Inevitable

by Louis Couperus

  One morning when Cornélie arrived in his studio, he had suddenly sketched this idea. It was a surprise to her, as he had not talked about it: the idea had arisen suddenly; putting it down on paper, quickly and spontaneously, had taken him less than an hour. He almost apologised to her for it, when he saw her surprise. She found it beautiful, but spine-chilling and preferred Banners, the large watercolour, the procession of women advancing towards the fight for life …

  And to please her he put the descending woman aside and worked only on the completion of the militant women. But new ideas kept disturbing his work and in her absence he sketched a new symbol, until the sketches piled up and were strewn everywhere. She put them away in portfolios; she removed them from the easel and the shelf; she stopped him from wandering too far from Banners, and this was the only work that he completed.

  So their life seemed to want to move gently on, along a charming line, in a single golden direction, while his symbols flowered to the side, while the azure of their love was like the firmament above, but she pruned the overabundance of flowers and only Banners waved above their path, in the firmament of their ecstasy, just as they waved above the militant women …

  There was only one diversion: the wedding of the prince and Urania: a dinner, a ball and the ceremony in San Carlo, in the presence of the entire Roman aristocracy, though they welcomed the rich American with some reserve. But when the Prince and Princess of Forte-Braccio left for Nice, that was the end of distractions and the days again glided past along the same charming golden line. Cornélie had only one unpleasant memory: her encounter during the festivities with Mrs Van der Staal, who had cut her dead, turned her back on her and given her to understand that all friendship between them was over. She had resigned herself; she had understood how difficult it was—even if Mrs Van der Staal had been willing to talk to her—to explain her own proud ideas of freedom, independence and happiness to a woman like that set fast in her social and worldly conventions. And she had also snubbed the girls, sensing that that was what Mrs Van der Staal wanted. She was not angry about this, or offended; she could understand this attitude in Duco’s mother: it simply saddened her a little, because she liked Mrs Van der Staal, and she liked the two girls … But she understood completely: it must be that Mrs Van der Staal knew, or suspected everything. Duco’s mother could not act otherwise, although the prince and Urania, out of friendship, denied any relationship between Duco and her, Cornélie—even though the Roman world treated them simply as friends, acquaintances, compatriots—whatever people whispered behind their fans. But the festivities were now over, they had passed that crossroad with the world and people: now their gold course undulated softly and smoothly before them …

  It was then that Cornélie, who had no thought of The Hague, received a letter from home. The letter was from her father and was several pages long, which surprised her, since he never wrote. What she read alarmed her greatly, but did not entirely discourage her, perhaps because she did not appreciate the full weight of her father’s news. He begged her for forgiveness. He had been in financial difficulties for quite some time. He had lost a great deal. They had to move, to a smaller house. The mood at home was bitter; mama was crying all day, the sisters squabbling; the family was giving advice; their friends were being unpleasant. And he begged her forgiveness. He had speculated and lost. And he had also lost her small amount of capital that he was administering, the legacy from her godmother. He asked her not to blame him too much. It might have turned out differently and then he would have been three times as rich. He admitted that he had acted wrongly—but he was still her father and he asked her, his child, to forgive him and return.

  She was badly shaken at first, but soon regained her calm. She was in too happy a mood of harmonious existence for her father’s news to destroy it. She received the letter in bed, and stayed there for a little, thought it over, then got dressed, ate as usual and went to Duco. He received her enthusiastically and showed her three new sketches … She reproached him gently for allowing himself to be distracted too easily from his main idea, and said that these digressions would drain his energy and stamina. She urged him in particular to keep working on Banners. And she looked intently at the great watercolour, at the ancient, crumbling Forum-like city; the procession of the women towards the Metropolis of the Future, up there in the days of light … And suddenly it dawned on her that her past too had collapsed and that the crumbling arches were hanging threateningly over her head. She gave him her father’s letter to read. He read it twice, looked at her in bewilderment, and asked what she was going to do. She said that she had already thought about it, but that for the moment all she was sure of was what she would do immediately. Give up her rooms and move in with him in his studio. She had just enough to pay for her rooms. But then she would be penniless. Completely penniless. She had never wanted alimony from her husband. She was just waiting for the fee from her article. He immediately put out his hands to her, drew her to him, kissed her and said that he had immediately had the same idea. Move in with him. Live with him. He had enough: a trifling inheritance from his father; he was earning on top of that: he would have enough for both of them. And they laughed and kissed and looked around the studio. Duco slept in a small adjoining cubicle, rather like a long built-in wardrobe. And they looked round to see what they could do. Cornélie had the answer: here, drape a curtain over a cord and put the bed and washbasin behind it. That was all she needed. Just that little alcove; otherwise Duco would not have proper light. They were very cheerful and thought it was a very cosy idea. They immediately went out, bought an iron bed, a washstand, and hung up the curtain themselves. Then they both went to pack cases in Via dei Serpenti—and dined in the osteria. Cornélie suggested eating at home occasionally, as it was cheaper … When they got home she was delighted that her construction took up so little space, scarcely a couple of square metres, with the little bed behind it. They were very merry that evening. Their bohemian existence amused them. They were in Italy, the land of sunshine, beauty and lazzaroni, beggars dreaming on the steps of cathedrals, and they felt an affinity with that sunny poverty. They were happy, they didn’t need anything. They would live on nothing. On very little, at least. They faced the future smiling and lucid. They were closer now, they were living closer together. They loved each other and were happy, in a land of beauty, in an ideal world of symbols and life-embracing art.

  The following morning he worked hard, without a word, lost in his dream, his work, and she too, silent, content, happy, carefully checked her blouses and skirts, and worked out that she would not need anything for a whole year, and that her old clothes were sufficient for their life of happiness and simplicity.

  And she wrote a very short reply to her father, saying that she forgave him, felt sympathy for them all, but was not returning to The Hague. She would support herself, by writing. Italy was cheap. That was all she wrote. She did not mention Duco. She took leave of her family, in her mind and in life. She had not found any sympathy among any of them during her sad marriage, or during the agony of her divorce, and now she in turn felt no warmth. And her happiness made her one-sided and selfish. She wanted nothing but Duco, nothing but their togetherness and harmony. He worked and smiled at her now and then as she lay on the sofa and reflected. She looked at the women marching to battle; she too would not be able to remain lying on the sofa, she too would have to fight. She had a presentiment that she would have to fight: for him. He was now working in the art business, but if that, after a positive result, after a personal and public success, were to slacken off—for a moment—it would be normal and logical and she would have to fight. He was all that was noble in both their lives, his art could not support her. His fortune amounted to almost nothing. She would like to work and earn money for both of them, so that he could hold fast to the pure principles of his art. But how, how was one to fight, work, work for their lives and for a living? What could she do? Write? It paid so little. What else? A slight melanc
holy enveloped her, because there was so little she could do. She had some minor talents and skills: she had a good style, she sang, played the piano, she could make a blouse and she knew a little about cooking She would cook herself now and then and sew her own clothes. But all of that was so petty, so little. Fight, work? How? Well, she would do what she could. And suddenly she picked up a Baedeker, leafed through it and sat down at Duco’s desk, at which she also wrote. And she thought for a moment and began an article. A travel letter for a magazine on the area around Naples: that was easier than starting immediately on Rome. And in the studio, filled with the slight heat of a stove, as it was north-facing and chilly, it became absolutely still: only her pen scratched occasionally, or he rummaged among his crayons and pencils. She wrote a few pages but could not find an ending … Then she got up and he turned and smiled at her: his smile of affectionate happiness …

  And she read out what she had written to him. It was not the style of her pamphlet. It was not invective: it was a sweet travel letter …

  He quite liked it, but did not think it anything special … But it didn’t have to be, she said defensively. And he hugged her, for her hard work and courage. It rained that day and they did not go out for their lunch; she had some eggs and tomatoes and made an omelette on a paraffin stove. They drank only water and ate lots of bread with it. And while the rain lashed the large, uncurtained studio window, they enjoyed their meal, like two birds huddling close together to avoid getting wet.

  XXVIII

  IT 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 …”