"I am opposed to marriage."
"Nonsense! You're not marrying him, so that you may be free. And, if you want to be free, I also am entitled to ask for my moment of love."
She gave him a strange look. He felt her scorn.
"You ... you don't understand me at all," she said, slowly and compassionately.
"You understand me."
"Oh, yes! You are so very simple!"
"Why won't you?"
"Because I won't."
"Why not?"
"Because I haven't that feeling for you."
"Why not?" he insisted; and his hands clenched as he spoke.
"'Why not?'" she repeated. "Because I think you a cheerful and pleasant companion with whom to take things lightly, but in other respects your temperament is not in tune with mine."
"What do you know about my temperament?"
"I can see you."
"You are not a doctor."
"No, but I am a woman."
"And I a man."
"But not for me."
Furiously, with a curse, he caught her in his quivering arms. Before she could prevent him, he had kissed her fiercely. She struggled out of his grasp and slapped his face. He gave another curse and flung out his arms to seize her again, but she drew herself up:
"Prince!" she cried, screaming with laughter. "You surely don't think that you can compel me?"
"Of course I do!"
She gave a disdainful laugh:
"You can not," she said, aloud. "For I refuse and I will not be compelled."
He saw red, he was furious. He had never before been defied and thwarted; he had always conquered.
She saw him rushing at her, but she quietly flung back the door of the room.
The long galleries and apartments stretched out before them, as though endlessly. There was something in that vista of ancestral spaciousness that restrained him. He was an impetuous rather than a deliberate ravisher. She walked on very slowly, looking attentively to right and left.
He came up with her:
"You struck me!" he panted, furiously. "I'll never forgive it, never!"
"I beg your pardon," she said, with her sweetened voice and smile. "I had to defend myself, you know."
"Why?"
"Prince," she said, persuasively, "why all this anger and passion and exasperation? You can be so nice; when I saw you last in Rome you were so chax-ming. We were always such good friends. I enjoyed your conversation and your wit and your good-nature. Now it's all spoilt."
"No," he entreated.
"Yes, it is. You won't understand me. Your temperament is not in harmony with mine. Don't you understand? You force me to speak coarsely, because you are coarse yourself."
"I?"
"Yes. You don't believe in the sincerity of my independence."
"No, I don't!"
"Is that courteous, towards a woman?"
"I am courteous only up to a certain point."
"We have left that point behind. So be courteous again as before."
"You are playing with me. I shall never forget it; I will be revenged."
"So it's a struggle for life and death?"
"No, a struggle for victory, for me."
They had reached theatrio:
"Thanks for showing me round," she said, a little mockingly. "Thecamera degli sposi, above all, was splendid. Don't let us be angry any more."
And she offered him her hand.
"No," he said, "you struck me here, in the face. My cheek is still burning. I won't accept your hand."
"Poor cheek!" she said, teasingly. "Poor prince! Did I hit hard?"
"Yes."
"How can I extinguish that burning?"
He looked at her, still breathing hard, and flushed, with glittering carbuncle eyes:
"You're a bigger coquette than any Italian woman." She laughed:
"With a kiss?" she asked.
"Demon!" he muttered, between his teeth.
"With a kiss?" she repeated.
"Yes," he said. "There, in ourcamera degli sposi."
"No, here."
"Demon!" he muttered, still more softly.
She kissed him quickly. Then she gave him her hand:
"And now that's over. The incident is closed."
"Angel! She-devil!" he hissed after her.
She looked over the balustrade at the lake. Evening had fallen and the lake lay shimmering in mist. She regarded him as a young boy, who sometimes amused her and had now been naughty. She was no longer thinking of him; she was thinking of Duco:
"How lovely he will think it here!" she thought. "Oh, how I long for him!..."
There was a rustle of women's skirts behind her. It was Urania and the Marchesa Belloni.
[1]The nineteenth century.
[1]The nineteenth century.
Urania asked Cornélie to come in, because it was not healthy out of doors now, at sunset, with the misty exhalations from the lake. The marchesa bowed coldly and stiffly, pinched her eyes together and pretended not to remember Cornélie very well.
"I can understand that," said Cornélie, smiling acidly. "You see different boarders at yourpensionevery day and I stayed for a much shorter time than you reckoned on. I hope that you soon disposed of my rooms again, marchesa, and that you suffered no loss through my departure?"
The Marchesa Belloni looked at her in mute amazement. She was here, at San Stefano, in her element as a marchioness; she, the sister-in-law of the old prince, never spoke here of her foreigners' boarding-house; she never met her Roman guests here: they sometimes visited the castle, but only at fixed hours, whereas she spent the weeks of her summervilleggiaturahere. And here she laid aside her plausible manner of singing the praises of a chilly room, her commercial habit of asking the most she dared. She here carried her curled leonine head with a lofty dignity; and, though she still wore her crystal brilliants in her ears, she also wore a brand-new spencer around her ample bosom. She could not help it, that she, a countess by birth, she, the Marchesa Belloni—the late marquis was a brother of the defunct princess—possessed no personal distinction, despite all her quarterings; but she felt herself to be, as indeed she was, an aristocrat. The friends, themonsignoriwhom she did sometimes meet at San Stefano, promoted the Pension Belloni in their conversation and called it the Palazzo Belloni.
"Oh, yes," she said, at last, very coolly, blinking her eyes with an aristocratic air, "I remember you now ... although I've forgotten your name. A friend of the Princess Urania, I believe? I am glad to see you again, very glad.... And what do you think of your friend's marriage?" she asked, as she went up the stairs beside Cornélie, between Mino da Fiesole's marble candelabra.
Gilio, still angry and flushed and not at all calmed by the kiss, had moved away. Urania had run on ahead. The marchesa knew of Cornélie's original opposition, of her former advice to Urania and she was certain that Cornélie had acted in this way because she herself had had views on Gilio. There was a note of triumphant irony in her question.
"I think it was made in Heaven," Cornélie replied, in a bantering tone. "I believe there is a blessing on their marriage."
"The blessing of his holiness," said the marchesa, naively, not understanding.
"Of course: the blessing of his holiness ... and of Heaven."
"I thought you were not religious?"
"Sometimes, when I think of their marriage, I become very religious. What peace for the Princess Urania's soul when she became a Catholic! What happiness in life, to marryil caro Gilio!There is still peace and happiness left in life."
The marchesa had a vague suspicion that she was mocking and thought her a dangerous woman.
"And you, has our religion no charm for you?"
"A great deal! I have a great feeling for beautiful churches and pictures. But that is an artistic conception. You will not understand it perhaps, for I don't think you are artistic, marchesa? And marriage also has charms for me, a marriage like Urania's. Couldn't you help me too some time, marchesa? Then I will spend a whole winter in yourpensionand—who knows?—perhaps I too shall become a Catholic. You might give Rudyard another chance, with me; and, if that didn't succeed, the twomonsignori. Then I should certainly become converted.... And it would of course be lucrative."
The marchesa looked at her haughtily, white with rage:
"Lucrative?..."
"If you get me an Italian title, but accompanied by money, of course it would be lucrative."
"How do you mean?"
"Well, ask the old prince, marchesa, or the twomonsignori."
"What do you know about it? What are you thinking of?"
"I? Nothing!" Cornélie answered, coolly. "But I have second sight. I sometimes suddenly see a thing. So keep on friendly terms with me and don't pretend again to forget an old boarder.... Is this the Princess Urania's room? You go in first, marchesa; after you...."
The marchesa entered all aquiver: she had thoughts of witchcraft. How did that woman knowanythingof her transactions with the old prince and themonsignori? How did she come to suspect that Urania's marriage and her conversion had enriched the marchesa to the tune of a few ten thousand lire?
She had not only had a lesson: she was shuddering, she was frightened. Was that woman a witch? Was she the devil? Had she themal'occhio? And the marchesa made the sign of thejettaturawith her little finger and fore-finger in the folds of her dress and muttered:
"Vade retro, Satanas...."
In her own drawing-room, Urania poured out tea. The three pointed windows of the room overlooked the town and the ancient cathedral, which in the orange reflection of the last gleams of sunset shot up for yet a moment out of its grey dust of ages with the dim huddle of its saints, prophets and angels. The room, hung with handsome tapestries—an allegory ofAbundance: nymphs outpouring the contents of their cornucopias—was half old, half modern, not always perfect in taste and pure in tone, with here and there a few hideously commonplace modern ornaments, here and there some modern comfort that clashed with the rest, but yet cosy, inhabited and Urania's home. A young man rose from a chair and Urania introduced him to Cornélie as her brother. Young Hope was a strongly built, fresh-looking boy of eighteen; he was still in his bicycling-suit: it didn't matter, said his sister, just to drink a cup of tea. Laughing, she stroked his close-cropped round head and, with the ladies' permission, gave him his tea first: then he would go and change. He looked so strange, so new and so healthy as he sat there with his fresh, pink complexion, his broad chest, his strong hands and muscular calves, with the youthfulness of a young Yankee farmer who, notwithstanding the millions of "old man Hope," worked on his farm, way out in the Far West, to make his own fortune; he looked so strange in this ancient San Stefano, within view of that severely symbolical cathedral, against this background of old tapestries. And suddenly Cornélie was impressed still more strangely by the new young princess Her name—her American name of Urania—had a first-rate sound: "the Princess Urania" sounded unexpectedly well. But the little wife, a trifle pale, a trifle sad, with her clipping American accent, suddenly struck Cornélie as somewhat out of place amid the faded glories of San Stefano. Cornélie was continually forgetting that Urania was Princess of Forte-Braccio: she always thought of her as Miss Hope. And yet Urania possessed great tact, great ease of manner, a great power of assimilation. Gilio had entered; and the few words which she addressed to her husband were, quite naturally, almost dignified ... and yet carried, to Cornélie's ears, a sound of resigned disillusionment which made her pity Urania. She had from the beginning felt a vague liking for Urania; now she felt a fonder affection. She was sorry for this child, the Princess Urania. Gilio behaved to her with careless coolness, the marchesa with patronizing condescension. And then there was that awful loneliness around her, of all that ruined magnificence. She stroked her young brother's head. She spoilt him, she asked him if his tea was all right and stuffed him with sandwiches, because he was hungry after his bicycle-ride. She had him with her now as a reminder of home, a reminder of Chicago; she almost clung to him. But for the rest she was surrounded by the depressing gloom of the immense castle, the neglected glory of its ancient stateliness, the conceit of that aristocratic pride, which could do without her but not without her millions. And for Cornélie she had lost all her absurdity as an Americanparvenueand, on the contrary, had acquired an air of tragedy, as of a young sacrificial victim. How alien they were as they sat there, the young princess and her brother, with his muscular calves!
Urania displayed her portfolio of drawings and designs: the ideas of a young Roman architect for restoring the castle. And she became excited, with a flush in her cheeks, when Cornélie asked her if so much restoration would really be beautiful. Urania defended her architect. Gilio smoked cigarettes with an air of indifference; he was in a bad temper. The marchesa sat like an idol, with her leonine head and the crystals sparkling in her ears. She was afraid of Cornélie and promised herself to be on her guard. A major-domo came and announced to the princess that dinner was served. And Cornélie recognized old Giuseppe from the Pension Belloni, the old archducal major-domo, who had once dropped a spoon, according to Rudyard's story. She looked at Urania with a laugh and Urania blushed:
"Poor man!" she said, when Giuseppe was gone. "Yes, I took him from my aunt. He was so hard-worked at the Palazzo Belloni! Here he has very little to do and he has a young butler under him. The number of servants had to be increased in any case. He is enjoying a pleasant old age here, poor dear old Giuseppe.... There, Bob, now you haven't dressed!"
"She's a dear child," thought Cornélie, while they all rose and Urania gently reproached her brother, as she would a spoiled boy, for coming down to dinner in his knickerbockers.
They were in the great sombre dining-room, with the almost black tapestries, with the almost black panels of the ceiling, with the almost black oak carvings, with the black, monumental chimney-piece and, above it, the arms of the family in black marble. The light of two tall silver candlesticks on the table merely cast a gleam over the damask and crystal, but left the remainder of the too large room in a gloomy obscurity of shadow, piled in the comers into masses of densest shadow, with a fainter shadow descending from the ceiling like a haze of dark velvet that floated in atoms above the candle-light. The ancestral antiquity of San Stefano hovered above them in this room like a palpable sense of awe, blended with a melancholy of black silence and black pride. Here their words sounded muffled. This still remained as it always had been, retaining as it were the sacrosanctity of their aristocratic traditions, in which Urania would never dare to alter anything, even as she hardly ventured to open her mouth to speak or eat. They waited for a moment. Then a double door was opened. And there entered like a spectral shade an old, grey man, with his arm in the arm of the priest walking beside him. Old Prince Ercole approached with very slow and stately steps, while the chaplain regulated his pace by that stately slowness. He wore a long black coat of an old-fashioned, roomy cut, which hung about him in folds, something like a cassock, and on his silvery grey hair, which waved over his neck, a black-velvet skull-cap. And the others approached him with the greatest respect: first the marchesa; then Urania, whom he kissed on the forehead, very slowly, as though he were consecrating her; then Gilio, who submissively kissed his father's hand. The old man nodded to young Hope, who bowed, and glanced towards Cornélie. Urania presented her. And the prince said a few amiable words to her, as though he were granting an audience, and asked her if she liked Italy. When Cornélie had replied, Prince Ercole sat down and handed his skull-cap to Giuseppe, who took it with a deep bow. Then they all sat down: the marchesa and the chaplain opposite Prince Ercole, who sat between Cornélie and Urania; Gilio next to Cornélie; Bob Hope next to his sister:
"My legs don't show," he whispered.
"Ssh!" said Urania.
Giuseppe, revivified in his former dignity, standing at a sideboard, solemnly filled the plates with soup. He was back in his element; he was obviously grateful to Urania; he wore a distinguished air, as of one whose mind is at peace, and looked like an elderly diplomatist in his dress-coat. He amused Cornélie, who thought of Belloni's, where he used to become impatient when the visitors were late at meals and to rail at the young greenhorns of waiters whom the marchesa engaged for economy's sake. When the two footmen had handed round the soup, the chaplain stood up and said grace. Not a word had been spoken yet. They ate the soup in silence, while the three servants stood motionless. The spoons clinked against the plates and the marchesa smacked her lips. The candles flickered now and again; and the shadow fell more oppressively, like a haze of black velvet. Then Prince Ercole addressed the marchesa. And turn by turn he addressed them all, with a kindly, condescending dignity, in French and Italian. The conversation became a little more general, but the old prince continued to lead it. And Cornélie noticed that he was very civil to Urania. But she remembered Gilio's words:
"Papa nearly had a stroke, because old Hope haggled over Urania's dowry. Ten millions? Five millions? Not three millions! Dollars? No, lire!"
And the prince suddenly struck her as the grey-haired egoism of San Stefano's glory and aristocratic pride, struck her as the living shade of the past that loomed behind him, as she had felt it that afternoon, when she stood gazing with Urania into the deep, blue lake: an exacting shade; a shade demanding millions; a shade demanding a new increment of vitality; a spectral parasite who had sold his depreciated symbols to gratify the vanity of a new commercial house, but who, in his distinction, had been no match for the merchant's cunning. Their title of princess and duchess for less than three million lire! Papa had almost had a stroke, Gilio had said. And Cornélie, during the measured, affable stiffness of the conversation led by Prince Ercole, looked from the old prince and duke, seventy years of age, to the breezy young Far-Westerner, aged eighteen, and from him to Prince Gilio, the hope of the old house, its only hope. Here, in the gloom of this dining-room, where he was bored and moreover still out of temper, he seemed small, insignificant, shrunken, a paltry, distinguished littleviveur; and his carbuncle eyes, which could sparkle merrily with wit and depravity, now looked dully, from under their drooping lids, upon his plate, at which he picked without appetite.
She felt sorry for him; and her mind went back to the golden bridal chamber. She despised him a little. She looked upon him not so much as a man who could not obtain what he wanted but rather as a naughty boy. And he must feel jealous of Bob, she reflected: jealous of his young blood, which tingled in his cheeks, of his broad shoulders and his broad chest. But still he amused her. He could be very agreeable, gay and witty and vivacious, when in the mood, vivacious in his words and in his wits. She liked him, when all was said. And then he was good-hearted. She thought of the bracelet and especially the thousand lire, always remembered, with a certain emotion, how touched she had been during that walk up and down past the post-office, how touched by his letter and his generous assistance. He had no back-bone, he was not a man to her; but he was witty and he had a very good heart. She liked him as a friend and a pleasant companion. How dejected and moody he was I But then why would he venture on those silly enterprises?...
She spoke to him now and again, but could not succeed in rousing him from his depression. For the rest, the conversation dragged on stiffly and affably, always led by Prince Ercole. The dinner came to an end; and Prince Ercole rose from his chair. Giuseppe handed him his skull-cap; every one said good night to him; the doors were opened and Prince Ercole withdrew, leaning on his chaplain's arm. Gilio, still angry, disappeared. The marchesa, still terrified of Cornélie, also disappeared, making thejettaturaat her in the folds of her dress. And Urania took Cornélie and Bob back with her to her own drawing-room. They all three breathed again. They all talked freely, in English: the boy said in despair that he wasn't getting enough to eat, that he dared not eat enough to stay his hunger; and Cornélie laughed, thinking him jolly, because of his wholesomeness, while Urania hunted out some biscuits for him and a piece of cake left over from tea and promised that he should have some cold meat and bread before they went to bed. And they relaxed their minds after the pompous stately meal. Urania said that the old prince never appeared except at dinner, but that she always looked him up in the morning and sat talking to him for an hour or playing chess with him. At other times he played chess with the chaplain. She was very busy, Urania. The reorganizing of the house-keeping, which used to be left to a poor relation, who now lived at apensionin Rome, took up a lot of her time. In the mornings, she discussed a host of details with Prince Ercole, who, notwithstanding his secluded life, knew about everything. Then she had consultations with her architect from Rome about the restorations to be effected in the castle: these consultations were sometimes held in the old prince's study. Then she was having a big hostel built in the town, analbergo dei poveri, a hostel for old men and women, for which old Hope had given her a separate endowment. When she first came to San Stefano she had been struck by the ruinous, tumble-down houses and cottages of the poorer quarters, leprous and scabby with filth, eaten up by their own poverty, in which a whole population vegetated like toadstools. She was now building the hostel for the old people, finding work on the estate for the young and healthy and looking after the neglected children; she had built a new school-house. She talked about all this very simply, while cutting cake for her brother Bob, who was tucking in after his formal dinner. She asked Cornélie to come with her one morning to see how thealbergowas progressing, to see the new school, run by two priests who had been recommended to her by themonsignori.
Through the pointed windows the town loomed faintly in the depths below; and the lines of the cathedral rose high into the sultry, star-spangled night. And Cornélie thought to herself:
"It was not only for a shadow and an unsubstantial shade that she came here, the rich American who thought titles so nice,' the child who used to collect patterns of the queen's ball-dresses—she hides the album now that she is a 'black' princess—the girl who used to trip through the Forum in her white serge tailor-made, without understanding either ancient Rome or the dawn of the new future."
And, as Cornélie went to her own room through the silent heavy darkness of the Castle of San Stefano, she thought:
"I write, but she acts. I dream and think; but she teaches the children, though it be with the aid of a priest; she feeds and houses old men and women."
Then, in her room, looking out at the lake under the summer night all dusted with stars, she reflected that she too would like to be rich and to have a wide field of labour. For now she had no field, now she had no money and now ... now she longed only for Duco; and he must not leave her too long alone in this castle, amid all this sombre greatness, which oppressed her as with the weight of the centuries.
Next morning Urania's maid was showing Cornélie through a maze of galleries to the garden, where breakfast was to be served, when she met Gilio on the stairs. The maid turned back.
"I still need a guide to find my way," Cornélie laughed.
He grunted some reply.
"How did you sleep, prince?"
He gave another grunt.
"Look here, prince, there must be an end of this ill-temper of yours. Do you hear? It'sgotto finish. I insist. I won't have any more sulking to-day; and I hope that you'll go back to your cheerful, witty style of conversation as soon as possible, for that's what I like in you."
He mumbled something.
"G-ood-bye, prince," said Cornélie, curtly.
And she turned to go away.
"Where are you going?" he asked.
"To my room. I shall breakfast in my room."
"But why?"
"Because I don't care for you as a host."
"Me?"
"Yes, you. Yesterday you insult me. I defend myself, you go on being rude, I at once become as amiable as ever, I give you my hand, I even give you a kiss. At dinner you sulk with me in the most uncivil fashion. You go to bed without bidding me good night. This morning you meet me without a word of greeting. You grunt, sulk and mumble like a naughty child. Your eyes are blazing with anger, you are yellow with spleen. Really, you're looking very bad. It doesn't suit you at all. You are most unpleasant, rough, rude and petty. I have no inclination to breakfast with you in that mood. And I'm going to my room."
"No," he implored.
"Yes, I am."
"No, no!"
"Then be different. Make an effort, don't think any more about your defeat and be nice to me. You're behaving as the offended party, whereas it is I who ought to take offence. But I don't know how to sulk and I am not petty. I can't behave pettily. I forgive you; do you forgive me too. Say something nice, say something pleasant."
"I am mad about you."
"You don't show it. If you're mad about me, be pleasant, civil, gay and witty. I demand it of you as my host."
"I won't sulk any longer ... but I do love you so! And you struck me!"
"Will you never forget that act of self-defence?"
"No, never!"
"Then good-bye."
She turned to go.
"No, no, don't go back. Come to breakfast in the pergola. I apologize, I beg your pardon. I won't be rude again, I won't be petty. You are not petty. You are the most wonderful woman I ever met. I worship you."
"Then worship in silence and amuse me."
His eyes, his black carbuncle eyes, began to light up again, to laugh; his face lost its wrinkles and cheered up.
"I am too sad to be amusing."
"I don't believe a word of it."
"Honestly, I am full of sorrow and suffering....
"Poor prince!"
"You just won't believe me. You never take me seriously. I have to be your clown, your buffoon. And I love you and have nothing to hope for. Tell me, mayn't I hope?"
"Not much."
"You are inexorable ... and so severe!"
"I have to be severe with you: you are just like a naughty boy.... Oh, I see the pergola! Do you promise to improve?"
"I shall be good."
"And amusing?"
He heaved a sigh:
"Poor Gilio!" he sighed. "Poor buffoon!"
She laughed. In the pergola were Urania and Bob Hope. The pergola, overgrown with creeping vine and rambler roses hanging in crimson clusters, displayed a row of marble caryatids and hermes—nymphs, satyrs and fauns—whose torsos ended in slender, sculptured pedestals, while their raised hands supported the flat roof of leaves and flowers. In the middle was an open rotunda like an open temple; the circular balustrade was also supported by caryatids; and an ancient sarcophagus had been adapted to serve as a cistern. A table was laid for breakfast in the pergola; and they breakfasted without old Prince Ercole or the marchesa, who broke her fast in her room. It was eight o'clock; a morning coolness was still wafted from the lake; a haze of blue gossamer floated over the hills, in the heart of which, as though surrounded by a gently fluted basin, the lake was sunk like an oval goblet.
"Oh, how beautiful it is here!" cried Cornélie, delightedly.
Breakfast was a sunny and cheerful meal, after yesterday's dark and gloomy dinner. Urania talked vivaciously about heralbergo, which she was going to visit presently with Cornélie, Gilio recovered his amiability and Bob ate heartily. And, when Bob went off bicycling, Gilio even accompanied the ladies to the town. They drove at a foot-pace in a landau down the castle road. The sun grew hotter and the little old town lit up, with whitish-grey and creamy-white houses like stone mirrors, in which the sun reflected itself, and little open spaces like walls, into which the sun poured its light. The coachman pulled up outside the partly finishedalbergo. They all alighted; the contractor approached ceremoniously; the perspiring masons looked round at the prince and princess. The heat was stifling. Gilio kept on wiping his forehead and sheltered under Cornélie's parasol. But Urania was all vivacity and interest; quick and full of energy in her white-pique costume, with her white sailor-hat under her white sun-shade, she tripped along planks, past heaps of bricks and cement and tubs full of mortar, accompanied by her contractor. She made him explain things, proffered advice, disagreed with him at times and pulled a wise face, saying that she did not like certain measurements and refused to accept the contractor's assurance that she would like the measurements as the building progressed; she shook her head and impressed this and that upon him, all in a quick, none too correct, broken Italian, which she chewed between her teeth. But Cornélie thought her charming, attractive, every inch the Princess of Forte-Braccio. There was not a doubt about it. While Gilio, fearful of dirtying his light flannel suit and brown shoes with the mortar, remained in the shadow of her parasol, puffing and blowing with the heat and taking no interest whatever, his wife was untiring, did not trouble to think that her white skirt was becoming soiled at the hem and spoke to the contractor with a lively and dignified certainty which compelled respect. Where had the child learnt that? Where had she acquired her powers of assimilation? Whore did she get this love for San Stefano, this love for its poor? How had the American girl picked up this talent for filling her new and exalted position so worthily? Gilio thought heradmirabileand whispered as much to Cornélie. He was not blind to her good qualities. He thought Urania splendid, excellent; she always astounded him. No Italian woman of his own set would have been like that. And they liked her. The servants at the castle loved her. Giuseppe would have gone through fire and water for her; that contractor admired her; the masons followed her respectfully with their eyes, because she was so clever and knew so much and was so good to them in their poverty.
"Admirabile!" said Gilio.
But he puffed and blew. He knew nothing about bricks, beams and measurements and did not understand where Urania had got that technical sense from. She was indefatigable. She went all over the works, while he cast up his eyes to Cornélie in entreaty. And at last, speaking in English, he begged his wife in Heaven's name to come away. They went back to the carriage; the contractor took off his hat, the workmen raised their caps with an air of mingled gratitude and independence. And they drove to the cathedral, which Cornélie wanted to see. Urania showed her round. Gilio asked to be excused and went and sat on the steps of the altar, with his hands hanging over his knees, to cool himself.
A week had passed. Duco had arrived. After the solemn dinner in the sombre dining-room, where Duco had been presented to Prince Ercole, the summer evening, when Cornélie and Duco went outside, was like a dream. The castle was already wrapped in heavy repose; but Cornélie had made Giuseppe give her a key. And they went out, to the pergola. The stars dusted the night sky with a pale radiance; and the moon crowned the hill-tops and shimmered faintly in the mystic depths of the lake. A breath of sleeping roses was wafted from the flower-garden beyond the pergola; and below, in the flat-roofed town, the cathedral, standing in its moonlit square, lifted its gigantic fabric to the stars. And sleep hung everywhere, over the lake, over the town and behind the windows of the castle; the caryatids and hermes—the leafy roof of the pergola, in the enchanted attitudes of the servants of the Sleeping Beauty. A cricket chirped, but fell silent the moment that Duco and Cornélie approached. And they sat down on an antique bench; and she flung her arms about his body and nestled against him:
"A week!" she whispered. "A whole week since I saw you, Duco, my darling! I cannot do so long without you. At everything that I thought and saw and admired I thought of you, of how lovely you would think it here.... You were here once before on an excursion. Oh, but that is so different! It is so beautiful just to stay here, not just to go on, but to remain. That lake, that cathedral, those hills! The rooms indoors: neglected but so wonderful! The three courtyards are dilapidated, the fountains are crumbling to pieces ... but the style of theatrio, the sombre gloom of the dining-room, the poetry of this pergola!... Duco, doesn't the pergola remind you of a classic ode? You know how we used to read Horace together: you translated the verses so well, you improvised so delightfully. How clever you are! You know so much, you feel things so beautifully. I love your eyes, your voice, I love you altogether, I love everything that is you... I can't tell you how much, Duco. I have gradually surrendered myself to every word of you, to every sensation of you, to your love for Rome, to your love for museums, to your manner of seeing the skies which you put into your drawings. You are so deliciously calm, almost like this lake. Oh, don't laugh, don't make a jest of it: it's a week since I saw you, I feel such a need to talk to you! Is it exaggerated? I don't feel quite normal here either: there is something in that sky, in that light, that makes me talk like this. It is so beautiful that I can hardly believe that all this is ordinary life, ordinary reality.... Do you remember, at Sorrento, on the terrace of the hotel, when we looked out over the sea, over that pearl-grey sea, with Naples lying white in the distance? I felt like this then; but then I dared not speak like this: it was in the morning; there were people about, whom we didn't see but who saw us and whom I suspected all around me; but now we are alone and now I want to tell you, in your arms, against your breast, how happy I am! I love you so! All my soul, all that is finest in me is for you. You laugh, but you don't believe me. Or do you? Do you believe me?"
"Yes, I believe you, I am not laughing at you, I am only just laughing.... Yes, it is beautiful here.... I also feel happy. I am so happy in you and in my art. You taught me to work, you roused me from my dreams. I am so happy aboutThe Banners: I have heard from London; I will show you the letters to-morrow. I have you to thank for everything. It is almost incredible that this is ordinary life. I have been so quiet too in Rome. I saw nobody; I just worked a bit, not very much; and I had my meals alone in theosteria. The two Italians—you know the men I mean—felt sorry for me, I think. Oh, it was a terrible week! I can no longer do without you.... Do you remember our first walks and talks in the Borghese and on the Palatine? How strange we were to each other then, not a bit in unison. But I believe I felt at once that all would be well and beautiful between us...."
She was silent and lay against his breast. The cricket chirped again, with a long quaver. But everything else slept....
"Between us," she repeated, as though in a fever; and she embraced him passionately.
The whole night slept; and, while they breathed their life in each other's arms, the enchanted caryatids—fauns and nymphs—lifted the leafy roof of the pergola above their heads, between them and the star-spangled sky.
Gilio hated thevilleggiaturaat San Stefano, Every morning he had to be up and dressed by six o'clock, with Prince Ercole, Urania and the marchesa, to hear mass said by the chaplain in the private chapel of the castle. After that, he did not know what to do with his time. He had gone bicycling once or twice with Bob Hope, but the young Far-Westerner had too much energy for him, like Bob's sister, Urania. He flirted and argued a little with Cornélie, but secretly he was still offended and angry with himself and her. He remembered her first arrival that evening at the Palazzo Ruspoli, when she came and disturbed hisrendez-vouswith Urania. And in thecamera degli sposishe had for the second time been too much for him! He seethed with fury when he thought of it and he hated her and swore by all his gods to be revenged. He cursed his own lack of resolution. He had been too weak to use violence or force and there ought never to have been any need to resort to force: he was accustomed to a quick surrender. And he had to be told by her, that Dutchwoman, that his temperament did not respond to hers! What was there about that woman? What did she mean by it? He was so unaccustomed to thinking, he was such a thoughtless, easy-going, Italian child of nature, so accustomed to let his life run on according to his every whim and impulse, that he hardly understood her—though he suspected the meaning of her words—hardly understood that reserve of hers. Why should she behave so to him, this foreigner with her demoniacal new ideas, who cared nothing about the world, who would have nothing to do with marriage, who lived with a painter as his mistress! She had no religion and no morals?heknew about religion and morals—she belonged to the devil; demoniacal was what she was: didn't she know all about Aunt Lucia Belloni's manoeuvres? And hadn't Aunt Lucia warned him lately that she was a dangerous woman, an uncanny woman, a woman of the devil? She was a witch! Why should she refuse? Hadn't he plainly seen her figure last night going through the courtyard in the moonlight, beside Van der Staal's figure, and hadn't he seen them opening the door that led to the terrace by the pergola? And hadn't he waited an hour, two hours, without sleeping, until he saw them come back and lock the door after them? And why did she love only him, that painter? Oh, he hated him, with all the blazing hatred of his jealousy; he hated her, for her exclusiveness, for her disdain, for her constant jesting and flirting, as though he were a buffoon, a clown! What was it that he asked? A favour such as she granted her lover! He was not asking for anything serious, any oath or life-long tie; he asked for so little: just one hour of love. It was of no importance: he had never looked upon that as of much importance. And she, she refused it to him! No, he did not understand her, but what he did understand was that she disdained him; and he, he hated the pair of them. And yet he was enamoured of her with all the violence of his thwarted passion. In the boredom of thatvilleggiatura, to which his wife condemned him in her new love for their ruined eyrie, his hatred and the thought of his revenge formed an occupation for his empty brains. Outwardly, he was the same as usual and flirted with Cornélie, flirted even more than usual, to annoy Van der Staal. And, when his cousin, the Contessa di Rosavilla—his "white" cousin, the lady-in-waiting to the queen—came to spend a few days with them, he flirted with her too and tried to provoke Cornélie's jealousy. He failed in this, however, and consoled himself with the countess, who made up to him for his disappointment. She was no longer a young woman, but represented the cold, sculptured Juno type, with a rather foolish expression; she had Juno eyes, protruding from their sockets; she was a leader of fashion at the Quirinal and in the "white" world; and her reputation for gallantry was generally known. She had never had aliaisonwith Gilio that had lasted for longer than an hour. She had very simple ideas on love, without much variety. Her light-hearted depravity amused Gilio. And flirting in the corners, with his foot on hers under her skirt, Gilio told her about Cornélie, about Duco and about the adventure in thecamera degli sposiand asked his cousin whethersheunderstood. No, the Contessa di Rosavilla did not understand it any too well either. Temperament? Oh, yes, perhapsshe—questa Cornelia—preferredfair men to dark: therewerewomen who had a preference! And Gilio laughed. It was so simple,l'amore; there wasn't very much to be said about it.
Cornélie was glad that Gilio had the countess to amuse him. She and Duco interested themselves in Urania's plans; Duco had long talks with the architect. And he was indignant and advised them not to rebuild so much in that undistinguished restoration manner: it was lacking in style, cost heaps of money and spoilt everything.
Urania was disconcerted, but Duco went on, interrupted the architect, advised him to build up only what was actually falling to pieces and, so far as possible, to confine himself to underpinning, reinforcing and preserving. And one morning Prince Ercole deigned to walk through the long rooms with Duco, Urania and Cornélie. There was a great deal to be done, Duco considered, by merely repairing and artistically arranging what at present stood thoughtlessly huddled together.
"The curtains?" asked Urania.
"Let them be," Duco considered. "At the most, new window-curtains; but the old red Venetian damask: oh, let it be!"
It was so beautiful; here and there it might be patched, very carefully. He was horrified at Urania's notion: new curtains! And the old prince was enraptured, because in this way the restoration of San Stefano would cost thousands less and be much more artistic. He regarded his daughter-in-law's money as his own and preferred it to her. He was enraptured: he took Duco with him to his library, showed him the old missals, the old family books and papers, chatters and deeds of gift, showed him his coins and his medals. It was all out of order and neglected, first from lack of money and then from slighting indifference; but now Urania wanted to reorganize the family museum with the aid of experts from Rome, Florence and Bologna. The old prince's interest revived, now that there was money. And the experts came and stayed at the castle and Duco spent whole mornings in their company. He enjoyed every moment of it. He lived in his enchantment of the past, no longer in the days of antiquity, but in the middle ages and the Renascence. The days were too short. And his love for San Stefano became such that one day an archivist took him for the young prince, for Prince Virgilio. At dinner that evening Prince Ercole told the story. And everybody laughed, but Gilio thought the joke beyond price, whereas the archivist, who was there at dinner, did not know how to apologize sufficiently.
Gilio had followed the advice of his cousin, the Contessa di Rosavilla. Immediately after dinner, he had stolen outside; and he walked along the pergola to the rotunda, into which the moonlight fell as into a white beaker. But there was shadow behind a couple of caryatids; and here he hid. He waited for an hour. But the night slept, the caryatids slept, standing motionless and supporting the leafy roof. He uttered a curse and stole indoors again. He walked down the corridors on tiptoe and listened at Van der Staal's door. He heard nothing, but perhaps Van der Staal was asleep?...
Gilio, however, crept along another corridor and listened at Cornélie's door. He held his breath.... Yes, there was a sound of voices. They were together! Together! He clenched his fist and walked away. But why did he excite himself? He knew all about their relations. Why should they not be together here? And he went and tapped at the countess' door....
Next evening he again waited in, the rotunda. They did not come. But, a few evenings later, as he sat waiting, cholding with annoyance, he saw them come. He saw Duco lock the terrace-door behind him: the rusty lock grated in the distance. Slowly he saw them walk along and approach in the light, disappearing from view in the shadow, reappearing in the moonlight. They sat down on the marble bench....
How happy they seemed! He was jealous of their happiness, jealous above all of him. And how gentle and tender she was, she who considered him, Gilio, good enough for her amusement, to flirt with, a clown: she, the devilish woman, was angelic to the man she loved! She bent towards her lover with a smiling caress, with a curve of her arm, with a proffering of her lips, with something intensely alluring, with a velvety languor of love which he would never have suspected in her, after her cold, jesting flirtation with him, Gilio. She was now leaning on Duco's arms, on his breast, with her face against his.... Oh, how her kiss filled Gilio with flame and fury! This was no longer her icy lack of sensuous response towards him, Gilio, in thecamera degli sposi. And he could restrain himself no longer: he would at least disturb their moment of happiness. And, quivering in every nerve, he stepped from behind the caryatids and went towards them, through the rotunda. Lost in each other's eyes, they did not see him at once. But, suddenly, simultaneously, they both started; their arms fell apart then and there; they sprang up in one movement; they saw him approaching but evidently did not at once recognize him. Not until he was closer did they perceive who he was; and they looked at him in startled silence, wondering what he would say. He made a satirical bow:
"A delightful evening, isn't it? The view is lovely, like this, at night, from the pergola. You are right to come and enjoy it. I hope that I am not disturbing you with my unexpected company?"
His tremulous voice sounded so spiteful and aggressive that they could not doubt the violence of his anger.
"Not at all, prince!" replied Cornélie, recovering her composure. "Though I can't imagine what you are doing here, at this hour."
"And what are you doing here, at this hour?"
"What am I doing? I am sitting with Van der Staal...."
"At this hour?"
"At this hour! What do you mean, prince, what are you suggesting?"
"What am I suggesting? That the pergola is closed at night."
"Prince," said Duco, "your tone is offensive."
"And you are altogether offensive."
"If you were not my host, I would strike you in the face...."
Cornélie caught Duco by the arm; the prince cursed and clenched his fists.
"Prince," she said, "you have obviously come to pick a quarrel with us. Why? What objection can you have to my meeting Van der Staal here in the evening? In the first place, our relation towards each other is no secret for you. And then I think it unworthy of you to come spying on us."
"Unworthy? Unworthy?" He had lost all self-control. "I am unworthy, am I, and petty and rude and not a man and my temperament doesn't suit you?Histemperament seems to suit you all right! I heard the kiss you gave him! She-devil! Demon! Never have I been insulted as I have by you. I have never put up with so much from anybody. I will put up with no more. You struck me, you demon, you she-devil! And now he's threatening to strike me My patience is at an end. I can't bear that in my own house you should refuse me what you give to him.... He's not your husband! He's not your husband! I have as much right to you as he; and, if he thinks he has a better right than I, then I hate him, I hate him!..."
And, blind with rage, he flew at Duco's throat. The attack was so unexpected that Duco stumbled. They both wrestled furiously. All their hidden antipathy broke forth in fury. They did not hear Cornélie's entreaties, they struck each other with their fists, they grappled with arms and legs, breast to breast. Then Cornélie saw something flash. In the moonlight she saw that the prince had drawn a knife. But the very movement was an advantage to Duco, who gripped his wrist as in a vice, forced him to the ground and, pressing his knee on Gilio's chest, took him by the throat with his other hand.
"Let go!" yelled the prince.
"Let go that knife!" yelled Duco.
The prince obstinately persisted:
"Let go!" he yelled once more.
"Let go that knife."
The knife dropped from his fingers. Duco grasped it and rose to his feet:
"Get up," he said. "We can continue this fight, if you like, to-morrow, under less primitive conditions: not with a knife, but with swords or pistols."
The prince stood panting, blue in the face.... When he came to himself, he said, slowly:
"No, I will not fight a duel. Unless you want to. But I don't. I am defeated. She has a demoniacal force which would always make you win, whatever game we played. We've had our duel. This struggle tells me more than a regular duel would. Only, if you want to fight me, I have no objection. But I now know for certain that you would kill me.Sheprotects you."
"I don't want to fight a duel with you," said Duco.
"Then let us look on this struggle as a duel and now give me your hand."
Duco put out his hand; Gilio pressed it:
"Forgive me," he said, bowing before Cornélie.
"I have insulted you."
"No," said she, "I do not forgive you."
"We have to forgive each other. I forgive you the blow you struck me."
"I forgive you nothing. I shall never forgive you this evening's work: not your spying, nor your lack of self-control, nor the rights which you try to claim from me, an unmarried woman—whereas I allow you no rights whatever—nor your attack, nor your knife."
"Are we enemies then, for good?"
"Yes, for good. I shall leave your house to-morrow."
"I have done wrong," he confessed, humbly. "Forgive me. I am hot-blooded."
"Until now I looked upon you as a gentleman...."
"I am also an Italian."
"I do not forgive you."
"I once proved to you that I could be a good friend."
"This is not the moment to remind me of it."
"I remind you of everything that might make you more gently disposed towards me."
"It is no use."
"Enemies then?"
"Yes. Let us go indoors. I shall leave your house to-morrow."
"I will do any penance that you inflict upon me."
"I inflict nothing. I want this conversation to end and I want to go indoors."
"I will go ahead of you."
They walked up the pergola. He himself opened the terrace-door and let them in before him.
They went in silence to their rooms. The castle lay asleep in darkness. The prince struck a match to light the way. Duco was the first to reach his room.
"I will light you to your room," said the prince, meekly.
He struck a second match and accompanied Cornélie to her door. Here he fell on his knees:
"Forgive me," he whispered, with a sob in his throat.
"No," she said.
And without more she locked the door behind her. He remained on his knees for another moment. Then he slowly rose to his feet. His throat hurt him. His shoulder felt as though it were dislocated.
"It's over," he muttered. "I am defeated. She is stronger now than I, but not because she is a devil. I have seen them together. I have seen their embrace. She is stronger, he is stronger than!... because of their happiness. I feel that, because of their happiness, they will always be stronger than I...."
He went to his room, which adjoined Urania's bedroom. His chest heaved with sobs. Dressed as he was, he flung himself sobbing on his bed, swallowing his sobs in the slumbering night that hung over the castle. Then he got up and looked out of the window. He saw the lake. He saw the pergola, where they had been fighting. The night was sleeping there; the caryatids, sleeping, stood out white against the shadow. And his eyes sought the exact spot of their struggle and of his defeat. And, with his superstitious faith in their happiness, he became convinced that there would be no fighting against it, ever.
Then he shrugged his shoulders, as if he were flinging a load off his back:
"Fa niente!" he said to console himself. "Domani megliore...."
And he meant that to-morrow he would achieve, if not this victory, another. Then, with eyes still moist, he fell asleep like a child.
Urania sobbed nervously in Cornélie's arms when she told the young princess that she was leaving that morning. She and Duco were alone with Urania in her own drawing-room.
"What has happened?" sobbed Urania.
Cornélie told her of the previous evening:
"Urania," she said, seriously, "I know I am a coquette. I thought it pleasant to talk with Gilio; call it flirting, if you like. I never made a secret of it, either to Duco or to you. I looked upon it as an amusement, nothing more. Perhaps I did wrong; I know it annoyed you once before. I promised not to do it again; but it seems to be beyond my control. It's in my nature; and I shall not attempt to defend myself. I looked upon it as a trifle, as a diversion, as fun. But perhaps it was wrong. Do you forgive me? I have grown so fond of you: it would hurt me if you did not forgive me."
"Make it up with Gilio and stay on."
"That's impossible, my dear girl. Gilio has insulted me, Gilio drew his knife against Duco; and those are two things which I can never forgive him. So it is impossible for us to remain."
"I shall be so lonely!" she sobbed. "I also am so fond of you, I am fond of you both. Is there no way out of it? Bob is going to-morrow, too. I shall be all alone. And I have nothing here, nobody who is fond of me...."
"You have a great deal left, Urania. You have an object in life; you can do any amount of good in your surroundings. You are interested in the castle, which is now your own."
"It's all so empty!" she sobbed. "It means nothing to me. I need affection. Who is there that is fond of me? I have tried to love Gilio and I do love him, but he doesn't care for me. Nobody cares for me."
"Your poor are devoted to you. You have a noble aim in life."
"I'm glad of it, but I am too young to live only for an aim. And I have nothing else. Nobody cares for me."
"Prince Ercole, surely?"
"No, he despises me. Listen. I told you once before what Gilio said ... that there were no family-jewels, that they were all sold: you remember, don't you? Well, therearefamily-jewels. I gathered that from something the Contessa di Rosavilla said. There are family-jewels. But Prince Ercole keeps them in the Banco di Roma. They despise me; and I am not thought good enough to wear them. Arid to me they pretend that there are none left. And the worst of it is that all their friends, all their set know that the jewels are there, in the bank, and they all say that Prince Ercole is right. My money is good enough for them, but I am not good enough for their old jewels, the jewels of their grandmother!"
"That's a shame!" said Cornélie.
"It's the truth!" sobbed Urania. "Oh, do make it up, stay a little longer, for my sake!..."
"Judge for yourself, Urania: we really can't."
"I suppose you're right," she admitted, with a sigh. "It's all my fault."
"No, no, Gilio is sometimes so impetuous...."
"But his impetuousness, his anger, his jealousy are my fault. I am sorry about it, Urania, because of you. Forgive me. Come and look me up in Rome when you go back. Don't forget me; and write, won't you?... Now I must go and pack my trunk. What time is the train?"
"Ten twenty-five," said Duco. "We shall go together."
"Can I say good-bye to Prince Ercole? Send and ask if he can see me."
"What shall I tell him?"
"The first thing that comes into your head: that a friend of mine in Rome is ill, that I am going to look after her and that Van der Staal is taking me back because I am nervous travelling. I don't care what Prince Ercole thinks."
"Cornélie...."
"Darling, I really haven't another moment. Kiss me and forgive me. And think of me sometimes. Good-bye. We have had a delightful time together and I have grown very fond of you."
She tore herself from Urania's embrace; Duco also said good-bye. They left the princess sobbing by herself. In the passage they met Gilio.
"Where are you going?" he asked, in his humble voice.
"We are going by the ten twenty-five."
"I am very, very sorry...."
But they went on and left him standing there, while Urania sat sobbing in the drawing-room.
In the train, in the scorching morning heat, they were silent and they found Rome as it were bursting out of its houses in the blazing sunshine. The studio, however, was cool, solitary and peaceful.
"Cornélie," said Duco, "tell me what happened between you and the prince. Why did you strike him?"
She pulled him down on the sofa, threw herself on his neck and told him the incident of thecamera degli sposi. She told him of the thousand lire and the bracelet. She explained that she had said nothing about it before, so as not to speak to him of financial worries while he was finishing his water-colour for the exhibition in London:
"Duco," she continued, "I was so frightened when I saw Gilio draw that knife yesterday. I felt as if I was going to faint, but I didn't. I had never seen him like that, so violent, so ready to do anything.... It was then that I really felt how much I loved you. I should have murdered him if he had wounded you."
"You ought not to have played with him," he said, severely. "He loves you."
But, in spite of his stern voice, he drew her closer to him.
Filled with a certain consciousness of guilt, she laid her head coaxingly on his chest:
"He is only a little in love," she said, defending herself feebly.
"He is very passionately in love. You ought not to have played with him."
She made no further reply, merely stroked his face with her hand. She liked him all the better for reproaching her as he did; she loved that stern, earnest voice, which he hardly ever adopted towards her. She knew that she had that need for flirting in her, that she had had it ever since she was a very young girl; it did not count with her, it was only innocent fun. She did not agree with Duco, but thought it unnecessary to go over the whole ground: it was as it was, she didn't think about it, didn't dispute it; it was like a difference of opinion, almost of taste, which did not count. She was lying against him too comfortably, after the excitement of last evening, after a sleepless night, after a precipitate departure, after a three hours' railway-journey in the blazing heat, to argue to any extent. She liked the silent coolness of the studio, the sense of being alone with him, after her three weeks at San Stefano. There was a peacefulness here, a return to herself, which filled her with bliss. The tall window was open and the warm air poured in beneficently and was tempered by the natural chilliness of the north room. Duco's easel stood empty, awaiting him. This was their home, amid all that colour and form of art which surrounded them. She now understood that colour and form; she was learning Rome. She was learning it all in dreams of happiness. She gave little thought to the woman question and hardly glanced at the notices of her pamphlet, taking but a scanty interest in them. She admired Lippo's angel, admired the panel of Gentile da Fabriano and the resplendent colours of the old chasubles. It was very little, after the treasures at San Stefano, but it was theirs and it was home. She did not speak, felt happy and contented resting on Duco's breast and passing her fingers over his face.
"The Bannersis as good as sold," he said. "For ninety pounds. I shall telegraph to London to-day. And then we shall soon be able to pay the prince back that thousand lire."
"It's Urania's money," she said, feebly.
"But I won't have that debt hanging on."
She felt that he was a little angry, but she was in no mood to discuss money matters and she was filled with a blissful languor as she lay on his breast....
"Are you cross, Duco?"
"No ... but you oughtn't to have done it."
He clasped her more tightly, to make her feel that he did not want to grumble at her, even though he thought that she had done wrong. She thought that she had done right not to mention the thousand lire to him, but she did not defend herself. It meant useless words; and she felt too happy to talk about money.
"Cornélie," he said, "let us get married."
She looked at him in dismay, startled out of her blissfulness:
"Why?"
"Not because of ourselves. We are just as happy unmarried. But because of the world, because of people."
"Because of the world? Because of people?"
"Yes. We shall be feeling more and more isolated. I discussed it once or twice with Urania. She was very sorry about it, but she sympathized with us and wasn't shocked. She thought it an impossible position, Perhaps she is right. We can't go anywhere. At San Stefano they still acted as though they did not know that we were living together; but that is over now."
"What do you care about the opinion of 'small, insignificant people, who chance to cross your path,' as you yourself say?"
"It's different now. We owe the prince money; and Urania is the only friend you have."
"I have you: I don't want any one else."
He kissed her:
"Really, Cornélie, it is better that we should get married. Then nobody can insult you again as the prince dared to do."
"He has narrow-minded notions: how can you want to get married for the sake of a world and people like San Stefano and the prince?"
"The whole world is like that, without exception, and we are in the world. We live in the midst of other people. It is impossible to isolate one's self entirely; and isolation brings its own punishment later. We have to attach ourselves to other people: it is impossible always to lead your own existence, without any sense of community."
"Duco, how you've changed! These are the ideas of ordinary society!"
"I have been reflecting more lately."
"I am just learning how not to reflect.... My darling, how grave you are this morning! And this while I'm lying up against you so deliciously, to rest after all the excitement and the hot journey!"
"Seriously, Cornélie, let us get married."
She snuggled up against him a little nervously, displeased because he persisted and because he was forcibly dissipating her blissful mood:
"You're a horrid boy. Why need we get married? It would alter nothing in our position. We still shouldn't trouble about other people. We are living so delightfully here, living for your art. We want nothing more than each other and your art and Rome. I am so very fond of Rome now; I am quite altered. There is something here that is always attracting me afresh. At San Stefano I felt home-sick for Rome and for our studio. You must choose a new subject ... and get to work again. When you're doing nothing, you sit thinking—about social ethics—and that doesn't suit you at all. It makes you so different. And then such petty, conventional ideas. To get married! Why, in Heaven's name, should we, Duco? You know my views on marriage. I have had experience: it is better not."
She had risen and was mechanically looking through some half-finished sketches in a portfolio.
"Your experience," he repeated. "We know each other too well to be afraid of anything."
She took the sketches from the portfolio: they were ideas which had occurred to him and which he had jotted down while he was working atThe Banners. She examined them and scattered them abroad:
"Afraid?" she repeated, vaguely. "No," she suddenly resumed, more firmly. "A person never knows himself or another. I don't know you, I don't know myself."
Something deep down within herself was warning her:
"Don't marry, don't give in. It's better not, it's better not."
It was barely a whisper, a shadow of premonition. She had not thought it out; it was unconscious and mysterious as the depths of her soul. For she was not aware of it, she did not think it, she hardly heard it within herself. It flitted through her; it was not a feeling; it only left a thwarting reluctance in her, very plainly. Not until years later would she understand that unwillingness.
"No, Duco, it is better not."
"Think it over, Cornélie,"
"It is better not," she repeated, obstinately. "Please don't let us talk about it any more. It is better not, but I think it so horrid to refuse you, because you want it. I never refuse you anything, as you know. I would do anything else for you. But this time I feel ... it is better not!"
She went to him, all one caress, and kissed him:
"Don't ask it of me again. What a cloud on your face! I can see that you mean to go on thinking of it."
She stroked his forehead as though to smooth away the wrinkles:
"Don't think of it any more. I love you, I love you, I want nothing but you. I am happy as we are. Why shouldn't you be too? Because Gilio was rude and Urania prim?... Come and look at your sketches: will you be starting work soon? I love it when you're working. Then I'll write something again: a chat about an old Italian castle. My recollections of San Stefano. Perhaps a short story, with the pergola for a background. Oh, that beautiful pergola!... But yesterday, that knife!... Tell me, Duco, are you going to work again? Let's look through them together. What a lot of ideas you had at that time! But don't become too symbolical: I mean, don't get into habits, into tricks; don't repeat yourself.... This woman here is very good. She is walking so unconsciously down that shelving line ... and all those hands pushing around her.. and those red flowers in the abyss.... Tell me, Duco, what had you in your mind?"
"I don't know: it was not very clear to myself."
"I think it very good, but I don't like this sketch. I can't say why. There's something dreary in it. I think the woman stupid. I don't like those shelving lines: I like lines that go up, as inThe Banners, that all flowed out of darkness upwards, towards the sun! How beautiful that was! What a pity that we no longer have it, that it is being sold! If I were a painter, I should never be able to part with anything. I shall keep the sketches to remind me of it. Don't you think it dreadful, that we no longer have it?"
He agreed; he also loved and missed hisBanners. And he hunted with her among the other studies and sketches. But, apart from the unconscious woman, there was nothing that was clear enough to him to elaborate. And Cornélie would not have him finish the unconscious woman: no, she didn't like those shelving lines.... But, after that, he found some sketches of landscape-studies, of clouds and skies over the Campagna, Venice and Naples....
And he set to work.