Inevitable (5 page)

I
T WAS CHRISTMAS
and on the occasion of this festival the Marchesa Belloni offered her guests a tree in the drawing-room, and afterwards a ball in the historical Guercino dining-room. Giving a ball and a tree was the custom with many hoteliers, and those
pensioni
where there was no ball or tree were well known and harshly criticised by foreigners for this break with tradition. Examples were known of very good
pensioni
, to which many travellers—especially ladies—would not go, because there was neither a tree nor a ball at Christmas.

The
marchesa
thought her tree expensive and her ball not cheap either and would happily have found some pretext for making both vanish as if by magic, but she did not dare: the reputation of her
pensione
rested precisely on its worldliness, its chic: dinner in the beautiful
dining-room
, where one dressed for the occasion, and a splendid party at Christmas. And it was fun to see how keen all those ladies were to receive on top of their bill for the winter a vulgar Christmas present and the opportunity to dance with free almond drink and a cake, a sandwich and a broth. The old, nodding head waiter, Giuseppe, looked down on these festivities with contempt: he remembered the galas of his archducal evenings and found the ball inferior and the tree a sorry sight; the limping doorman, Antonio, used to his relatively peaceful existence—meeting a guest or taking them to the station—calmly
sorting the post a couple of times a day, and apart from that lazing around in and near his cubicle and the lift—hated the ball because of all the people invited by the guests—each of them was allowed three invitations—because of all the tiring fuss about carriages, when on top of that the guests managed to get quickly into their fiacre without paying him a tip. Consequently around Christmas-time, the mood between the
marchesa
and her two senior dignitaries was far from harmonious, and during those days a torrent of orders and curses beat down on the backs of the old chambermaids, who with their kettles of hot water in their trembling hands clambered laboriously up and down the stairs, and the youthful milksops of waiters who in their reckless keenness charged into each other and broke plates. And only now that the whole staff had been set to work was it apparent how old the chambermaids were, and how young all the waiters, and people found the
marchesa
’s thrifty policy of employing only old crocks and children “a shame and shocking”. The only muscular
facchino
, required to lug suitcases, cut an unexpected figure of masculine maturity and robustness. But the
marchesa
was hated mainly for the large number of her serving staff, realising that now, at and around Christmas, they had to give them all a tip. No, they had not known there were so many staff. Not that many were needed anyway! If the
marchesa
were to take on a few strapping young girls and menservants! And there were silent conspiracies in the corners of corridors and agreements on how much they would give as a tip: people were anxious not to spoil the staff, yet they were staying all winter, and so one lira was
too little, and so people were hesitating between one lira twenty-five and one lira fifty. But when people worked out on their fingers that there were at least twenty-five staff and so one was spending close to forty lire, they found it alarming and organised subscription lists. Two lists circulated, one of one lira, and one of twelve lire per guest, for the whole staff. On the latter list some, who had come a month earlier or were intending to leave, signed for ten lire, and some for six lire. Five lire was generally considered too little, and when it became known that the scruffy aesthetic ladies wanted to pay five lire, they were regarded with the utmost contempt.

Emotions ran high and commotions were the order of the day. Christmas approached and people flocked to the cribs, constructed by painters in Palazzo Borghese—a panorama of Jerusalem; and the shepherds, the angels, the Three Kings, and Mary with the Christ child in the stall with ox and ass. In Ara Coeli they listened to the sermons of little girls and boys, who climbed in turn onto a platform and acted out the story of the birth: some shyly reciting a verse, prompted by an anxious mother; others, mainly girls, declaiming with Italian tragic pathos and rolling eyes like little actresses and ending with a religious moral. The common people and countless tourists listened to the sermons: a pleasant atmosphere prevailed in the church, where the shrill young children’s voices orated; there was loud laughter at gestures and effects; and the clergy walking around were wreathed in unctuous smiles, so sweet and touching was the scene. And in the chapel of the Santo Bambino the miraculous wooden idol was radiant with gold and jewels and the
dense throng milled about in front of it.

All the guests at Belloni bought holly branches on Piazza de Spagna and decorated their rooms, and some, for example Baroness Von Rothkirch, set up a private Christmas tree in their own room. The evening before the great festival everyone went to admire these private trees; they walked in and out of rooms, and all the guests, however much they sometimes squabbled and intrigued against each other, wore benevolent seasonal smiles and received everyone. There was general agreement that the baroness had gone to great trouble and that her tree was magnificent, and that her bedroom had been nicely transformed into a boudoir; the beds draped to become sofas, the washbasins concealed, and the trees radiant with light and gold. And the baroness, in a rather sentimental mood this evening, threw open her doors to everyone, and even offered the two aesthetic ladies sweets, when the
marchesa
also appeared smiling at her door, her bosom wreathed in sky-blue satin, and wearing even larger pendant crystal earrings than usual. The room was full; there were the Van der Staals, Cornélie, Rudyard, Urania Hope, other guests walking in and out, with the result that one could not budge, and was crammed together on the draped beds of mother and daughter. The
marchesa
brought in at her side an unknown young person: small, slim, with a pale olive complexion, with vivaciously sparkling dark eyes, in tails, and with the nonchalant good manners of an indifferent and weary man of the world; distinguished, yet supercilious. And she proudly approached the baroness, who was constantly and charmingly dabbing her moist eyes and arrogantly introduced him:

“My nephew,
duca di San Stefano, principe di Forte-Braccio
…”

The widely known Italian name was deliberately trumpeted loudly into the crowded, far from spacious room and all eyes focused on the young man, who bowed to the baroness and looked vaguely and ironically round the room. The
marchesa
’s nephew had not yet been seen in the hotel that winter, but everyone knew that the young Duke of San Stefano, Prince of Forte-Braccio, was a nephew of the
marchesa
, and one of the advertisements for her
pensione
. And while the prince spoke to the baroness and her daughter, Urania Hope stared at him as if he were a wondrous being from another world. She had grasped Cornélie’s arm as if for support, as if she were about to faint at the sight of so much Italian aristocratic grandeur. She found him very handsome, very distinguished: small, and slim and pale, with eyes like carbuncles, with his languid distinction, and the white orchid in his buttonhole. And she would have loved to ask the
marchesa
to introduce her to her chic nephew, but did not dare, thinking of her father’s stocking factory in Chicago.

The following evening was the festival of the tree and the ball. It was known that the
marchesa
’s nephew would be coming that evening, and emotions ran high all day long. The prince came after the presents had been taken off the tree and distributed, and by the side of his aunt, the
marchesa
, he made a kind of triumphal entry into the room where the ball had not yet begun but where guests were already seated here and there, with everyone’s eyes glued to his ducal and princely presence.

Cornélie was walking with Duco van der Staal, who to the great amazement of his mother and sisters had dug
out his coat and tails and appeared in the spacious hall, and both saw the triumphal procession of ‘la Belloni’ and her nephew and laughed at the star-struck looks of the English and American ladies. They—Cornélie and Duco—sat down in the hall on two chairs in front of a group of palms masking one of the doors of the room, while the ball began inside. They were talking about the statues in the Vatican that they had seen together a few days earlier, when close to their ears they heard a voice that they recognised as the
marchesa
’s imperious boom trying vainly to muffle itself in whispers. They looked round in surprise and noticed the hidden door clearly ajar, and through the chink glimpsed part of the slim hand of the prince and a section of the blue bosom of Belloni, both of them seated on a sofa in the room. They were therefore back to back, divided by the fractionally opened door. For amusement they listened to the
marchesa
’s Italian; the prince’s answers were lisped so faintly that they could not follow. And they heard only a few words and phrases. They listened despite themselves when they heard Rudyard’s name mentioned, clearly articulated by the
marchesa
.

“And who else?” asked the prince softly.

“An English miss,” said the
marchesa
. “Miss Taylor, she’s sitting over there, in that corner alone … A simple soul … Then the baroness and her daughter … The Dutch woman; a divorcee … And the beautiful American girl.”

“And what about those two nice Dutch girls?” asked the prince.

The music blared more loudly and Cornélie could not hear a thing.

“And the divorced Dutch woman?” the prince continued.

“No money,” answered the
marchesa
abruptly.

“And the young baroness?”

“No money,” repeated Belloni.

“So no one but that stocking seller?” asked the prince wearily.

‘La Belloni’ became angry, but Cornélie and Duco could not follow the short sentences she rattled off; the music was still booming out.

“She’s beautiful,” they heard the
marchesa
say. “She’s worth a fortune. She could be in a top hotel, but she is here, because she was recommended to me as a young girl travelling alone and because it’s cosier here. She has the large drawing-room all to herself and pays fifty lire a day for her two rooms. It makes no difference to her. She pays three times as much for her wood as the others and I even charge her for the wine.”

“She sells stockings,” murmured the prince reluctantly.

“Rubbish,” said the
marchesa
. “Remember that there’s no one else at the moment. Last winter we had rich English people from the nobility, with a daughter, but she was too tall for you. You always find something. You mustn’t be so fussy.”

“I like the look of those two little Dutch darlings.”

“They’ve got no money. You’re always attracted to the wrong thing.” “How much has papa promised you, if you …”

The music swelled.

“… Wouldn’t matter … If Rudyard talks to her … Taylor is easy… Miss Hope …”

“I don’t need that many stockings …”

“… very witty. If you don’t want …”

“… no …”

“… then I’ll withdraw … Rudyard will say … How much?”

“Sixty or seventy thousand: I don’t know exactly.”

“… Urgent?”

“Debts are never urgent!”

“Are you prepared?”

“All right then. But I’m not selling myself for less than ten million … And… you’ll … get …”

They both laughed and again the names of Rudyard and Urania rang out.

“Urania?” he asked.

“Urania …” replied ‘la Belloni’. “Those Americans are capable. Think of the Countess de Castellane, the Duchess of Marlborough; aren’t they doing honour to their husband’s names? They cut an excellent figure. They are mentioned in every fashion magazine and always with appreciation.”

“…very well then. I’m tired of all those fruitless winters. But no less than ten million …”

“Five …”

“No, ten …”

The prince and the
marchesa
had got up. Cornélie looked at Duco. Duco laughed.

“I couldn’t follow them very well. It’s a joke of course.” Cornélie started.

“A joke, you think, Mr Van der Staal?”

“Yes, they’re fantasising.”

“I don’t think so.”

“I do.”

“Do you understand people?”

“Oh no, not at all.”

“I’m slowing beginning to. I think Rome can be dangerous and that a
marchesa
with a hotel, a prince and a Jesuit …”

“What then?”

“Can also be dangerous, if not for your sisters, since they have no money, then for Urania Hope …”

“I don’t believe a word of it … It was all nonsense. And it doesn’t interest me. But what do you think of Praxiteles’
Eros
? Oh, I think it’s the most divine sculpture I’ve ever seen. Oh, the
Eros
, the
Eros
…! That is love, true love; the inescapability, the fatality of love that begs forgiveness for the suffering it inflicts …”

“Have you ever been in love?”

“No. I don’t understand people and I’ve never been in love. You’re always so decisive. Dreams are beautiful, statues are wonderful and poetry is everything. Eros is everything, in love. I would never be able to love in reality as beautifully as Eros the symbol of love … No, knowing people doesn’t interest me, and a dream of Praxiteles, still surviving in a torso of mutilated marble, is more noble than anything that calls itself love in the world.”

She frowned and looked sombre.

“Let’s go into the ballroom,” she said. “We’re all by ourselves here.”

T
HE DAY AFTER THE BALL
, Cornélie had a strange feeling; suddenly, as she savoured her superb Genzano, ordered by Rudyard, she realised that it was no coincidence that she was sitting with the baroness and her daughter, Urania and Miss Taylor; realised that the
marchesa
definitely had an ulterior motive with that arrangement. Rudyard, always polite, thoughtful, always attentive, always with a ticket or an introduction in his pocket that was difficult to obtain, or at least so he led them to believe, and talked the whole time, recently mainly with Miss Taylor, who went faithfully to listen to all the lovely church music and always came home in raptures. The pale, simple, skinny English lady, who was at first enthralled by museums, ruins and sunsets on the Aventine or Monte Mario, and was always tired from her wanderings through Rome, henceforth devoted herself entirely to the hundreds of churches, viewed and studied every one, and especially attended religiously all musical services and was ecstatic about the choir of the Sistine  Chapel and the trembling glories of the male sopranos.

Cornélie talked to Mrs Van der Staal and Baroness Von Rothkirch about what she had caught of the conversation between the
marchesa
and her nephew through the chink in the door but neither of them, although intrigued, took the words of the
marchesa
seriously, and regarded
them as simply a frivolous ball conversation between a scatterbrained woman, who was keen to match-make, and her reluctant nephew. It struck Cornélie how unwilling people are to believe in seriousness, but the baroness was very nonchalant, said that Rudyard would not do her any harm and still always gave her tickets, and Mrs Van der Staal, who had been long in Rome and used to
pensione
intrigues, thought that Cornélie was getting too worked up about the fate of the beautiful Urania. However, Miss Taylor had suddenly disappeared from table. People thought she was ill, when it emerged that she had left the Pensione Belloni, but after a few days it was common knowledge through the whole
pensione
that Miss Taylor had converted to Catholicism and moved into a
pensione
recommended to her by Rudyard: a boarding-house frequented by many
monsignori
and where there was a spiritual atmosphere. Her disappearance gave something forced to the conversation between Rudyard, the German ladies and Cornélie and the latter, during a week that the baroness spent in Naples, changed her place and joined her compatriots at table. The Rothkirchs also changed—because of the draught, as the baroness assured the management; new guests took their places: and among those new elements Urania was left alone at table with Rudyard for lunch and dinner. Cornélie blamed herself and on one occasion had a serious talk with the American girl and warned her. But she did not dare tell her what she had overheard at the ball, and her warning made no impression on Urania. And when Rudyard had obtained the privilege of a private audience with the Pope for Miss Hope, Urania refused to hear another bad word said
about Rudyard and found him the kindest man she had ever met, Jesuit or not.

But a pall of mystery continued to cloak Rudyard in the hotel, and people could not agree whether he was a jesuit or even whether he was a priest or a layman.