Inevitable

by Louis Couperus

  But the prince had come in and brought Duco with him, reluctant, nervous, not knowing what had happened, not understanding how Cornélie had acted. He saw her sitting there calmly, smiling and immediately explaining to him that the prince was to show her his miniatures.

  Duco said frankly that he was not interested in miniatures. His angry tone led the prince to suspect he was jealous. And this suspicion spurred the prince on to woo Cornélie. And he acted as if he were showing the miniatures only to her, as if he were showing her his antique lace. She particularly admired the lace, and rubbed it with her delicate fingers. She asked him to tell them about his grandmothers, who had worn the lace. Had they had adventures? He told her of one that made her laugh heartily: he repeated a few anecdotes, spirited, catching fire under her gaze, and she laughed. In the atmosphere of that large drawing-room, the prince’s study—his desk stood there—with the candles lit, flowers arranged for Urania, a tingle of perverse merriment and airy joie de vivre was born. But only between Cornélie and the prince. Urania had fallen silent, and Duco did not say a word. Cornélie was a revelation to him too. He had never seen her like this—not at the Christmas ball, not at dinner, not in his studio, not on their excursions, or in their restaurant. Was she one woman, or ten?

  And he admitted to himself that he loved her, loved her more with each revelation, more with every woman he saw in her, as another facet that she made gleam. But he could not speak, he could not join in the repartee, alien in that atmosphere, alien in that element of so much airy joie de vivre, about nothing but aimless words, as if French and Italian were sparkling, as they mixed them at will, as if their humour glittered like fools’ gold, and their ambivalent puns shone like rainbows … The prince regretted that his tea was no longer drinkable, but had champagne brought in. He considered his evening partly a failure for his plans—since afraid of losing Urania, he had planned to force the issue; since seeing her hesitation, he had determined on taking the irrevocable step—but his nature was so lacking in seriousness—he would marry more for the sake of his father and the Marchesa Belloni than for himself; he lived just as pleasantly with debts and without a wife as he would do with a wife and millions in the bank, so that he began to find the failed evening exceedingly amusing, and he had to laugh to himself about it when he thought of his aunt the marchesa, his father: of their machinations, which had no hold over Urania because an attractive coquettish woman did not want them to. Why did she not want them to, he thought, pouring the foaming champagne, which spilled over the sides of the glasses; why is she placing herself between me and that American stocking-seller? Is she looking for an Italian title herself? But he could not really care less: he found the intruder attractive, beautiful, very beautiful, coquettish, seductive, enchanting. He focused on her. He neglected Urania. He scarcely filled her glass. And when it finally got late and Cornélie got up and put her arm in Urania’s and gave the prince a triumphant look, which they both understood, he whispered in her ear “I thank you most sincerely for your visit to my humble abode: you have conquered me: I surrender …”

  The words seemed to be just an allusion to their joking, to their banter about nothing, but between the two of them—the prince and Cornélie—they were heavy with significance and in her eye he saw a smile of victory …

  He remained in his room alone and poured himself the last of the champagne. And putting the glass to his lips, he said aloud,

  “O, che occhi! Che belli occhi …! Che belli occhi…!!”

  XX

  THE NEXT DAY, when Duco met Cornélie in the osteria she was very excited and merry: she announced that she had already had a reply from the women’s magazine to which she had sent her pamphlet a week ago, and that her work had been accepted and she would even be paid a fee. She was so proud at the prospect of earning her first money, and she was as bubbly as a child. She did not talk about the previous evening, seemed to have forgotten about the prince and Urania, but had a need to talk exuberantly.

  She had all kinds of ambitious plans: travelling as a journalist, immersing herself in the ebb and flow of city life, chasing up every new item of news, having herself sent to conferences and festivities by a magazine. The mere thought of the few guilders she would be earning made her drunk with industriousness, and she would want to earn a great deal and do a great deal and pay no attention to weariness. He found her simply adorable: in the half-light of the osteria, eating her gnocchi at the small table, the half flask in front of her, full of pale country wine, her usual languor gained a new vitality that surprised him; her outline, on the right semi-dark and on the left lit by the light from the street, acquired a new grace as if in a drawing, which reminded him of French draughtsmen: the pale, even-coloured face with the delicate features, illuminated by her smile, sketchily visible under her matelot, which was deep over her eyes; her hair with golden highlights, or dark dusky blond; the white veil lifted and crinkling hazily on top of her head; her figure, slim and graceful in the simple coat—unbuttoned—and a corsage of violets tucked into her blouse.

  The way she poured her wine, asked the waiter, the only one—who knew them both well, as regular customers—for something in a familiar, agreeable tone; the vivacity that alternated with her languor. Her grand plans, her happy words—it dazzled him, student-like yet distinguished, free yet feminine, and especially with the same ease of manner that she had everywhere; with a tactful assimilation that struck him as especially harmonious. He thought about the previous evening, but did not talk about it. He thought about that revelation of her coquetry but she was not thinking of any such thing. She was never coquettish with him. She looked up to him, she found him particularly clever, although not of his time; she respected what he said and thought, and she was so natural with him, like one comrade with another, an older, cleverer comrade. She felt deep friendship for him, an indescribable feeling of having to be together, having to live together; as if their lines formed a single line. It was not a sisterly feeling and it was not passion, and she did not picture it to herself as love, but it was a great sensation of respectful tenderness, of awed longing and of affectionate joy at having met him. If she were never to see him again, she would miss him like no one else in her life. The fact that he was not interested in modern questions did not lower him in her estimation as a young modern militant, about to wave her first banner. It might irritate her for a moment, but it was never decisive in her appreciation.

  And he saw that she was so simply affectionate with him, without coquettishness. Yet he would never forget how she had been with the prince yesterday. He had felt jealousy and had noticed it in Urania too. But she herself must have acted so spontaneously in accordance with her nature that she was not thinking of that evening now, of the prince, of Urania, of coquetry, or of possible jealousy on his part. He paid—it was his turn—and they got up and she took his arm merrily and said that she wanted to give him a surprise. She wanted to give him something nice. She wanted to give him something, a nice, a very nice souvenir. She would like to spend her fee on the souvenir. But she didn’t have it yet … what did that matter! She would be getting it after all … And she wanted to spend it on him. Laughing, he asked what it could be … She hailed a carriage and whispered an address to the coachman; he did not hear what she said … What could it be? But she refused to say yet … The vetturino drove down the Borgo towards the Tiber. There he stopped in front of a dark shop full of junk that was piled up into the street.

  “Cornélie …!” he cried, guessing what she had in mind.

  “Your angel by Lippo Memmi: I’m buying it for you, sh …”

  His eyes filled with tears; they went in.

  “Ask how much he wants for it.”

  He was so moved that he could not speak and Cornélie had to ask and haggle. She did not bargain for long; she bought the panel for a hundred and twenty lire … She carried it out to the victoria herself. They drove to his studio. They carried the angel upstairs together, smiling, as if they were carryi
ng pure happiness into his home. In his study they put the angel on a chair. Noble, with slightly mongoloid features, the eyes long and almond-shaped, the angel was kneeling in the last flourish of his flight, and the golden sash of his gold-purple robe fluttered up, while his long wings, tall and straight, trembled. Duco gazed at his Memmi, full of a double emotion; at the Angel itself and at her … And quite naturally he opened his arms wide.

  “Can I thank you, Cornélie?”

  He took her in his arms and she returned his kiss.

  XXI

  WHEN 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 …

  XXII

  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?”

  “Som
etimes 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.