Inevitable (19 page)

S
HE WROTE REGULARLY
to Urania, in Switzerland, to Ostend, and Urania always wrote back so sweetly and offered her help. But Cornélie invariably rejected it, frightened as she was of hurting Duco. She herself felt easier about it, especially now she realised that she was incapable of working. But she understood Duco’s attitude and respected it. Personally, though, she would have accepted, now her pride was wavering anyway, now her ideas were crumbling, too weak for the unremitting pressure of the daily grind. It was like a great finger brushing against a house of cards: every thing that had been built with care and pride, collapsed at the slightest touch. All that remained standing were her love and happiness, unshakeable amid the ruins. Oh, how she loved him, how simple and true their love was! How precious he was to her, for his softness, his even temper, as if his nervous tension served only to experience art with greater delicacy. She had a wonderful feeling that his calm was imperturbable, had been found for all time. Without that happiness they would never have been able to drag themselves through their difficult existence from day to day. As it was they did not feel the daily weight, as if they were pulling the load forward together, from one day to the next. As it was they felt the weight only occasionally, when the following day was completely dark and they did not know where they were dragging their
burden of existence into the darkness of that future. But over and over again they won through: they loved each other too much to collapse under the load. Again and again they took heart: with a smile they supported each other’s strength.

September came, and October, and Urania wrote to say that they were returning to San Stefano and would stay for a month or two, before going to Nice for the winter. And one morning, unexpectedly, Urania came into the studio. She found Cornélie alone: Duco had gone to see an art dealer. They greeted each other warmly.

“I’m so happy to see you again!” chattered Urania cheerfully. “I’m happy to be back in Italy and to stay a little longer at San Stefano. And is everything as it was in your cosy studio? Are you happy? Oh, I needn’t ask …!”

And exuberant as a child she embraced Cornélie, never finding it in her heart to disapprove of her friend’s over-free lifestyle, especially not now, after her own summer in Ostend … They sat side by side on the sofa, Cornélie in her old
peignoir
, which she wore with her own unique grace, and the young princess in her
light-grey
tailored suit that clung fashionably to her shape, its heavy silk lining rustling, with her silver sequined hat with black feathers, her jewelled fingers, playing with a very long watch chain that she wore round her neck: the very latest fashion. Cornélie was able to admire without jealousy and she made Urania stand up and twirl round in front of her, and loved the cut of her skirt; she said that her hat looked absolutely charming on her and studied the chain closely. And she became absorbed in talk of chiffons; Urania described the outfits worn in
Ostend … and Urania admired Cornélie’s
old peignoir.
Cornélie laughed. “Particularly after Ostend, I suppose?” she joked. But Urania was serious and meant it: Cornélie wore it with such style! And, changing the subject, she said she wished to speak very seriously. That she knew of something that might suit Cornélie, since Cornélie never wanted to accept her help. In Ostend she had met an elderly American lady, Mrs Uxeley, quite a character. She was ninety and spent her winters in Nice. She was wealthy: a petrol-empire fortune. She was ninety, but still acted as if she were forty-five. She went out, appeared in society, flirted. People laughed at her, but accepted her, for the sake of her money and her magnificent parties. In Nice the whole cosmopolitan colony came to her place. Urania took out an Ostend casino magazine and read out a news item about a ball in Ostend in which Mrs Uxeley was called ‘
la femme la plus élégante d’Ostende
’. The journalist had received a certain sum for this, the whole world laughed and enjoyed itself. Mrs Uxeley was a caricature, but with enough tact to be taken seriously. Well, Mrs Uxeley was looking for someone. She always had a companion with her, a young woman, and there had been an endless succession of such ladies. She had had cousins with her, distant cousins, very distant cousins and total strangers. She was difficult, capricious, impossible: it was common knowledge. Would Cornélie like to try? Urania had already raised it with Mrs Uxeley and recommended her friend. Cornélie did not find the prospect very appealing, but it was worth thinking about. Mrs Uxeley’s companion was staying on till November, when ‘the old thing’ returned to Nice via Paris. And in
Nice they, Cornélie and Urania, would see a lot of each other. But Cornélie was appalled by the thought of leaving Duco. She thought it would never be possible, they were so accustomed to each other. Financially it would be an ideal solution—an easy life that appealed to her after the blow to her moral pride—but she could not think of leaving Duco. And what would Duco do in Nice! No, she simply couldn’t: she would stay with him … She felt a reluctance to go, as if a hand were restraining her. She told Urania to put off the old lady, tell her to look for someone else. She couldn’t do it. What good was such a life—dependent but financially independent, without Duco! And when Urania had gone—she was continuing on to San Stefano—Cornélie was glad that she had immediately refused this stupid, easy, dependent life of lady’s companion to a rich old battleaxe. She looked round the studio. She loved its beautiful colours, its noble old objects, and behind that curtain her bed and behind that screen her paraffin stove, which served as a kitchen. With its bohemian mix of precious knick-knacks and very primitive comforts, it had become indispensable to her, her home. And when Duco came home, and she put her arms round him, she told him about Urania and Mrs Uxeley, happy to nestle against him. He had sold some watercolours. There was absolutely no reason to leave him. He did not want her to, either, he would never want it. And they held each other tight, as if they could feel something that might separate them, an inexorable necessity, as if hands were floating around them, pushing, guiding, restraining and defending, a battle of hands, like a cloud around the two of them; hands trying to sunder
violently their glistening lifeline, their merged lifeline, though too narrow for both their feet, and the hands would wrest them apart, making the single great line spiral apart into two. They said nothing: in each other’s arms they looked at life, shuddered at the hands, felt the approach of that pressure, already piling up more densely around them. But they felt each other’s warmth: in their close embrace they hugged their little happiness, hid it between them, so that the hands could not point to it, touch it, push it …

And under their fixed gaze life receded gently, the cloud dissolved, the hands disappeared and a sigh of relief rose from their chests, as she lay silently against him, and closed her eyes, as if to sleep …

B
UT THE PRESSURE
of life returned, the floating hands reappeared, as a gentle, mysterious force. Cornélie wept bitterly, and admitted it to herself and to Duco: they could not go on like this. At one point they did not have enough for the rent of the studio and had to appeal to Urania. Gaps had appeared in the studio, colours had thinned, because things had been sold that Duco had collected with tenderness and sacrifice. But the angel of Lippo Memmi, which he refused to sell, with its gesture of proffering lilies, was as radiant as ever in its robe of gold brocade. Around them there were sad spaces on the walls where nails had been exposed. At first they tried rearranging things, but they lost heart. And as they sat together, in each other’s arms, feeling their little happiness, but also the pressure of life with its pushing hands, they closed their eyes, so as not to see the studio that seemed to be crumbling around them, where in the first cooler days a sunless chill descended from the ceiling that looked higher and more distant and where the easel awaited, empty. They both closed their eyes and kept them closed, feeling, despite the strength of their happiness and love, gradually defeated by life, which was remorseless in its pressure and robbed them of something every day. Once when they were sitting like this their hands fell limply apart, their embrace disengaged, as if hands were pulling them away from
each other. For a long time they remained sitting there, side by side, without touching. Then she broke into a loud sob and threw herself face down on his knees. There was nothing more for it: life had proved stronger, silent life, the remorseless pressure of life that surrounded them with so many hands. And it was as if their little happiness was lost to them like an angelic child that had died and slipped from their embrace.

She said that she would write to Urania: the Forte-Braccios were in Nice. Unenthusiastically, he agreed. And as soon as she received a reply, she took out her suitcase and, like an automaton, packed her old clothes. Urania wrote telling her to come and saying that Mrs Uxeley wanted to see her. Mrs Uxeley sent her the fare. She was at her wits’ end, nervous and constantly breaking into sobs, and felt as if she were tearing herself away from him, from the home she loved that was crumbling around them, through her fault alone. When she received the registered letter containing the fare, she had a fit of hysteria, nestling against him like a child, crying plaintively that she could not do it, that she did not want to do it, that she could not live without him, that she would love him forever, that she would die so far from him. She lay on the sofa, her legs stiff, her arms stiff, and screamed with her mouth contorted as if in physical pain. He rocked her in his arms, dabbed her forehead, gave her ether to sniff, comforted her, said that it would all come right later … Later … She looked blankly at him, almost crazed with the pain. She threw everything out of her case again, across the room, underwear, blouses, and laughed and laughed … He begged her to control herself. When she saw the dismay on
his face and when he too sobbed in her arms, she hugged him tightly to her, kissed him, comforted him in turn … And everything in her subsided, dull and limp … They repacked the case together. Then she looked round and in a burst of energy arranged the studio for
him
, got him to remove her bed, fixed his own sketches to the wall, tried to rebuild something of what had crumbled around them, rearranged everything and did her best. She cooked their final meal, banked up the fire … But a desperate threat of loneliness and desolation was all-pervading. They could not do it, they could not do it … They fell asleep sobbing, in each others’ arms, close together. The next morning he took her to the station. And once she had boarded the train and was in her compartment, both of them lost control. They embraced sobbing, as the conductor tried to close the door. She saw him walking away like a madman, barging his way through the thronging crowd, and broken with sorrow threw herself back in her seat. She was so overcome and so close to fainting that a lady next to her came to her assistance and washed her face with eau de Cologne …

She thanked the lady, apologised and, seeing the other passengers looking at her with sympathy, she controlled herself and fell into a dull stupor, staring blankly out of the window. She travelled on and on, stopping nowhere, getting out only to change trains. Though hungry, she had no energy to order anything at the stations. She ate nothing and drank nothing. She travelled for a day and a night and arrived late the next evening in Nice. Urania was at the station and was alarmed at Cornélie’s grey pallor, utter exhaustion and hollow-eyed expression.
She was very sweet to her; she took Cornélie home with her, nursed her for a few days, made her stay in bed, and went personally to Mrs Uxeley to tell her that her friend was too unwell to report. Gilio briefly paid his respects to Cornélie, and she could only thank him for the days of hospitality and care under his roof. The young princess was like a sister, a mother, building up Cornélie’s strength with milk, eggs, and fortifying tonics. Obediently she submitted to Urania’s ministrations, dull and indifferent, and ate in order to please Urania. After a few days Urania said that Mrs Uxeley, curious to see her new companion, was going to visit that afternoon. Mrs Uxeley was now alone, but could wait until Cornélie was better. Dressed as smartly as she could she sat with Urania and awaited the old lady’s arrival. She made an exuberant entrance, talking non-stop, and in the dim light of Urania’s drawing-room Cornélie could not believe that she was ninety. Urania winked at her, but she could only smile feebly: she was dreading this first interview. But Mrs Uxeley, probably because Cornélie was the friend of the Princess di Forte-Braccio, was very unstuffy, very pleasant, not at all condescending towards her future lady’s companion; she inquired after Cornélie’s health in an exhaustingly expansive stream of exclamations and phrases and helpful hints. In the subdued light of the
lace-shaded
standard lamps, Cornélie surveyed her and saw a woman of fifty, with her wrinkles carefully powdered, in a mauve velvet outfit embroidered with old gold and sequins and beads, her brown wavy chignon topped by a hat with white feathers. She was very mobile and hectic, so that her jewels were constantly sparkling. She now
took Cornélie’s hand and began talking intimately … So Cornélie would be coming the day after tomorrow? Good. She usually paid a hundred dollars a month, or five hundred francs: never less, but never more. But she realised that Cornélie needed something at once, for new outfits: so would she order what she needed from this address, on Mrs Uxeley’s account? A couple of ball gowns, a couple of less dressy evening outfits, everything in fact. Princess Urania would no doubt tell her and go with her. And she got up, doing her best to behave like a young woman, fluttering about with her lorgnette, but all the while leaning on her parasol, while a sudden twinge of rheumatism revealed all kinds of wrinkles. Urania accompanied her to the corridor and came back shrieking with laughter; Cornélie joined in very feebly. It mattered nothing to her: she was more astonished than amused by Mrs Uxeley. Ninety! Ninety!! What energy, worthy of a better goal than trying to remain elegant: ‘
la
femme la plus élégante d’Ostende!!
’

Ninety! How that woman must suffer, the hours of time-consuming toilet, in order to turn herself into this caricature. Urania said that everything was false, her hair and her neckline! And Cornélie felt revulsion at the prospect of living from now on with that woman, as if with something unworthy. Much of her energy had been drained by her happy love life, as if their twin happiness—Duco’s and hers—had made her less fit for further existential struggle and had softened her in its splendour, but it had refined and purified something in her soul and she was revolted by so much pretence for so petty and vain a purpose. And it was only pure necessity—
the gradualness of life that impelled her and pushed her gently with its guiding finger along a lifeline that was now winding away into loneliness—necessity that gave her the strength to hide away her sorrow, her longing, her homesickness for all she had left behind, deep within her. She decided to say no more about it to Urania. Urania was so happy to see her, regarded her as a good friend, in the loneliness of her exalted life, in her isolation amid her aristocratic acquaintances. Urania had enthusiastically accompanied her to seamstresses and shops and helped her choose her new trousseau. It left her cold. She, the elegant woman, innately elegant, who in her appearance had always defended herself against poverty, who with a fresh ribbon was able to wear an old blouse gracefully, in the days of her happiness, was totally indifferent to everything she was now buying at Mrs Uxeley’s expense. It was as if it were not for her. She let Urania ask and choose, and went along with everything. She tried things on like an automaton. She was so upset to have to spend so much at a stranger’s expense. She felt demeaned, humiliated: all her haughty pride in herself had gone. She was afraid of what might be thought of her in Mrs Uxeley’s circle of acquaintances, unsure whether they would know of her liberal ideas, her relationship with Duco, and she was afraid of Mrs Uxeley’s opinion. Because Urania had had to be honest and tell her everything. It was only because of Urania’s warm recommendation that Mrs Uxeley was still prepared to employ her. She felt out of place, now she had to join in with all those people again, and she was afraid of showing her true colours. She would have to play-act, disguise her ideas, weigh her words, and she was
no longer used to that. And all that for money. All because she did not have the strength to earn her living alongside Duco, and happily and independent, encourage him in his work, his art. Oh, if only she had been able and had found some way, how happy she would have been. If only she had not allowed to fester in her the wretched languor of her blood, her upbringing, her brilliant drawing-room education languor, which rendered her unfit for anything! In her blood she was both a woman of love and a woman of luxury, but more love than luxury: she could be happy with the simplest thing if only she could love. And now life had torn her from him, slowly but surely. And now she had luxury, dependent luxury, and it no longer satisfied her blood, because she could no longer satisfy her deepest need. Fatal discontent ran riot in that lonely soul. The only happiness she possessed were his letters, his long letters, letters of longing, but also letters of comfort. He wrote to her of his longing, but also wrote to give her courage and hope. He wrote to her every day. He was in Florence now and sought consolation in the Uffizi and the Pitti Palace. He had not been able to stay in Rome, and the studio was now closed up. In Florence he was slightly closer to her. And his letters were like a book of love to her, the only novel she read, and it was as if she saw his landscapes in his style, the same haziness of intensely felt colour, the pearly white and dreamily hazy light distance: the horizon of his longing, as if his eyes were always straying to the horizon, where the night of their parting had disappeared as if into a peacock-grey sunset; a whiff of the sad Campagna. In those letters they were still living together. But she could not write to him in
the same way. Although she wrote to him every day, she wrote concisely, always the same thing in different words: her longing, her dull indifference. She told him, though, how she loved his letters, which were like her daily bread.

She was now with Mrs Uxeley and occupied two charming rooms of the huge twelve-roomed villa, with a view of the sea and of the Promenade des Anglais. Urania had helped her arrange them. And she lived in an unreal dream of alienation, non-existence, of soulless being, of unfelt actions and gestures, in accordance with the will of others. In the mornings she would visit Mrs Uxeley in her boudoir and read to her: American and French newspapers, and sometimes an extract from a French novelette. Humbly, she did her best. Mrs Uxeley thought she read well, but simply said she should cheer up now, that her sad days were over. No mention was made of Duco and Mrs Uxeley acted as if he did not exist. The great boudoir, with its balcony doors open, looked out over the sea where the morning promenade was already beginning, with the colourful and patchy shapes of parasols, delicately garish against the deep-blue sea, a sea of luxury, water of wealth, wavelets that had an expensive look before charmingly consenting to break into foam. The old lady, already made up, with her wig on and a white lace cap over it against the draught lay on her chaise-longue piled with cushions in the black and white lace of her white silk
peignoir
. With her lorgnette, initialled in diamonds, in her wrinkled hand, she liked to peer at the brash patches of the parasols outside. Now and then a rheumatic twinge would suddenly make her wince so that her face became a single crumpled surface of wrinkles,
beneath which the even sheen of her make-up almost cracked, like craquelé china. In daylight she seemed scarcely alive, she seemed an automaton assembled from desiccated limbs, which still spoke and gesticulated. She was always a little tired in the mornings, at night she never slept; after eleven she took a nap. She lived according to a strict regime, and her doctor, who called every day, seemed to breathe new life into her every time, enabling her to hold out till evening. In the afternoons she drove around, got out at the Jetée and made her calls. But in the evenings she revived, with a hint of real animation, dressed, put on her jewels, recovered her exuberance, her exclamations, and her poses … Then it was balls, parties, the theatre. Then she was not a day over fifty.

But those were the good days. Sometimes, after a night of unbearable pain, she stayed in her bedroom, the previous day’s make-up not retouched, a black lace shawl over her bald head, in a black satin morning coat, which hung round her like a comfortable sack, and she groaned, screamed, shouted and seemed to be begging for mercy from her torment. This went on for a few days and occurred at regular three-week intervals: then she gradually revived again.