Inevitable (7 page)

S
TILL A CALM CAME OVER
C
ORNÉLIE
now that her pamphlet was written. She unpacked her cases, made her rooms a little more comfortable and, feeling calmer, she copied out the pamphlet and as she did so improved her style, and even her ideas. After she had worked in the morning, she usually lunched in a little
osteria
and almost always met Duco van der Staal there, and ate with him at the same table. Usually she dined at Belloni, with the Van der Staals, as a distraction for the evening. At first the
marchesa
had not acknowledged her, though she tolerated her for dinner at three lire an evening, and slowly she began saying hello to Cornélie, with a bitter-sweet smile, having meanwhile re-let the two rooms on more favourable terms. And Cornélie, in her calmer mood, enjoyed dressing up in the evenings, going to Belloni, seeing Mrs Van der Staal and the girls, hearing stories about the drawing-rooms of Rome, and running her eye over the long tables. And she saw that the guests were different ones, as in a kaleidoscope of transient people. Rudyard had disappeared, owing the
marchesa
money, no one knew where. The Rothkirchs had gone to Greece, but Urania Hope was still there and sat next to the Marchesa Belloni and with on her other side the nephew, the Prince of Forte-Braccio, Duke of San Stefano, who dined regularly at Belloni. And Cornélie saw that it was like a conspiracy: the
marchesa
and the prince
beleaguering the vain little American from both sides. On a later occasion Cornélie saw two
monsignori
sitting at the
marchesa
’s table in animated conversation with Urania, while the
marchesa
and the prince nodded in agreement. All the guests were talking about it, all eyes were looking in that direction, everyone spied on the manoeuvring and enjoyed the romance.

Only Cornélie was not amused; she had wanted to warn Urania about the
marchesa
, the prince and the
monsignori
who had taken Rudyard’s place, but especially about Marriage, even to a prince-duke. And becoming excited she talked to Mrs Van der Staal and the girls, repeating the words of her pamphlet, glowing, bright red with her young hatred against society and the world and people.

Dinner had ended; still talking animatedly she
accompanied
the Van der Staals—Mrs Van der Staal and the girls and Duco—to the drawing-room, sat down in a corner, continued her conversation, burst out at Mrs Van der Staal, who contradicted her, until she suddenly saw a fat lady—the girls had already nicknamed her the satin frigate—approaching and saying from a distance,

“I beg your pardon, but I wanted to say something … Look, I’ve been coming regularly to Belloni every winter for ten years, from November to Easter, and every evening after dinner—but only after dinner—I sit in this corner, at this table, in this place. So please excuse me, but would you mind if I sat in my usual place …”

And the ‘satin frigate’ smiled sweetly, but when the Van der Staals and Cornélie got up in speechless amazement, she flopped on to the couch with a rustle of satin, bobbed up and down on the springs for
a moment, put her crochet work on the table as if planting an English flag on a colony, and said with her most charming smile:

“Very much obliged, thank you very much.”

Duco burst out laughing, the girls giggled, but the ‘satin frigate’ smiled benevolently at them. And still not quite aware what was happening, astonished but cheerful, they sat in another corner, the girls with irrepressible giggles. The two aesthetic ladies, in evening dress and woollens, who were sitting reading at the centre table closed their two books simultaneously, got up and left indignantly, because of all the laughter and talking in the drawing-room.

“It’s shameful!” they said aloud, and angular, arrogant and shabby they flounced out.

“Strange pair!” thought Duco smiling: “ghosts of people … their lines swirl through ours like arabesques. Why do they cross our lines with their petty movements, and why do those who might be most welcome to our soul never cross our path …”

He always accompanied Cornélie back to Via dei Serpenti in the evenings. They walked slowly through the silent deserted streets. Sometimes it was late, sometimes it was immediately after dinner, and then they walked down the Corso and he usually asked her to sit for a while at Aragno’s. She agreed and they had a cup of coffee together, in the cheerful, brightly-lit café, looking out at the evening bustle in the street. They said little, distracted by the passers-by and the customers in the café, but they both enjoyed being together for a moment, and felt in tune. Duco obviously did not give a thought to their liberal behaviour, but Cornélie thought of Mrs Van der Staal, and
of how she would not approve and would not let either of her daughters do it: sit alone in a café with a gentleman at night. And Cornélie thought too of The Hague and smiled at the thought of her Hague acquaintances. And she looked at Duco … He sat calmly, happy to be sitting with her, and drank his coffee, said the occasional word and pointed out a passing character or beautiful woman … One evening, after dinner, he suggested going to the ruins; there was a moon, it was enchanting … But Mrs Van der Staal was frightened of malaria, and the girls of robbers; so they went alone, Duco and Cornélie. The streets were abandoned, the Colosseum loomed up like a black fortress in the night, but they went in, and through the open arches shone the moonlit blue of the night: in the circular pit of the arena, on one side black, in shadow, while on the other the moonlight poured in, like a white flood, like a waterfall, and it was as if the night were full of ghosts as though the Colosseum and the whole of Rome’s past were full of ghosts: emperors, gladiators and martyrs; shadows slunk around like prowling wild animals, a patch of light was like a naked woman, and the galleries seemed to roar with the throng … And yet there was nothing and they were alone, Duco and Cornélie, in the depths of the lofty gigantic ruin, half in shadow and half in light, and though she was not afraid, she was awed by the vast ghostly presence of the past, and moved closer to him and squeezed his arm and felt small, very small. He squeezed her hand for a moment, in his simple, easy way, as if to reassure her. And the night frightened her, the ghostliness oppressed her, the moon seemed to be at a dizzy height in the sky and to be growing to gigantic proportions and to be revolving like a silver
wheel. He said nothing, he was in his dream, he saw the past before him … And silently they left, and he led her into the Forum through the arch of Titus. On the left rose the ruins of the imperial palaces, and around them stood the black fragments, the few remaining columns pointed upwards and the white moon stream flowed down like a ghostly sea from the sky. They met no one, but she was afraid and gripped his arm tighter. When they sat down for a moment on a piece of the foundations, she shivered with the cold. He was startled, said she must be sure not to catch cold, and they went on and left the Forum. He took her home, and she went up the stairs alone, striking a match to give some light in the dark stairwell. In her room she reflected that it was dangerous to go wandering through the ruins at night. She thought of how little Duco had said, not thinking of danger, lost in his nocturnal dream, peering into the awesome ghostly depths … Why … had he not gone alone? Why had he asked her along? She fell asleep after her thoughts had churned chaotically: the prince and Urania; the fat satin lady, the Colosseum and the martyrs, and Duco and Mrs Van der Staal … His mother was so ordinary, his sisters sweet but banal, and he … so odd! So simple, so without pretension, giving himself as he was; and for that reason so odd … He would be impossible in The Hague, among her friends … She smiled when she thought what he had said and how he had said it and he could be calmly silent, for minutes at a time, with a smile playing round his mouth, as if he were thinking of something beautiful …

But she must warn Urania.

And, exhausted, she fell asleep.

C
ORNÉLIE’S SUSPICION
about Mrs Van der Staal’s opinion of her relationship with Duco proved true: Mrs Van der Staal had a serious talk with her, saying that if she went on in this way she would compromise herself, and added that she had spoken to Duco in the same vein. But Cornélie answered quite haughtily and stated nonchalantly that after having respected convention and nevertheless having become deeply unhappy, henceforth she no longer bothered about it, and that she enjoyed Duco’s conversation without allowing herself to be prevented by what ‘one’ did and thought. And anyway, she asked Mrs Van der Staal, who was ‘one’? The three or four people they knew at Belloni? Who else knew her? Where else did she go? What did she care about The Hague? And she laughed sarcastically, loftily parrying Mrs Van der Staal’s arguments. As a result their relationship cooled: she did not come to Belloni to dine that evening, stung in her easily offended over-sensitivity. The next day, meeting Duco at their table in the
osteria
, she asked what he thought about his mother’s reprimand. He smiled vaguely, eyebrows raised, obviously not realising the mediocre truth of his mother’s words, saying that those were mama’s ideas, naturally perfectly good and current in the circles mama and his sisters moved in, but which he did not delve into too deeply, and which did not bother him, unless Cornélie thought that mama was right. And Cornélie erupted
sarcastically, shrugging her shoulders and asked in the name of whom and what they should allow themselves to be prevented from continuing their friendly relations. They ordered half a flask between them, and had a protracted and enjoyable meal, like two comrades, two students. He said that he had thought about her pamphlet; he spoke—to please her—about the position of modern woman, about girls. She criticised the upbringing Mrs Van der Staal was giving his sisters, the insubstantial, glittering education and that eternal going out and looking for a husband. She spoke from experience, she said. That day they walked along the Appian Way and visited the Catacombs, guided by a Trappist. Then they took a carriage, drove back to Rome and had tea at Razotti’s patisserie. When Cornélie got home, she felt in a pleasant mood, light-hearted and cheerful. She did not go out again, banked up her fire with wood for the night, which was becoming chilly, and dined alone on some bread and jelly so as not to have to go out to a restaurant. In her
peignoir
with her hands behind her head, she stared into the nicely burning wood, and let the evening glide past. She was happy with her life, so free, free of everything and everyone. She had a little money, and could go on living like this. She did not have many needs. Her life in rooms and modest restaurants did not cost much. She did not need outfits. She felt content. Duco was a good friend; how lonely she would be without him. But, her life must acquire a purpose … What? What? The Women’s Movement …? But how, abroad? Working on it was so difficult … She would send her pamphlet to a new women’s magazine, recently founded. But what then? The fact was that she was not in Holland and did not want
to go to Holland: and yet it would definitely be easier to become active there, and exchange views with others. But here in Rome … A languor came over her, in the warmth of her snug room. Duco had helped her arrange her sitting-room. He really was a cultured person, even if he was not modern. He knew a lot about history, about Italy, and talked really well. The way he explained Italy to her, she found the country interesting after all.

The only problem was that he was not modern. He had no sense of the politics of Italy, nor of the battle between the Quirinal and the Vatican; nor of anarchism, which was rearing its head in Milan, nor of the turbulence in Sicily … A goal; so difficult to have a goal …

And in her evening languor after a pleasant day, she did not feel the lack of a goal, she savoured the gentle delight of letting her thoughts glide along with the languorous evening hours, in selfish contentment. She looked at the pages of her pamphlet, strewn over her large desk: a table for working at: they lay there yellow in the light of her reading lamp: none of them had yet been copied out, but she did not feel like doing it now: she threw a log into the hearth, and the fire smoked and revived. It was so cosy abroad using logs of wood for fires … And she thought of her husband. Sometimes she missed him. Would she not have been able to manage him with a little tact and patience? He had after all been very nice to her at the time of their engagement. He was coarse, but he was not evil. He sometimes swore at her, but perhaps he had not really meant it. He waltzed beautifully, he spun you round with him so firmly … He was a handsome fellow, and she admitted she was in love with him, only because of his
handsome face, his handsome body. There was something in his eyes and his mouth that she could not resist. When he spoke she had been unable to resist looking at his mouth. Anyway, it was over now … Perhaps life in The Hague had been too monotonous for her nature. She liked travel, seeing new people, developing new thoughts, and she had never been able to put down roots in her coterie. And now she was free, free of all bonds, all people. What did she care if Mrs Van der Staal was angry … And Duco was modern after all in his indifference to convention. Or was it just the artist in him; or was it indifferent to him, as an un-modern man, as it was to her, a modern woman? A man had more leeway. It was not as easy for a man to compromise himself. Modern woman … She repeated it proudly. A sense of pride pierced her languor. She stood up, stretched her arms, saw her slim figure in the mirror, her delicate face, rather pale, eyes large, grey and shining beneath strikingly long lashes; her dark blond hair in a loose, dishevelled bun; her fractured lily-like figure extremely appealing in the crumpled folds of her old
peignoir
, pale-pink and faded. Where was her path? She felt not only a worker and a striver, she felt very complex; she felt a woman too, she felt a great deal of femininity in herself, like a languor, that threatened to paralyse her energy. And she wandered round the room, unable to decide whether to go to bed, and staring into the glowing embers of the fire that had died down, she thought of her future, of who and what she would become, and how and where she would go, along which of life’s arabesques, wending her way through what woods, winding down what avenues, crossing what other arabesques of what other questing souls?