Inevitable (10 page)

W
HEN SHE GOT HOME
she found a card from the prince. It was simply a polite gesture after the night before—her impromptu visit to Palazzo Ruspoli—and she gave it no further thought. She was in a pleasant mood, pleasantly content; pleased that her work—at first as an article—had been accepted by
The Rights of
Women;
later she would publish it as a pamphlet; pleased that she had given Duco pleasure with the Memmi. She changed into her
peignoir
and sat down by the fire in a reflective attitude and thought about how she could put her grand plans into effect … Who should she turn to? An International Women’s Conference was taking place in London and
The Rights of Women
had sent her a programme. She leafed through it. Various women leaders were to speak; numerous social questions were to be dealt with: the psychology of the child; the responsibility of parents, the impact on domestic life of the admission of women to all professions; women in art, in medicine; women in fashion, women in the home, on the stage; legislation on marriage and divorce …

Potted biographies of the speakers, with portraits, were attached. There were American and Russian, English, Swedish and Danish women; almost every nationality was represented. There were old and young women; some beautiful, some plain; some masculine, some feminine; some hard and energetic with highly sexual boyish faces;
the occasional one elegant, with a plunging neckline and permed. They could not be divided into groups. What had been the impulse in their lives to join the fight for women’s rights? For some it had certainly been inclination, nature; for a few a vocation; for others jumping on the bandwagon … And in herself, what had been the impulse …? She dropped the programme into her lap, stared into the fire and reflected … Before her appeared her drawing-room education, her marriage, her divorce … Where was the impulse …? Where was the trigger …? She had gradually begun travelling to widen her horizons; to reflect, to get to know art, the modern life of women … She had gradually slid along the line of her life, without wanting much, without fighting much, even without thinking or feeling much … She looked into herself, as if she were reading a modern novel, the psychology of a woman … Sometimes she seemed to have the will, to want to fight, like now, with her great plans … Sometimes she sat, as she had often in the last few days, by her cosy fire. Sometimes she felt, as she did for Duco now … But mostly her life had been a gradual process, gliding along the line she had to follow, gently impelled by the finger of fate … For an instant she saw clearly. There was a great deal of sincerity in her: she was not play-acting, neither for herself, nor for others. There were contradictions in her, but she admitted them all to herself, to the extent that she saw them. But the openness of her soul became clear at this moment. She saw the complexity of her being briefly sparkling with its many facets … She had written, with
élan
and intuition, but was what she had written any good? A doubt rose in her. The Dutch statute book lay on the table, a remnant from the
time of her divorce … but had she understood the law? Her article had been accepted, but were the editors of
The
Rights of Women
capable of judging it? Again scanning the women’s portraits, their biographies, the seriousness and harshness of some of them, she was frightened that her work would not be good—too superficial—and that her thinking was not guided by study and knowledge … But she could also picture her own portrait in that programme with her name below it and the short note: author of ‘The Social Situation of the Divorced Woman’, published in
The Rights of Women
; with dates, etc. And she smiled: how very convincing it sounded! But how difficult it was to study, to do things and to know and act and negotiate the modern movement of life! Now she was in Rome: she would have liked to be in London. But the journey was not convenient at this moment. She had felt rich when she bought Duco’s Memmi, thinking of her fee: and now she felt poor. She would have liked to go to London … But she would have missed Duco; and the conference only lasted a week. She had now settled in here somewhat, she was coming to love Rome, her rooms, the Colosseum over there like a dark arch, like the dark wings of a theatre at the end of the city, and beyond the vague blue mountains … Then she thought of the prince for a moment, and for the first time she thought of yesterday, she recalled the evening, an evening of badinage and champagne: Duco sat silent and sulky, Urania crushed, and the prince, small, vivacious, slim, aroused from the dull routine of being a distinguished man of the world, with his carbuncle-like eyes narrowed. She liked him, she occasionally liked that coquettish, flirting tone, and the prince had understood her. She had
saved Urania, she was sure of that: she felt the satisfaction of her good deed …

She was too lazy to get dressed and go to the restaurant. She was not very hungry and just had a light supper made with what she had in the cupboard: a few eggs, bread, some fruit. But she thought of Duco, who was bound to be waiting at their table and wrote him a note that she had delivered by the concierge’s little son …

Duco was just coming downstairs on his way out to the restaurant when he bumped into the lad on the stairs. He read the note, and was bitterly disappointed. He felt little, sad as a child. And he went back to his studio, lit a few lamps, threw himself down on a wide sofa, and in the twilight lay peering at Memmi’s angel, which, still on the chair, glowed faintly gold in the centre of the room, as a sweet solace, with a gesture of annunciation, as if wanting to announce all the mysterious things that were to happen …

A
FEW DAYS LATER
Cornélie was waiting for the visit of the prince, who had asked to see her. She sat at her desk correcting the proofs of her article. A lamp on the desk lit her softly through a yellow silk shade; and she wore a white silk crêpe
peignoir
, with a corsage of violets. Another, standing, lamp gave a second source of illumination from a corner of the room; and the room was duskily cosy and intimate in the third glow of a wood fire—with watercolours by Duco, sketches and photographs, white anemones in vases, violets everywhere, and the occasional large palm. Her desk was strewn with the books and printed sheets that bore witness to her work.

There was a knock and she called out for the visitor to enter, and when the prince came in, she remained seated for a moment, then put down her pen and rose. She approached him with a smile and proffered her hand, which he kissed. He was dressed very smartly in his morning coat, top hat and light-grey gloves; a pearl tie-pin. They sat down by the fire and he paid her a succession of compliments, on her decor, on her outfit and on her eyes. She joined in the repartee and he asked if he was disturbing her.

“Perhaps you were writing an interesting letter to someone close to your heart?”

“No. I was correcting printer’s proofs.”

“Proofs?”

“Yes …”

“Do you write?”

“This is my first attempt.”

“A novella?”

“No, an article.”

“An article? What about?”

She told him the long title. He looked at her
open-mouthed
. She laughed cheerfully.

“You wouldn’t have thought it, would you?”

“
Santa Maria
!” he muttered in astonishment, not accustomed in his world to ‘modern women’, banding together in the Women’s Movement. “In Dutch?”

“In Dutch.”

“Next time write in French: then I’ll be able to read it …”

She promised with a laugh and poured him a cup of tea, and offered him sweets. He nibbled a few.

“Are you so serious? Have you always been like this? You weren’t serious the other day, were you?”

“Sometimes I’m very serious.”

“So am I.”

“I realise that. On that occasion, if I had not turned up, you might have become very serious.”

He laughed fatuously and looked at her knowingly.

“You are an exceptional woman!” he said. “Very interesting and very clever. What you want to happen, happens …”

“Sometimes …”

“Sometimes, what I want to happen, happens too … Sometimes I’m very clever too.
When
I want to be, but usually I don’t want to be.”

“The other day you did …”

He laughed.

“Yes! You were cleverer than I was then. Tomorrow I may be cleverer than you.”

“Who knows!”

They both laughed. He nibbled the sweets, one after the other, from the dish, and preferred a glass of port to tea. She poured him one.

“May I give you something?” he asked earnestly.

“What?”

“A souvenir of our first meeting.”

“That is charming of you. What can it be?”

He took something wrapped in tissue paper from his inside pocket and handed it to her.

She opened the package and saw a piece of antique Venetian lace, flounced, for a low petticoat.

“Please accept it,” he entreated her. “It’s a very fine piece. It gives me such joy to make a gift of it to you.”

She looked at him with all her coquettishness in her eyes, as if wanting to see through him.

“You must wear it like this …”

He got up, took the lace, draped it across her white
peignoir
from shoulder to shoulder. His fingers fiddled with the pleats, his lips brushed hers for a moment. She thanked him for his gift. He sat down.

“I am glad that you are accepting it.”

“Have you given Miss Hope something too?”

He laughed, his triumphant laugh.

“Samples are good enough for her, from the queen’s evening gowns. I would not dare give you samples. You I give antique Venetian lace.”

“But you nearly ruined your career for that sample?”

“Oh well!” he laughed.

“What career?”

“Oh no!” he said defensively. “Tell me, what is your advice?”

“How do you mean?”

“Should I marry her?”

“I’m against all marriage, between educated people …”

Now he was certain of a liaison between her and Van der Staal, if he had had any lingering doubts.

“And … do you regard me as educated?”

She laughed, coquettishly, with a brief flash of contempt.

“Listen, will you be serious.”

“With the greatest pleasure.”

“I don’t find either you or Miss Hope suited to free love.”

“So I am not educated?”

“I don’t mean you are not cultivated. I mean modern education.”

“So I am not modern?”

“No,” she said, a little irritated.

“Teach me to be modern.”

She laughed nervously.

“Oh, don’t let’s talk like this. What do I advise you?
Not
to marry Urania.”

“Why not?”

“Because your life together would be a disaster. She is a sweet little American parvenue …”

“I am offering her what I have; she is offering me what she has …”

He nibbled the sweets. She shrugged her shoulders.

“Do it then,” she said indifferently.

“Tell me you don’t want it to happen, and I won’t do it.”

“And your papa? And the
marchesa
?”

“What do you know about them?”

“Oh, everything … and nothing!”

“You are a demon!” he exclaimed. “An angel and a demon. Tell me, what do you know about my father and the
marchesa
?”

“For how many millions are you selling yourself to Urania? For no less than ten million?”

He looked at her in stupefaction.

“But the
marchesa
is content with five. It’s not bad: five million … Dollars or lire?”

He clapped his hands together.

“You are a devil!” he exclaimed. “You are an angel and devil! How do you know? How do you
know
? Do you know everything??”

She threw herself backwards and laughed.

“Everything …”

“But
how
?”

She looked at him, shook her head, played the coquette.

“Tell me …”

“No. It’s my secret …”

“And you don’t think I should sell myself?”

“I do not dare advise you on your interests.”

“And as far as Urania is concerned?”

“I advise her against it.”

“Have you already advised her against it?”

“Now and then …”

“So you are my enemy?” he said angrily.

“No,” she said softly, wanting to win him back. “A friend …”

“A friend? To what point?”

“As far as
I
want to go.”

“Not as far as
I
want to go …?”

“Oh no, never!”

“But perhaps we both want to go just as far?”

He had stood up, his blood on fire. She sat calmly, almost languidly, with her head thrown back. She did not answer. He fell to his knees, grasped her hand and kissed it before she could push him away.

“Oh angel, angel! Oh, demon!” he muttered as he kissed.

She pulled her hand free, pushed him gently away and said:

“Italians are so quick to kiss!”

She was laughing at him. He got up.

“Teach me what Dutch women are like, even though they are slower than we are.”

She motioned him to a chair with an imperious gesture.

“Sit down. I am not a specifically Dutch woman. Otherwise I would not have come to Rome. I pride myself on being cosmopolitan. But we weren’t talking about me, we’re talking about Urania. Are you seriously intending to marry her?”

“What can I do if you are working against me? Why don’t you work with me, as a dear friend …?”

She hesitated. Neither Urania nor he were ripe for her ideas. She despised them both. Right, let them marry then: he to become rich, she to become princess-duchess.

“Listen!” she said, leaning towards him. “You are
 marrying her for her millions. But your marriage will be unhappy from the start. She is a fickle young thing; she wants glamour … and you are member of the Blacks.”

“We can live in Nice: she can do as she likes. We’ll come to Rome now and then, and occasionally San Stefano. And unhappy …”—he pulled a tragic face—“but what do I care. I’m not happy anyway. I shall try to make Urania happy. But my heart … will be elsewhere …”

“Where?”

“With the Women’s Movement.”

She laughed.

“Now I’m supposed to be nice?”

“Yes …”

“And promise to help you?”

What difference did it make to her?

“Oh angel, demon!” he exclaimed.

He nibbled a sweet.

“And what does Mr Van der Staal think?” he asked roguishly.

She raised her eyebrows.

“He doesn’t give it any thought. He thinks only about his art.”

“And about you.”

She looked at him, and bowed her head, assenting like a queen.

“And about me.”

“You dine with him often.”

“Yes.”

“Why not dine with me for a change.”

“Oh, I’d love to.”

“Tomorrow evening? Where?”

“Wherever you like.”

“At the Grand-Hôtel?”

“Invite Urania too.”

“Why not just the two of us?”

“I think it’s better to include your wife-to-be. I will chaperone her.”

“You’re right. You’re quite right. And ask Mr Van der Staal if he will do me the honour …”

“I shall.”

“Till tomorrow then, at eight-thirty?”

He got up to take his leave.

“I ought to go,” he said. “Actually I’d rather stay …”

“Well stay then … or stay some other time, if you have to go now.”

“You are so cool.”

“You don’t think nearly enough of Urania.”

“I’m thinking of the Women’s Movement.”

He sat down.

“You really should go,” she said, with a smile in her eyes. “I have to get dressed … to dine with Mr Van der Staal.”

He kissed her hand.

“You are an angel and a demon. You know everything. You can do everything. You are the most interesting woman I have ever met.”

“Because I correct proofs.”

“Because you are who you are …”

And very seriously, still holding her hand, he said, almost threateningly:

“I shall never be able to forget you …”

And he left. When she was alone she opened her
windows. She was aware of being something of a coquette, but it was in her nature: she did it so naturally, with some men. Certainly not with all men. Never with Duco. Never with men she looked up to. She despised that jumped-up prince, with his flaming eyes and his kisses … But he was sufficient to amuse her …

She changed and went out, and she arrived in the restaurant long after the appointed hour, found Duco waiting for her, with his head in his hands, and told him at once that the prince had detained her.