with Forain: dry, cool satire in two or three lines; how then, in the Louvre, Rubens had revealed himself: Rubens, whose unique talent and unique brush he had traced among all the imitation and apprentice work of his numerous pupils, until he was able to say which cherub was by Rubens himself in a sky full of cherubs painted by four or five pupils.

And then, he said, he did not think about painting for weeks, and did not pick up a paintbrush, and went to the Vatican every day and was totally absorbed by the noble marbles.

Once he had spent a whole morning sitting dreaming in front of
Eros
, once he had dreamed up a poem accompanied by a very faint monotonous melody, like a devout incantation: at home he had wanted to put down the poem and the music on paper, but had not been able. He could no longer stand Forain, found Rubens disgusting and coarse, and had remained loyal to the Primitives.

“And suppose I painted a lot and sent a lot to exhibitions? Would I be happier? Would I feel satisfaction at having done something? I don’t think so. Sometimes I
finish a watercolour, sell it, and I can survive for a month without troubling mama. I don’t care about money. Ambition is totally alien to me! But don’t let’s talk about me. Are you still thinking about the future and … bread?”

“Perhaps,” she replied, smiling sadly, and around her the studio darkened, the silhouettes of his mother and sisters faded, as they sat quietly and languidly uninterested in easy chairs, and all colour dissolved silently into shadow. “But I am so weak. You say you are no artist, and I, I am no apostle.”

“Giving direction to one’s life is the difficult thing. Every life has a line, a direction, a way, a path: it is along that line that life must flow into death and what comes after death; and
that
line is difficult to find. I shan’t find my line.”

“I can’t see my line before me either …”

“Do you know, a restlessness has come over me. Mama, do you hear, a restlessness has come over me. In the past I used to dream in the Forum, I was happy and didn’t think about my line. Mama, do you think about your line, and do my sisters think about theirs?”

His sisters, in the dark, sunk in the deep chairs like cats, giggled a little. Mama got up.

“My dear Duco, you know, I can’t follow you. I admire Cornélie for being able to appreciate your watercolours and for understanding what you mean by that line. My line is the way home now, as it’s getting very late …”

“That is the line of the next moment. But I feel
restlessness
about my line of the days and weeks afterwards. I’m not living the right way. The Past is very beautiful,
and so peaceful because it’s over. But I have lost that calm. The Present is really very small. But the Future … Oh, if only we could find a goal! For the Future …”

They were no longer listening to him; they groped their way down the dark stairs. “Bread?” he wondered.

O
NE MORNING
when she stayed home, Cornélie reviewed the reading matter that was scattered about her room. And she decided that it was useless for her to read Ovid in order to study a few Roman customs, some of which had alarmed and shocked her; she decided that Dante and Petrarch were too difficult for studying Italian, when it was enough to pick up a few words to make oneself understood in a shop or with the serving staff; she decided Hare’s
Walks
was too exhausting as a guidebook, since every last stone in Rome did not excite the same interest in her as it had obviously done in Hare. Then she admitted to herself that she would never be able to see Rome the way Duco van der Staal saw it. She never saw the light in the skies and the scudding of clouds as he had in his unfinished watercolour studies. She never saw the ruins glorified as he did in his hours spent dreaming in the Forum and on the Palatine. She saw a painting only with the eyes of a layman; a Byzantine Madonna meant nothing to her. She did like sculpture; passionate love for a lump of mutilated marble such as he felt for the
Eros
seemed pathological to her, she thought at the time, but “morbid”—though the word made her smile—expressed her view better. Not pathological, but morbid. And she considered an olive a tree that resembled a willow, though Duco had told her that an olive was the loveliest tree in the world.

She did not agree with him, either about the olive or about
Eros
and yet she felt that from some mysterious perspective that was inaccessible to her, he was right, since it was like a mystical hill amid unbridgeable mystical circles, which he passed through as emotional spheres that were not hers, just as the hill was an unknown throne of feeling and perspective. She disagreed with him and yet she was convinced that he was right in a superior way, had a superior vision, a nobler insight, a deeper feeling; and she was certain that her way of seeing Italy—in the disappointment of her dream—was not noble or good, that the beauty of Italy was escaping her; while for him it was like a tangible and embraceable vision. And she cleared away Ovid, Petrarch and Hare’s guidebook, and locked them in her case and took out the novels and pamphlets that had appeared that year on the Women’s Movement in Holland. She was interested in the issue and it made her feel more modern than Duco, who suddenly appeared to her as if belonging to a past era. Not modern. Not modern. She repeated the word with relish and suddenly felt stronger. Being modern would be her strength. One remark of Duco’s had made a deep impression: that exclamation “Oh, if only we could find a goal! Our life has a line, a path that you must travel …” Being modern, wasn’t that a line? Finding a solution to a modern question, was that not a goal? He, he was right, from his point of view, from which he viewed Italy, but was not the whole of Italy a past, a dream, at least the Italy that Duco saw, a dream paradise of nothing but art. It could not be good to stand and see and dream like that. The Present was there: on the grey horizons there was the
rumble of an approaching storm and the modern questions flashed like lightning. Was it not that that she must live for? She felt for Women and Girls: she herself had been a Girl, brought up with nothing but a drawing-room education, in order to shine, beautifully and charmingly, and then to marry. And she had been beautiful, and charming, she had shone and had married, and now she was
twenty-three
, divorced from that husband, who had once been her only goal: now she was alone, lost, in despair and mortal desolation: she had nothing to cling to, she was suffering. She still loved him, blackguard, wretch that he was; and she had thought she was being very strong by setting off on a trip, for the sake of art, to Italy. Oh, how clearly she saw, after those conversations with Duco, that she would never understand art, though she had drawn a little in the past, although she had once had an unglazed terracotta group after Canova in her bedroom:
Amor and Psyche
, so sweet for a young girl. And how certain she was now that she would not understand Italy, since she did not find an olive tree that beautiful, and had never seen the sky of the Campagna as a fanned phoenix’s wing. No, Italy would never be her life’s consolation …

But what then? She had been through a lot, but she was alive and very young. And again at the sight of those pamphlets, that novel, the longing reawakened in her heart: to be modern, to be modern! To tackle modern problems. To live for the Future! To live for Women, for Girls …

She did not dare look deep inside herself, afraid she might waver. To live for the Future … It separated her a little more from Duco, that new ideal. What did she
care, did she love him? No, she didn’t think so. She had loved her husband and did not want to fall immediately for the first nice young man who came along, whom she happened to meet in Rome …

And she read the pamphlets.
On the Women’s Question
and
Love.
Then she thought of her husband and then of Duco. And wearily she dropped the pamphlet, thinking how sad it was. People, women, girls. She, a young woman, an aimless woman, how sad she was in her life. And Duco, was he happy? But still he sought the line in his life, still he was on the lookout for his goal. A new restlessness had come over him. And she cried a little, and tossed and turned restlessly on her cushions, and wrung her hands, and prayed unconsciously, to whom she knew not.

“Oh God, tell me what we’re to do!”

I
T WAS SOME DAYS
after that Cornélie had the idea of leaving the
pensione
and taking rooms. Hotel life interfered with her emerging thoughts, like a wind of vanity that kept scorching scarcely formed blossoms, and despite a torrent of abuse from the
marchesa
, who accused her of having rented for the whole winter, she moved into the room, which she had found after much searching and climbing of stairs with Duco van der Staal. It was in Via dei Serpenti, many flights up, a suite of two spacious but almost completely unfurnished rooms: there were only the bare necessities, and though the view stretched far and wide across the massed houses of Rome to the circular ruin of the Colosseum, the rooms were bleak and cheerless, bare and uninhabitable. Duco had not liked them and said they made him shiver, although they faced the sun, but there was something about the awkwardness of this room that struck Cornélie in her new mood as harmonious. When they parted that day, he thought of her: how little of the artist there is in her; and she thought of him: how un-modern he is! They did not see each other again for days, and Cornélie was very lonely, but did not feel her loneliness, because she was writing a pamphlet about the Social Position of the Divorced Woman. That idea had come to her after she had read a few sentences in a pamphlet on the Women’s Movement, and suddenly, without having thought much about it, she
wrote her sentences in a succession of bursts and intuitive leaps, awkward, cool and clear; she wrote in an epistolary style, artlessly, but with conviction and experience, as if to warn girls against having too many illusions about Marriage. She had not made her rooms comfortable; she sat there, high above Rome, looking over the rooftops towards the Colosseum, writing, immersing herself in her suffering, revealing herself in her recalcitrant sentences, bitter, but pouring the gall within her into her pamphlet. Mrs Van der Staal and the girls, who came to visit her, were astonished at her slovenly appearance, at her bleak rooms, the dying embers in the grate, not a flower, no books, no tea, and no cushions, and when they left after a quarter of an hour, on the pretext of having to go shopping, they looked at each other in amazement as they tripped down the endless staircase, utterly confused and mystified by her metamorphosis: from an interesting, elegant young woman, with an aura of poetry about her, and a tragic past—into a ‘free woman’, writing frantically at a pamphlet, with bitter imprecations against society. And when Duco visited her again after a week, and sat with her for a moment, he sat absolutely still, stiff as a board on his chair, without speaking, while Cornélie read him the opening of her pamphlet. He was moved by what he glimpsed of personal suffering and experience, but he was irritated by the lack of harmony between that slim, lily-like woman, with her fractured movements, and the surroundings, in which she now felt at home, totally absorbed in her hatred of society, especially Hague society, which had become hostile to her, because she had not stayed with a blackguard who abused her. And
as she read Duco’s thought: she would not write this way if she were not writing everything from the perspective of her own pain. Why doesn’t she turn it into a novella …? Why that generalising of one’s own suffering, and why that admonitory tone … He did not find it beautiful. He found the sound of her voice so harsh, those truths so personal, that bitterness unsympathetic and that hatred of convention so petty. And when she asked him something, he did not say much, shook his head in mild approval, and sat there uncomfortably stiff. He did not know what to reply, he did not know how to admire, he found her un-artistic. And yet a great pity welled up in him, he saw how sweet she would be, what a noble woman, once she had found the line in her life and moved harmoniously along that line with the music of her own movement. Now he saw her taking a wrong path; a path pointed out to her by others, and not taken on an inner impulse. And he felt a deep pity for her. He, as an artist, but especially as a dreamer, sometimes saw things with great clarity, despite his dreams, despite his all-embracing feeling for line and colour and haziness; he, the artist and dreamer, often saw as if clairvoyant the emotion glimpsed beneath people’s pretence, saw the soul, like a light shining through alabaster, and he suddenly saw her lost, searching, wandering; searching for she knew not what; wandering through she knew not what labyrinth; far from her line, her lifeline and the direction in which her soul was moving, which she had never yet found.

She sat excitedly in front of him, having read her final pages, face flushed, voice resonating, her whole being feverish. It was as if she wanted to fling those pages full of
bitterness at the feet of her Dutch sisters, at the feet of all women. Lost in his reflections, melancholy in his pity for her, he had scarcely listened, and shook his head in vague approval. And suddenly she spoke about herself, gave herself completely, told the story of her life: her young lady’s existence in The Hague, the upbringing designed to make her shine a little and be pleasant and beautiful, without one serious look at her future, simply awaiting a good match, with a flirtation here, and a crush there until she was married; a good marriage in her own circle; her husband a lieutenant in the hussars, a handsome strapping fellow, good distinguished family, a little money, with whom she had fallen in love because of his handsome face, and the dashing figure he cut in uniform, which suited him; who had fallen in love with her, as he might have fallen in love with another girl, because she had a pretty face: then, the revelation of those very first days: the immediate eruption of disharmony between their characters. She, spoiled at home, fine, delicate, sensitive, but egoistically sensitive, but irritable about her own spoiled ego; he, no longer paying court, but immediately and crudely the husband with rights to this and rights to that, now with curses, now with fulminations; she, without any tact, without any of the patience needed to make the best of their lives that were headed for disaster: nervous, passionate, pitching passion against coarseness, which made his violence flare up to the point where he abused her, swore at her, hit her, shook her and slammed her against the wall …

Then her divorce; he at first unwilling, despite
everything
happy to have a home, and in that home a wife, a
little woman for the master of the house, and not wanting to return to the wretchedness of living in rooms, until she simply left, went to her parents, to friends out of town, inveighing against the law, so unjust to women … He had finally given in, allowed himself to be charged with adultery, which was not far from the truth. Then she was free, but she stood as if alone, looked at askance by everyone she knew, unwilling to bow to their conventional insistence on that kind of semi-mourning that according to their conventional notions should surround a divorced woman, and returning immediately to her earlier young girl’s glittering existence. But she had felt that it could not go on like that, neither for her friends nor for herself: the friends looking askance at her, and she disgusted by them, their receptions and their dinners, until she had become deeply unhappy, lonely, lost, without anything, without anybody, and had experienced the pressure that weighs on the divorced woman. Deep down she had occasionally thought that with great patience and tact she might have been able to control her husband, that he was not bad, just coarse, that she still loved him, or at least his handsome face and strong body. It wasn’t love, but had she ever thought about love, in the way she now had occasional premonitions of it? And didn’t everyone compromise more or less in their lives, adapting to what they had been given? But she scarcely admitted that regret to herself, did not even admit it to Duco, though she did admit her bitterness, her hatred for her husband, for marriage, convention, people, the world: for all the great abstractions, generalising her own feeling into a single curse against life. He listened to her, with pity. He
felt that there was something noble in her, but that it had been stifled from the outset. He forgave her for not being artistic, but it pained him that she had never found herself, that she did not know who she was, what her life should be like, where the line of her life was winding to, the only path that she must follow, as every life follows one path. Oh, how often, if people simply let themselves go, like a flower, like a bird, like a cloud, like a star, which orbited obediently, they would find their happiness and their life, as the flower and the bird found them, as the cloud drifted in the sun and the star followed its orbit. But he told her nothing of what he was thinking, knowing that particularly in her mood of bitterness she would not understand and would derive no support from it, that it would be too vague for her, and too alien to her own thoughts. She was thinking of herself, but she
thought
that she was thinking of Women, Girls and their movement towards the Future. The lines of women … But did not each woman have her own line? But how few knew it, their direction, their path, their lifeline, its meandering course through the twilight of the future. And perhaps, because they did not know for themselves, they were now looking for a wide path for all of them, a main highway, along which hosts of them could advance, a surging throng of women, regiments of women, with slogans and banners and war cries, a broad path, parallel to the men’s movement, until the paths merged into one, till the hosts of women mixed with the hosts of men, with equal rights and freedom to live as they chose …

He said nothing of this to her. She noticed his silence, and did not see how much was going on inside him, how
deeply he was thinking about her, how deeply he pitied her. She thought she had bored him. And suddenly, she saw around her the bare room with the light fading, the fire extinguished, and her enthusiasm deflated, her fever cooled, and she thought her pamphlet inferior, without force or conviction. How much a word from him would have meant! But he sat there without a word, seemingly uninterested: probably he did not like her style. And she felt sad, desolate, alone, alienated from him, and bitter about that alienation, she felt ready to cry, to sob, and—strangely—in her bitterness she thought of him, her husband, with his handsome face. And she could not stop herself: she wept. He went up to her, laid his hand on her shoulder. She felt something of what was going on inside him, and that his silence was not cold. She told him that she would not be able to stay alone that evening, too awful, too awful … He comforted her; said that there were a lot of good and true things in her pamphlet, that he was not a good judge of such modern questions; that he was only clever when talking about Italy; that he cared so little for people and so much for statues; so little for the new things that were being built for centuries to come, and so much for the ruins that remained of previous centuries. He said this as if apologising. She smiled through her tears, but repeated that she could not stay alone, and that she was going with him to Belloni, to his mother and sisters. And they went out together and walked around together; and he told her, in order to take her mind off things, about his own thoughts, told her anecdotes about Renaissance masters. She did not hear what he was saying, but his voice soothed her. The was something so gentle about
his indifference to the modern, which interested her: he had such calm, soothing as balm, in the calm of his soul, which abandoned itself to the golden thread of his dreams—as if that thread were the direction of his life—such calm and softness, that she too became calmer, and looked up at him and smiled.

And however far they were from each other, he following his dream line, she lost in a dark labyrinth—they felt themselves coming closer together, felt their souls coming closer, while their bodies moved side by side along a real street, across Rome in the evening. He put his arm through hers, but despite that gesture supported
her
.

And as they approached Belloni, she thanked him, without knowing exactly why: for his eyes, for his voice, for their walk, for the comfort that she felt inexplicably, but distinctly emanating from him, and she was glad to have to have gone with him that evening, and to feel the distraction of Belloni’s set dinner around her.

But at night, alone, alone in her bleak rooms, her wretchedness washed over her like a black sea, and looking out at the Colosseum—a dimly discernible arch in the dark night—she sobbed, feeling herself sinking into death-like depths, being washed away, abandoned and alone, sinking and being washed away so high above Rome, above the rooftops, above the dim lights of the nocturnal city, under the clouds of the dark night, as if drifting like a shipwrecked mariner on an ocean that was drowning the whole world and was roaring in lament at the inexorable sky.