Inevitable (13 page)

I
T WAS A COUPLE OF MONTHS
after Easter: the spring days of May. The flood of tourists had subsided immediately after the great church festivals and Rome was already very hot and became very quiet. One morning, as Cornélie was crossing Piazza di Spagna, where the sunshine flowed along the creamy yellow facade of Trinità de’ Monti, down the monumental staircase, where only a few beggars and a last flower boy sat dreamily blinking in a corner, she saw the prince coming towards her. He greeted her with a happy smile and hastened toward her.

“I am so happy to meet you. I’m in Rome for a few days and I have to go to San Stefano to see my father on business. Such a nuisance, business, especially at this time. Urania is in Nice. But it’s hot, we’re going away. We’ve just returned from a trip through the Mediterranean. Four weeks on a friend’s yacht. It was wonderful! Why haven’t you come to see us in Nice, as Urania asked you in her letters?”

“I really couldn’t come …”

“I called on you at Via dei Serpenti yesterday. But I was told you had moved …”

He looked at her with a mocking laugh in his small, sparkling eyes. She said nothing.

“I did not wish to be indiscreet,” he concluded meaningfully …“Where are you going?”

“I have to go to the post office.”

“I have nothing to do. May I walk with you? Don’t you find it too hot to walk?”

“Oh no, I like the heat. Of course you may. How is Urania?”

“Fine, excellent. She’s excellent. She’s marvellous, simply marvellous. I would never have thought it. I would never have dared hope it. She cuts a brilliant figure. As far as that is concerned, I have no regrets about my marriage. But apart from that, what a disappointment, what deception.
Gesù mio!
”

“Why?”

“You guessed, didn’t you—how I still have no idea—the price tag I carried? Not five, but ten million. Oh,
signora mia,
the deceit! You saw my father-in-law at our wedding. What a Yankee, what a stocking-salesman and what a businessman! We can’t cope with that. Not I, not my father, and not the
marchesa
. First promises, contracts, oh yes. But then haggling about this, haggling about that. We don’t know how to do that. I couldn’t. Nor could papa. Only auntie knew how to haggle. But she was no match for the stocking-salesman. She hadn’t learned how in all those years of running a
pensione
. Ten million? Five million? Not even three million! But anyway we’ve received about that much, plus lots of promises, for our children’s children, when everyone’s dead. Oh,
signora
,
signora
, I was richer before I was married! It’s true I had debts then, and now I don’t. But Urania is so thrifty, so practical. I would never have thought it … It’s been a blow to everyone, papa, auntie, the
monsignori.
You should see them together. They could scratch each other’s eyes
out … Papa almost had a stroke; auntie came to blows with the
monsignori
. Oh,
signora
,
signora
, I don’t like such things. I’m a victim. For whole winters they fished with me as bait. But I didn’t want to cooperate, I resisted: I didn’t let the fish bite. And now it has finally happened. Less than three million. Lire, not dollars. I was so stupid that at first I thought it would be dollars. And Urania is so thrifty. She gives me my pocket money. She manages everything, she does everything. She knows exactly how much I lose at the club. No, you’re laughing, but it’s sad. You see, sometimes I could just cry! And then she has the oddest ideas. For example, we have our apartment in Nice now and we’re keeping on my rooms in Palazzo Ruspoli, as a
pied-à-terre
in Rome. It’s enough: we don’t go to Rome much anyway, because we are ‘black’ and Urania finds that boring. In the summers we had planned to go somewhere or other, to a seaside resort. Exactly, that had been firmly agreed. But now Urania suddenly takes it into her head that she wants San Stefano as a summer residence! San Stefano!!! I ask you. I can’t stand it there. It’s true it’s high up, and cool: the climate is pleasant—fresh mountain air. But I need more to live than mountain air. I need more than that. Oh, you wouldn’t recognise Urania. She’s so stubborn sometimes. It’s now been irrevocably decided: San Stefano in the summers. And the worst thing is that by doing this she’s stolen papa’s heart. So I’ve lost out. It’s two against one. And the worst thing of all is … that we must be very economical so that we can do up San Stefano. It’s a famous historic site but very run down. What do you expect; we’ve never had much luck. Since a Forte-Braccio was once pope … our star
waned and we were never lucky again. San Stefano is a model of grandeur in decline. You should see it. Being economical to do up San Stefano! That’s now Urania’s ambition. She is determined to do justice to our ancestral home. Anyway, she has won over my father and he has recovered from his stroke. But do you understand now why
il povero Gilio
is poorer than before he had shares in a stocking factory in Chicago?”

The flood of words was unstoppable. He was deeply unhappy, small, chastened, tamed, defeated, devastated and needed to get things off his chest. They had already walked past the post office and were now retracing their steps. He was looking for sympathy from Cornélie, and he found it in the smiling attention with which she listened to his laments. She replied that it spoke well of Urania that she had a feeling for San Stefano.

“Oh, yes,” he conceded humbly. “She is very good. I would never have thought it. She’s a princess to her fingertips. It’s wonderful. But as for the ten million, the dream has gone! But my goodness, how well you look! You are more beautiful every time I see you. Do you know that you are a very beautiful woman? You must be very happy. You are an exceptional woman, I’ve said so all along. I don’t understand you … Can I be frank? Are we good friends? I don’t understand you. What you have just done, I find so terrible … It is unheard of in our world.”

“Your world is not mine, prince.”

“All right, but I expect your world takes the same view. And the calm way, the pride, the happiness with which you calmly do … what you feel like. I find it awesome. I’m amazed …Yet … it’s a shame. In my world people 
are very easy-going … But
that
is beyond the pale!”

“Prince, once again, I have no world. My world is my own circle.”

“I don’t understand … Tell me, how am I to tell Urania? Because I’d be delighted if you would visit us at San Stefano. Oh, come on, come, come and keep us company. I beg you. Have pity, do a good deed …But first tell me how I am to break it to Urania …”

She laughed. “What?”

“What they told me at Via dei Serpenti: that from now on your address was: Via del Babuino, Mr Van der Staal’s studio …”

Smiling, she looked at him almost pityingly.

“It is too difficult for you to tell her,” she replied, slightly condescendingly. “I’ll write to Urania myself to tell her and explain my behaviour to her.”

He was obviously relieved.

“That’s wonderful, excellent! And … will you be coming to San Stefano?”

“No, I can’t, really.”

“Why not?”

“I can no longer venture into the circles you live in, after my change of address,” she said, half-laughing, half-serious.

He shrugged his shoulders.

“Listen,” he said. “You know our Roman society. Provided certain conventions are observed … everything is permitted.”

“Exactly, but it’s just those conventions that I am not observing …”

“Then that is very wrong of you. Believe me, I’m
saying this as your friend.”

“I live according to my own laws and do not ask you to enter my world.”

He folded his hands.

“Yes, yes, I know that, you are a ‘new woman’. You are a law unto yourself. But I beg you, have pity on me. Have mercy on me. Come to San Stefano.”

She sensed a seductive edge in his voice and so said:

“Prince, even if it accorded with the conventions of your world … I would still not want to. I don’t want to leave Van der Staal.”

“You come first and he can come later. Urania would like to ask his advice on a number of artistic matters to do with her ‘refurbishment’ of San Stefano. We have many paintings there. From antiquity too. Come on, do it. I’m going to San Stefano tomorrow. Urania will join me in a week. I shall suggest she asks you soon …”

“Really, prince … I can’t at such short notice …”

“Why not?”

She looked at him for a long time.

“Shall I be very frank?”

“Of course.”

They had already passed the post office a number of times. The street was eerily quiet, and there were no pedestrians. He looked at her quizzically.

“Well then,” she said, “we are in serious financial difficulties. At the moment we have nothing. I have lost my capital and the little I have earned from writing an article has gone. Duco works hard, but he is engaged on a largescale work and is earning nothing. He is expecting money in a few months. But at the moment we have nothing
Nothing at all. That’s why I went down to a shop by the Tiber this morning to ask how much the dealer would give for a couple of antique paintings that Duco wants to sell. He is reluctant to part with them. But there’s no alternative. So you see that I cannot come. I would not like to leave him, and than I have no money for the journey or a decent wardrobe …”

He looked at her. He had first been struck by her burgeoning beauty; he was now struck by the fact that her skirt was rather worn, her blouse was no longer fresh, although she was wearing a couple of roses in her belt.

“
Gesù mio!
” he exclaimed. “And you tell me that so calmly, so serenely …”

She smiled and shrugged her shoulders.

“What do you want me to do? Whine about it?”

“But you are a woman … a woman worthy of respect!” he exclaimed. “How is Van der Staal coping with it?”

“He’s a little depressed. He has never experienced financial problems. And it is stopping him from working with all his talent. But I hope I am some support to him in this unfortunate period. So you see, prince, that I cannot come to San Stefano.”

“But why did you not write to us? Why did you not ask us for money?”

“It is very sweet of you to say that, the idea never even occurred to us.”

“Too proud?”

“Too proud, yes.”

“But what a situation! What can I do to help you? Can I give you a few hundred lire? I have a few hundred on me. And I shall tell Urania that I have given them to you.”

“No, prince, thank you. I am very grateful, but I cannot accept.”

“Not from
me
?”

“No.”

“Not from Urania?”

“Not even from her.”

“Why?”

“I want to earn my money and cannot accept alms.”

“A fine principle. But only for now.”

“I shall stick to it.”

“May I say something?”

“What is it?”

“I admire you. More than that. I love you.”

She made a gesture with her hand and frowned.

“Why can’t I say that to you? An Italian does not keep his love hidden inside. I love you. You are more beautiful and nobler and loftier than I could ever imagine a woman … Don’t be angry: I am not asking anything of you. I’m a bad lot but at the moment I really feel something inside that you see on our old family portraits. A chance remaining atom of chivalry. I ask nothing of you. I am just saying to you, on behalf of Urania too: you can always count on us. Urania will be angry that you did not write to her.”

They went to the post office and she bought a few stamps.

“There go my last few
soldi
,” she said with a laugh and showed her empty purse. “We needed them for some letters to an exhibition-organising committee in London. Will you walk me home?”

She suddenly saw that there were tears in his eyes.

“Accept two hundred lire from me!” he begged.

She declined with a smile.

“Are you eating at home?” he asked.

She gave him a funny look.

“Yes,” she said.

He did not want to ask any more questions, for fear of offending her.

“It would be very sweet of you,” he said, “if you would dine with me tonight. I’m bored. At present I have no close friends in Rome. Everyone is away. Not in the Grand-Hôtel, but in a cosy restaurant where they know me. I’ll call for you at seven o’clock. Be a darling, and do it! For my sake!”

He could not hold back his tears.

“I’d be delighted,” she said softly, with her smile.

They stood in the doorway of the house on Via del Babuino, where the studio was. He raised her hand to his lips, and kissed it fervently. Then he tipped his hat and left hurriedly. She slowly climbed the stairs, fighting back her emotion, before entering the studio.

S
HE FOUND
D
UCO
lying listlessly on the sofa. He had a bad headache and she sat down beside him.

“Well?” he asked.

“The man was prepared to give eighty lire for the Memmi, he said: but he maintained that the triptych panel was not by Gentile da Fabriano; he remembered seeing the panel at your studio.”

“The man’s talking nonsense,” he replied. “Or he’s trying to get my Gentile for nothing …Cornélie, I really can’t sell them.”

“Alright Duco, then we’ll find some other way,” she said, putting her hand on his forehead that was contorted by his headache.

“Perhaps a few smaller things, a few knick-knacks…” he groaned.

“Perhaps…Shall I go back again this afternoon?”

“No, no … I’ll go. But really, we can buy such things, but can never sell them.”

“No Duco,” she admitted, laughing. “But yesterday I inquired what I could get for a couple of bracelets and I’ll sell them this afternoon. And then we’ll be able to manage for a month. But I wanted to tell you something. Do you know who I met?”

“No.”

“The prince.”

He frowned.

“I don’t like that blackguard,” he said.

“I’ve told you before, Duco: I don’t think he’s a blackguard. And I don’t believe he is. He invited us to dinner tonight, very simply.”

“No, I don’t feel like it …”

She was silent. She got up, boiled water on a paraffin stove and made tea.

“My dear Duco, I rather neglected lunch. A cup of tea and a sandwich is all I can offer you. Are you very hungry?”

“No,” he said evasively.

She hummed as she poured tea into an antique cup. She cut the bread and took him tea on the sofa. Then she sat next to him, also with a cup in her hand.

“Cornélie, would it be better if we had lunch in the
osteria
…?”

Laughing, she showed him her empty purse.

“Here are the stamps,” she said.

Disheartened, he flung himself on the cushions.

“My lovely man,” she went on. “Don’t be so down. This afternoon I’ll have money again, from the bracelets. I should have sold them before. Really, Duco, it’s nothing. Why didn’t you work? It would have cheered you up.”

“I wasn’t in the mood and I’ve got a headache …”

She was silent for a moment. Then she said,

“The prince was angry that we hadn’t written to him for help. He wanted to give me two hundred lire …”

“I hope you refused?” he said, furious.

“Of course,” she said calmly. “He invited us to stay at San Stefano, where they are spending the summer. I refused that too.”

“Why?”

“I wouldn’t have any clothes … But you wouldn’t want to go anyway, would you?”

“No,” he said flatly.

She drew his head to her and stroked his forehead. A broad area of reflected afternoon light shone through the studio window from the blue sky outside and the studio seemed to be alive with dusty light, in which the silhouettes stood out with their immobile gestures and unchanging emotions. The relief embroidery on the chasubles and stoles, the purple and azure blues of Gentile’s triptych panel, the mystical luxuriance of Memmi’s angel in its robe of heavily creasing brocade, the golden lily stem in the fingers—were like a piled treasure house of colour and shone in that reflected light like handfuls of jewels. On the easel was the watercolour of
Banners
, fine and noble. And as they sat there on the sofa, he with his head leaning against her, both of them drinking tea, they were harmoniously happy against that background of art. And it seemed incredible that they were worrying about a few hundred lire, since he was glowing within with a jewel-like colour, and her smile was like a sheen. But his eyes were discouraged and his hand hung limply.

She went out for a little while that afternoon, but soon returned home, telling him that she had sold the bracelets and that he now need not worry. And she sang and moved cheerfully about the studio. She had bought some things: an almond cake, rusks, half a bottle of port. She had brought them home in a basket and sang as she unpacked them. Her liveliness roused him: he got up and suddenly positioned himself in front of
Banners
. He looked at the light and reckoned that he still had an hour left
to work. A wave of delight rose in him as he surveyed the watercolour: there were lots of good, beautiful things in it. It had breath and delicacy; it was modern without the gimmicks of modernism: there was a thought in it and yet a purity of a line and grouping. And the colour had a calm distinction: purple and grey and white; violet and grey and white; dark, dusk, light; night, dawn, day. The day particularly, the day dawning up there on high, was full of a white, confident sun: a white certainty, in which the future became clear. But the streamers, flags and standards and banners were like a cloud, fanning out with heraldic pride over the ecstatic heads of the women fighters …He sought out his colours, sought out his brushes, and worked solidly until there was no light left. And he sat down beside her, happy, content. In the twilight they drank some of the port and ate some of the cake. He had an appetite, he said: he was hungry …

At seven there was a knock at the door. He started, went to the door, and the prince came in. Duco’s forehead clouded, but the prince saw nothing in the darkening studio. Cornélie lit a lamp.

“
Scusi
, prince,” she said. “I’m embarrassed to say that Duco doesn’t feel like going out—he’s been working and is tired—I had no one to take a message to you to say we could not accept your invitation.”

“But you can’t be serious! I had so looked forward to seeing you both. What else am I to do with my evening …?”

And with his torrent of words, his complaints of a spoiled child wanting its own way, he began to persuade the reluctant, stiff Duco. Duco finally got up, shrugged his shoulders, smiled pityingly, almost insultingly, but gave
way. But he could not suppress his feeling of reluctance; his jealousy at the swift repartee of Cornélie and the prince was still intense, like a pain. In the restaurant he was silent at first. Still, he made an effort to join in the conversation, remembering what Cornélie had said to him on that momentous day in the
osteria
: that she loved
him
, Duco; that she looked up to him, that she did not even compare the prince with him; but … that he was not cheerful and witty … And feeling his superiority because of that memory, despite his jealousy he smiled and rather talked down to the prince and tolerated his charm and flirtatiousness, because it amused Cornélie, that quick wordplay and those snappy sentences succeeding each other like the dialogue in a French play.