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diff --git a/43827.txt b/43827.txt deleted file mode 100644 index aa21ebb..0000000 --- a/43827.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,10392 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Law Inevitable, by Louis Couperus - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - - -Title: The Law Inevitable - -Author: Louis Couperus - -Translator: Alexander Teixeira de Mattos - -Release Date: September 27, 2013 [EBook #43827] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ASCII - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LAW INEVITABLE *** - - - - -Produced by Marc D'Hooghe at http://www.freeliterature.org -(Images generously made available by the Bodleian Library -in Oxford) - - - - - -THE LAW INEVITABLE - -BY - -LOUIS COUPERUS - - -TRANSLATED BY - -ALEXANDER TEIXEIRA DE MATTOS - - -THORNTON BUTTERWORTH, LIMITED - -15 BEDFORD STREET, LONDON, W.C.2 - -1921 - - - - -CHAPTER I - - -The Marchesa Belloni's boarding-house was situated in one of the -healthiest, if not one of the most romantic quarters of Rome. One -half of the house had formed part of a _villino_ of the old Ludovisi -Gardens, those beautiful old gardens regretted by everybody who knew -them before the new barrack-quarters were built on the site of the old -Roman park, with its border of villas. The entrance to the _pension_ -was in the Via Lombardia. The older or _villino_ portion of the house -retained a certain antique charm for the marchesa's boarders, while the -new premises built on to it offered the advantages of spacious rooms, -modern sanitation and electric light. The _pension_ boasted a certain -reputation for comfort, cheapness and a pleasant situation: it stood at -a few minutes' walk from the Pincio, on high ground, and there was no -need to fear malaria; and the price charged for a long stay, amounting -to hardly more than eight lire a day, was exceptionally low for Rome, -which was known to be more expensive than any other town in Italy. The -boarding-house therefore was generally full. The visitors began to -arrive as soon as October: those who came earliest in the season paid -least; and, with the exception of a few hurrying tourists, they nearly -all remained until Easter, going south-ward to Naples after the great -church festivals. - -Some English travelling-acquaintances had strongly recommended the -_pension_ to Cornelie de Retz van Loo, who was travelling in Italy by -herself; and she had written to the Marchesa Belloni from Florence. -It was her first visit to Italy; it was the first time that she had -alighted at the great cavernous station near the Baths of Diocletian; -and, standing in the square, in the golden Roman sunlight, while -the great fountain of the Acqua Marcia gushed and rippled and the -cab-drivers clicked with their whips and their tongues to attract her -attention, she was conscious of her "nice Italian sensation," as she -called it, and felt glad to be in Rome. - -She saw a little old man limping towards her with the instinct of a -veteran porter who recognizes his travellers at once; and she read -"Hotel Belloni" on his cap and beckoned to him with a smile. He saluted -her with respectful familiarity, as though she were an old acquaintance -and he glad to see her; asked if she had had a pleasant journey, if she -was not over-tired; led her to the victoria; put in her rug and her -handbag; asked for the tickets of her trunks; and said that she had -better go on ahead: he would follow in ten minutes with the luggage. -She received an impression of cosiness, of being well cared for by the -little old lame man; and she gave him a friendly nod as the coachman -drove away. She felt happy and careless, though she had just the -faintest foreboding of something unhappy and unknown that was going to -come to her; and she looked to right and left to take in the streets -of Rome. But she saw only houses upon houses, like so many barracks; -then a great white palace, the new Palazzo Piombino, which she knew to -contain the Juno Ludovisi; and then the _vettura_ stopped and a boy -in buttons came out to meet her. He showed her into the drawing-room, -a gloomy apartment, in the middle of which was a table covered with -periodicals, arranged in a regular and unbroken circle. Two ladies, -obviously English and of the aesthetic type, with loose-fitting blouses -and grimy hair, sat in a corner studying their Baedekers before going -out. Cornelie bowed slightly, but received no bow in return; she did -not take offence, being familiar with the manners of the travelling -Briton. She sat down at the table and took up the Roman _Herald_, the -paper which appears once a fortnight and tells you what there is to do -in Rome during the next two weeks. - -Thereupon one of the ladies asked her, from the corner, in an -aggressive tone: - -"I beg your pardon, but would you please not take the _Herald_ to your -room?" - -Cornelie raised her head very haughtily and languidly in the direction -where the ladies were sitting, looked vaguely above their grimy heads, -said nothing and glanced down at the _Herald_ again; and she thought -herself a very experienced traveller and smiled inwardly because she -knew how to deal with that type of Englishwoman. - -The marchesa entered and welcomed Cornelie in Italian and French. She -was a large, fat matron, vulgarly fat; her ample bosom was contained in -a silk cuirass or spencer, shiny at the seams and bursting under the -arms; her grey frizzled hair gave her a somewhat leonine appearance; -her great yellow and blue eyes, with bistre shadows beneath them, wore -a strained expression, the pupils unnaturally dilated by belladonna; -a pair of immense crystals sparkled in her ears; and her fat, greasy -fingers were covered with nameless jewels. She talked very fast; and -Cornelie thought her sentences as pleasant and homely as the welcome of -the lame porter in the square outside the station. The marchesa led her -to the hydraulic lift and stepped in with her; the lift, a railed-in -cage, running up the well of the staircase, rose solemnly and suddenly -stopped, motionless, between the second and the third floor. - -"Third floor!" cried the marchesa to some one below. - -"Non c'e acqua!" the boy in buttons calmly called back, meaning thereby -to convey that--as seemed natural--there was not enough water to move -the lift. - -The marchesa screamed out some orders in a shrill voice; two _facchini_ -came running up and hung on to the cable of the lift, together with the -ostensibly zealous boy in buttons; and by fits and starts the cage rose -higher and higher, until at last it almost reached the third storey. - -"A little higher!" ordered the marchesa. - -But the _facchini_ strained their muscles in vain: the lift refused to -stir. - -"We can manage!" said the marchesa. "Wait a bit." - -Taking a great stride, which revealed the enormous white-stockinged -calf of her leg, she stepped on to the floor, smiled and gave her hand -to Cornelie, who imitated her gymnastics. - -"Here we are!" sighed the marchesa, with a smile of satisfaction. "This -is your room." - -She opened a door and showed Cornelie a bedroom. Though the sun was -shining brightly out of doors, the room was as damp and chilly as a -cellar. - -"Marchesa," Cornelie said, without hesitation, "I wrote to you for two -rooms facing south." - -"Did you?" asked the marchesa, plausibly and ingeniously. "I really -didn't remember. Yes, that is one of those foreigners' ideas: rooms -facing south.... This is really a beautiful room." - -"I'm sorry, but I can't accept this room, marchesa." - -La Belloni grumbled a bit, went down the corridor and opened the door -of another room: - -"And this one, signora?... How do you like this?" - -"Is it south?" - -"Almost." - -"I want it full south." - -"This looks west: you see the most splendid sunsets from your window." - -"I absolutely must have a south room, marchesa." - -"I also have the most charming little apartments looking east: you get -the most picturesque sunrises there." - -"No, marchesa." - -"Don't you appreciate the beauties of nature?" - -"Just a little, but I put my health first." - -"I sleep in a north room myself." - -"You are an Italian, marchesa, and you're used to it." - -"I'm very sorry, but I have no rooms facing south." - -"Then I'm sorry too, marchesa, but I must look out somewhere else." - -Cornelie turned as though to go away. The choice of a room sometimes -means the choice of a life. - -The marchesa caught hold of her hand and smiled. She had abandoned her -cool tone and her voice was all honey: - -"_Davvero_, that's one of those foreigners' ideas: rooms facing south! -But I have two little kennels left. Here...." - -And she quickly opened two doors, two snug little cupboards of rooms, -displaying through the open casements a lofty and spacious view of the -sky, out-spread above the streets and roofs below, with the blue dome -of St. Peter's in the distance. - -"These are the only rooms I have left facing south," said the marchesa, -plaintively. - -"I shall be glad to have these, marchesa." - -"Sixteen lire," smiled la Belloni. - -"Ten, as you wrote." - -"I could put two persons in here." - -"I shall stay all the winter, if I am satisfied." - -"You must have your way!" the marchesa exclaimed, suddenly, in her -sweetest voice, a voice of graceful surrender. "You shall have the -rooms for twelve lire. Don't let us discuss it any more. The rooms are -yours. You are Dutch, are you not? We have a Dutch family staying here: -a mother with two daughters and a son. Would you like to sit next to -them at table?" - -"No, I'd rather you put me somewhere else; I don't care for my -fellow-countrymen when travelling." - -The marchesa left Cornelie to herself. She looked out of the window, -absent-mindedly, glad to be in Rome, yet faintly conscious of the -something unhappy and unknown that was about to come. There was a tap -at her door; the men carried in her luggage. She saw that it was eleven -o'clock and began to unpack. One of her rooms was a small sitting-room, -like a bird-cage in the air, looking out over Rome. She altered the -position of the furniture, draped the faded sofa with a shawl from the -Abruzzi and fixed a few portraits and photographs with drawing-pins to -the wall, whose white-washed surface was broken up by rudely-painted -arabesques. And she smiled at the border of purple hearts transfixed -with arrows, which surrounded the decorated panels of the wall. - -After an hour's work, her sitting-room was settled: she had a home of -her own, with a few of her own shawls and rugs, a screen here, a little -table there, cushions on the sofa, books within easy reach. When she -had finished and had sat down and looked around her, she suddenly felt -very lonely. She began to think of the Hague and of what she had left -behind her. But she did not want to think and picked up her Baedeker -and read about the Vatican. She was unable to concentrate her thoughts -and turned to Hare's _Walks in Rome_. A bell sounded. She was tired -and her nerves were on edge. She looked in the glass, saw that her -hair was out of curl, her blouse soiled with coal and dust, unlocked a -second trunk and changed her things. She cried and sobbed while she was -curling her hair. The second bell rang; and, after powdering her face, -she went downstairs. - -She expected to be late, but there was no one in the dining-room and -she had to wait before she was served. She resolved not to come down so -very punctually in future. A few boarders looked in through the open -door, saw that there was no one sitting at table yet, except a new -lady, and disappeared again. - -Cornelie looked around her and waited. - -The dining-room was the original dining-room of the old villa, with a -ceiling by Guercina. The waiters loitered about. An old grey major-domo -cast a distant glance over the table, to see if everything was in -order. He grew impatient when nobody came and told them to serve the -macaroni to Cornelie. It struck Cornelie that he too limped with one -leg, like the porter. But the waiters were very young, hardly more than -sixteen to eighteen, and lacked the usual self-possession of the waiter. - -A stout gentleman, vivacious, consequential, pock-marked, ill-shaven, -in a shabby black coat which showed but little linen, entered, rubbing -his hands, and took his seat opposite Cornelie. - -He bowed politely and began to eat his macaroni. - -And this seemed to be the signal for the others to begin eating, -for a number of boarders, mostly ladies, now came in, sat down and -helped themselves to the macaroni, which was handed round by the -youthful waiters under the watchful eye of the grey-haired major-domo. -Cornelie smiled at the oddity of these travelling types; and, when she -involuntarily glanced at the pock-marked gentleman opposite, she saw -that he too was smiling. - -He hurriedly mopped up his tornato-sauce with his bread, bent a little -way across the table and almost whispered, in French: - -"It's amusing, isn't it?" - -Cornelie raised her eyebrows: - -"What do you mean?" - -"A cosmopolitan company like this." - -"Oh, yes!" - -"You are Dutch?" - -"How do you know?" - -"I saw your name in the visitors' book, with '_la Haye_' after it." - -"I am Dutch, yes." - -"There are some more Dutch ladies here, sitting over there: they are -charming." - -Cornelie asked the major-domo for some _vin ordinaire._ - -"The wine is no good," said the stout gentleman, vivaciously. "This is -Genzano," pointing to his _fiasco_. "I pay a small corkage and drink my -own wine." - -The major-domo put a pint bottle in front of Cornelie: it was included -in her _pension_ without extra charge. - -"If you like, I will give you the address where I get my wine. Via -della Croce, 67." - -Cornelie thanked him. The pock-marked gentleman's uncommon ease and -vivacity diverted her. - -"You're looking at the major-domo?" he asked. - -"You are a keen observer," she smiled in reply. - -"He's a type, our major-domo, Giuseppe. He used to be major-domo in -the palace of an Austrian archduke. He did I don't know what. Stole -something, perhaps. Or was impertinent. Or dropped a spoon on the -floor. He has come down in the world. Now you behold him in the Pension -Belloni. But the dignity of the man!" - -He leant forward: - -"The marchesa is economical. All the servants here are either old or -very young. It's cheaper." - -He bowed to two German ladies, a mother and daughter, who had come in -and sat down beside him: - -"I have the permit which I promised you, to see the Palazzo Rospigliosi -and Guido Reni's _Aurora_," he said, speaking in German. - -"Is the prince back then?" - -"No, the prince is in Paris. The palace is not open to visitors, except -yourselves." - -This was said with a gallant bow. - -The German ladies exclaimed how kind he was, how he was able to do -anything, to find a way out of every difficulty. They had taken endless -trouble to bribe the Rospigliosi porter and they had not succeeded. - -A little thin Englishwoman had taken her seat beside Cornelie. - -"And for you, Miss Taylor, I have a card for a low mass in His -Holiness' private chapel." - -Miss Taylor was radiant with delight. - -"Have you been sight-seeing again?" the pock-marked gentleman -continued. - -"Yes, Museo Kircheriano," said Miss Taylor. "But I am tired out. It was -most exquisite." - -"My prescription, Miss Taylor, is that you stay at home this afternoon -and rest." - -"I have an engagement to go to the Aventino...." - -"You mustn't. You're tired. You look worse every day and you're losing -flesh. You must rest, or you sha'n't have the card for the low mass." - -The German ladies laughed. Miss Taylor, flattered, in an ecstasy of -delight, gave her promise. She looked at the pock-marked gentleman as -though she expected to hear the judgement of Solomon fall from his lips. - -Lunch was over: the rump-steak, the pudding, the dried figs. Cornelie -rose: - -"May I give you a glass out of my bottle?" asked the stout gentleman. -"Do taste my wine and tell me if you like it. If so, I'll order a -_fiasco_ for you in the Via della Croce." - -Cornelie did not like to refuse. She sipped the wine. It was -deliciously pure. She reflected that it would be a good thing to drink -a pure wine in Rome; and, as she did so, the stout gentleman seemed to -read her quick thought: - -"It is a good thing," he said, "to drink a strengthening wine while you -are in Rome, where life is so tiring." - -Cornelie agreed. - -"This is Genzano, at two lire seventy-five the _fiasco_. It will last -you a long time: the wine keeps. So I'll order you a _fiasco_." - -He bowed to the ladies around and left the room. - -The German ladies bowed to Cornelie: - -"Such an amiable man, that Mr. Rudyard!" - -"What can he be?" Cornelie wondered. "French, German, English, -American?" - - - - -CHAPTER II - - -She had hired a victoria after lunch and had driven through Rome, to -make her first acquaintance with the city for which she had longed -so eagerly. This first impression was a great disappointment. Her -unspoiled imagination, her reading, even the photographs which she had -bought in Florence and studied with the affection of an inexperienced -tourist had given her the illusion of a city of an ideal antiquity, -an ideal Renascence; and she had forgotten that, especially in Rome, -life has progressed pitilessly and that the ages are not visible, in -buildings and ruins, as distinct periods, but that each period is -closely connected with the next by the passing days and years. - -Thus she had thought the dome of St. Peter's small, the Corso narrow -and Trajan's Column a column like any other; she had not noticed the -Forum as she drove past it; and she had been unable to think of a -single emperor when she was at the Palatine. - -Now she was home again, tired, and was resting a little and meditating; -she felt depressed, yet she enjoyed her vague reflections and the -silence about her in the big house, to which most of the boarders had -not yet returned. She thought of the Hague, of her big family, her -father, mother, brothers and sisters, of whom she had taken leave for -a long time to go abroad. Her father, a retired colonel of hussars -living on his pension, with no great private means, had been unable to -contribute anything to the fulfilment of her caprice, as he called it; -and she would not have been able to satisfy that caprice, of beginning -a new life, but for the small legacy which she had inherited some years -ago from a godmother. She was glad to be more or less independent, -though she felt the selfishness of her independence. - -But what could she have done for her family-circle, after the scandal -of her divorce? She was weak and selfish, she knew it; but she had -received a blow under which she had at first expected to succumb. And, -when she found herself surviving it, she had mustered such energy as -she possessed and said to herself that she could not go on existing in -that same narrow circle of her sisters and her girl friends; and she -had forced her life into a different path. She had always had the knack -of creating an apparently new frock out of an old dress, transforming -a last year's hat into one of the latest fashion. Even so she had now -done with her distraught and wretched life, all battered and broken as -it was; she had gathered together, as in a fit of economy, all that -was left, all that was still serviceable; and out of those remnants -she had made herself a new existence. But this new life was unable to -breathe in the old atmosphere: it felt aimless in it and estranged; -and she had managed to force it into a different path, in spite of -all the opposition of her family and friends. Perhaps she would not -have succeeded so readily if she had not been so completely shattered. -Perhaps she would not have felt this energy if she had suffered only -a little. She had her strength and she had her weakness; she was very -simple and yet she was very variable; and it was perhaps just this -complexity that had been the saving of her youth. - -Besides, she was actually very young, only twenty-three; and in youth -one possesses an unconscious vitality, notwithstanding any apparent -weakness. And her contradictory qualities gave her equilibrium and -saved her from falling over into the abyss.... - -All this passed vaguely through her mind as clouds pass before -the eyes, not with the conciseness of words but with the misty in -definiteness of a dreamy fatigue. As she lay there, she did not look -as if she had ever exerted the strength to give a new path to her -life: a pale, delicate woman, slender, with drooping movements, lying -on a sofa in her not very fresh dressing-gown, with its faded pink -and its rumpled lace. And yet there was a certain poetical fragrance -about her personality, despite her weary eyes and the limp outlines of -her attire, despite the boarding-house room, with its air of quickly -improvised comfort, a comfort which was a matter of tact rather -than reality and could be packed away in a single trunk. Her frail -figure, her pale and delicate rather than beautiful features were -surrounded, as by an aura, by that atmosphere of personal poetry which -she unconsciously radiated, which she shed from her eyes upon the -things which she beheld, from her fingers upon the things which she -touched. To those who did not like her, this peculiar atmosphere, this -unusualness, this eccentricity, this unlikeness to the typical young -woman of the Hague, was the very thing with which they reproached her. -To those who liked her, it was partly talent, partly soul; something -peculiar to her which seemed almost genius; yet it was perturbing. -It invested her with a great charm; it gave pause for thought and -it promised much: more, perhaps, than could be realized. And this -woman was the child of her time but especially of her environment and -therefore so unfinished, revealing disparity against disparity, in an -equilibrium of opposing forces, which might be her undoing or her -salvation, but were in either case her fate. - -She felt lonely in Italy. She had stayed for weeks at Florence, where -she tried to lead a full life, enriched by art and history. There, it -was true, she forgot herself to a great extent, but she still felt -lonely. She had spent a fortnight at Siena, but Siena had depressed -her, with its sombre streets, its dead palaces and she had yearned -for Rome. But she had not found Rome yet that afternoon. And, though -she felt tired, she felt above all things lonely, terribly lonely and -useless in a great world, in a great town, a town in which one feels -the greatness, uselessness and vast antiquity of things more perhaps -than anywhere else. She felt like a little atom of suffering, like an -insect, an ant, half-trodden, half-crushed, among the immense domes of -Rome, of whose presence out of doors she was subtly conscious. - -And her hand wandered vacantly over her books, which she had stacked -punctiliously and conscientiously on a little table: some translations -of the classics, Ovid, Tacitus, together with Dante, Petrarch, Tasso. -It was growing dusk in her room, there was no light to read by, she -was too much enervated to ring for a lamp; a chilliness hovered in -her little room, now that the sun had quite gone down, and she had -forgotten to ask for a fire on that first day. Loneliness was all about -her, her suffering pained her; her soul craved for a fellow-soul, but -her mouth craved for a kiss, her arms for _him_, once her husband; and, -turning on her cushions and wringing her hands, she prayed deep down in -herself: - -"O God, tell me what to do!" - - - - -CHAPTER III - - -At dinner there was a buzz of voices; the three or four long tables -were all full; the marchesa sat at the head of the centre table. Now -and then she beckoned impatiently to Giuseppe, the old major-domo, who -had dropped a spoon in an archducal court; and the unfledged little -waiters rushed about breathlessly. Cornelie found the obliging stout -gentleman, whom the German ladies called Mr. Rudyard, sitting opposite -her and her _fiasco_ of Genzano beside her plate. She thanked Mr. -Rudyard with a smile and made the usual remarks: how she had been for -a drive that afternoon and had made her first acquaintance with Rome, -the Forum, the Pincio. She talked to the German ladies and to the -English one, who was always so tired with her sight-seeing; and the -Germans, a _Baronin_ and the _Baronesse_ her daughter, laughed with -her at the two aesthetes whom Cornelie had come upon that morning in -the drawing-room. The two were sitting some distance away, lank and -angular, grimy-haired, in curiously cut evening-dress, which showed -the breast and arms warmly covered with a Jaeger under-vest, on which, -in their turn, lay strings of large blue beads. Their eyes browsed -over the long table, as though they were pitying everybody who had -come to Rome to learn about art, because they two alone knew what art -was. While eating, which they did unpleasantly, almost with their -fingers, they read aesthetic books, wrinkling their brows and now and -then looking up angrily, because the people about them were talking. -With their self-conceit, their impossible manners, their worse than -tasteless dress and their great air of superiority, they represented -types of travelling Englishwomen that are never met except in Italy. -They were unanimously criticized at the table. They came to the Pension -Belloni every winter and made drawings in water-colours in the Forum -or the Via Appia. And they were so remarkable in their unprecedented -originality, in their grimy angularity, with their evening-dresses, -their Jaegers, their strings of blue beads, their aesthetic books and -their meat-picking fingers, that all eyes were constantly wandering in -their direction, as though under the influence of a Medusa spell. - -The young baroness, a type out of the _Fliegende Blatter_, witty -and quick, with her little round, German face and arched, pencilled -eyebrows, was laughing with Cornelie and showing her a thumb-nail -caricature which she had made of the two aesthetic ladies in her -sketch-book, when Giuseppe conducted a young lady to the end of the -table where Cornelie and Rudyard sat opposite each other. She had -evidently just arrived, said "'Evening" to everybody near her and sat -clown with a great rustling. It was at once apparent that she was an -American, almost too good-looking, too young, to be travelling alone -like that, with a smiling self-possession, as if she were at home: a -very white complexion, very fine dark eyes, teeth like a dentist's -advertisement, her full breast moulded in mauve cloth plentifully -decorated with braid, on her heavily-waved hair a large mauve hat -with a cascade of black ostrich-feathers, fastened by an over-large -paste buckle. At every movement the silk of her petticoat rustled, the -feathers nodded, the paste buckle gleamed. And, notwithstanding all -this showiness, she was child-like: she was perhaps just twenty, with -an ingenuous expression in her eyes. She at once spoke to Cornelie, -to Rudyard; said that she was tired, that she had come from Naples, -that she had been dancing last night at Prince Cibo's, that her name -was Miss Urania Hope, that her father lived in Chicago, that she had -two brothers who, in spite of her father's money, were working on a -farm in the Far West, but that she had been brought up as a spoilt -child by her father, who, however, wanted her to be able to stand on -her own feet and was therefore making her travel by herself in the -Old World, in dear old Italy. She was delighted to hear that Cornelie -was also travelling alone; and Rudyard chaffed the ladies about their -modern views, but the Baronin and the Baronesse applauded them. Miss -Hope at once took a liking to her Dutch fellow-traveller and wanted to -arrange joint excursions; but Cornelie, withdrawing into herself, made -a tactful excuse, said that her time was fully engaged, that she wanted -to study in the museums. - -"So serious?" asked Miss Hope, respectfully. - -And the petticoat rustled, the plumes nodded, the paste buckle gleamed. - -She made on Cornelie the impression of a gaudy butterfly, which, -sportive and unthinking, might easily one day dash itself to pieces -against the hot-house windows of our cabined existence. She felt no -attraction towards this strange, pretty little creature, who looked -like a child and a _cocotte_ in one; but she felt sorry for her, she -did not know why. - -After dinner, Rudyard proposed to take the two German ladies for a -little walk. The younger baroness came to Cornelie and asked if she -would come too, to see Rome by moonlight, quite close, from the Villa -Medici. She felt grateful for the kindly suggestion and was just going -to put on her hat, when Miss Hope ran after her: - -"Stay and sit with me in the drawing-room." - -"I am going for a walk with the Baronin," Cornelie replied. - -"That German lady?" - -"Yes." - -"Is she a noblewoman?" - -"I presume so." - -"Are there many titled people in the house?" asked Miss Hope, eagerly. - -Cornelie laughed: - -"I don't know. I only arrived this morning." - -"I believe there are. I heard that there were many titled people here. -Are you one?" - -"I was!" Cornelie laughed. "But I had to give up my title." - -"What a shame!" Miss Hope exclaimed. "I love titles. Do you know what -I've got? An album with the coats of arms of all sorts of families and -another album with patterns of silk and brocade from each of the Queen -of Italy's ball-dresses. Would you care to see it?" - -"Very much indeed!" Cornelie laughed. "But I must put on my hat now." - -She went and returned in a hat and cloak; the German ladies and Rudyard -were waiting in the hall and asked what she was laughing at. She caused -great merriment by telling them about the album with the patterns of -the queen's ball-dresses. - -"Who is he?" she asked the Baronin, as she walked in front with her, -along the Via Sistina, while the Baronesse and Rudyard followed. - -She thought the Baronin a charming person, but she was surprised to -find, in this German woman, who belonged to the titled military class, -a coldly cynical view of life which was not exactly that of her Berlin -environment. - -"I don't know," the Baronin answered, with an air of indifference. "We -travel a great deal. We have no house in Berlin at present. We want -to make the most of our stay abroad. Mr. Rudyard is very pleasant. He -helps us in all sorts of ways: tickets for a papal mass, introductions -here, invitations there. He seems to have plenty of influence. What do -I care who or what he is! Else agrees with me. I accept what he gives -us and for the rest I don't try to fathom him." - -They walked on. The Baronin took Cornelie's arm. - -"My dear child, don't think us more cynical than we are. I hardly know -you, but I've felt somehow drawn towards you. Strange, isn't it, when -one's abroad like this and has one's first talk at a _table-d'hote_, -over a skinny chicken? Don't think us shabby or cynical. Oh dear, -perhaps we are! Our cosmopolitan, irresponsible, unsettled life makes -us ungenerous, cynical and selfish. Very selfish. Rudyard shows us many -kindnesses. Why should I not accept them? I don't care who or what he -is. I am not committing myself in any way." - -Cornelie looked round involuntarily. In the nearly dark street she saw -Rudyard and the young Baronesse, almost whispering and mysteriously -intimate: - -"And does your daughter think so too?" - -"Oh, yes! We are not committing ourselves in any way. We do not -even particularly like him, with his pock-marked face and his dirty -finger-nails. We merely accept his introductions. Do as we do. Or ... -don't. Perhaps it will be better form if you don't. I ... I have become -a great egoist, through travelling. What do I care?..." - -The dark street seemed to invite confidences; and Cornelie to some -extent understood this cynical indifference, particularly in a woman -reared in narrow principles of duty and morality. It was certainly -not good form; but was it not weariness brought about by the wear and -tear of life? In any case she vaguely understood it: that tone of -indifference, that careless shrugging of the shoulders.... - -They turned the corner of the Hotel Massier and approached the Villa -Medici. The full moon was pouring down its flood of white radiance and -Rome lay in the flawless blue glamour of the night. Over-flowing the -brimming basin of the fountain, beneath the black ilexes, whose leafage -held the picture of Rome in an ebony frame, the waste water splashed -and clattered. - -"Rome must be very beautiful," said Cornelie, softly. Rudyard and the -Baronesse had come nearer and heard what she said: - -"Rome _is_ beautiful," he said, earnestly. "And Rome is more. Rome is a -great consolation to many people." - -His words, spoken in the blue moonlit night, impressed her. The city -seemed to lie in mystical billows at her feet. She looked at him, as -he stood before her in his black coat, showing but little linen, the -same stout, civil gentleman. His voice was very penetrating, with a -rich note of conviction in it. She looked at him long, uncertain of -herself and vaguely conscious of an approaching intimation, but still -antipathetic. - -Then he added, as though he did not wish her to meditate too deeply the -words which he had uttered: - -"A great consolation to many ... because beauty consoles." - -And she thought his last words an aesthetic commonplace; but he had -meant her to think so. - - - - -CHAPTER IV - - -Those first days in Rome tired Cornelie greatly. She did too much, as -every one does who has just arrived in Rome; she wanted to take in the -whole city at once; and the distances, although covered in a carriage, -and the endless galleries in the museums resulted in producing physical -exhaustion. Moreover she was constantly experiencing disappointments, -in respect of pictures, statues or buildings. At first she dared not -own to these disappointments; but one afternoon, feeling dead-tired, -after she had been painfully disappointed in the Sistine Chapel, she -owned up to herself. Everything that she saw that was already known -to her from her previous studies disappointed her. Then she resolved -to give sight-seeing a rest. And, after those fatiguing days, when -every morning and every afternoon was spent out of doors, it was a -luxury to surrender herself to the unconscious current of daily life. -She remained at home in the mornings, wrapped in a tea-gown, in her -cosy little bird-cage of a sitting-room, writing letters, dreaming -a little, with her arms folded behind her head; she read Ovid and -Petrarch, or listened to a couple of street-musicians, who, with their -quavering tenors, to the shrill whining of their guitars, filled the -silent street with a sobbing passion of music. At lunch she considered -that she had been lucky in her _pension_, in her little corner at -the table. She was interested in Baronin von Rothkirch, with her -indifferent, aristocratic condescension towards Rudyard, because she -saw how residence abroad can draw a person out of the narrow ring of -caste principles. The young Baronesse, who cared nothing about life and -merely sketched and painted, interested her because of her whispering -intimacy with Rudyard, which she failed to understand. Miss Hope was so -ingenuous, so childishly irrational, that Cornelie could not imagine -how old Hope, the rich stockinet-manufacturer over in Chicago, allowed -this child to travel about alone, with her far too generous monthly -allowance and her total ignorance of the world and people; and Rudyard -himself, though she sometimes felt an aversion for him, attracted her -in spite of that aversion. Although she had so far formed no deeper -friendship with any of her fellow-boarders, at any rate they were -people to whom she was able to talk; and the conversation at table was -a diversion amid the solitude of the rest of the day. - -For, in the afternoons, during this period of fatigue and -disappointment, she would merely go for a short walk by herself down -the Corso or on the Pincio and then return home, make her own tea in -her little silver tea-pot and sit dreaming by the log fire, in the -dusk, until it was time to dress for dinner. - -And the brightly-lit dining-room with the Guercino ceiling was gay and -cheerful. The _pension_ was crammed: the marchesa had given up her own -room and was sleeping in the bath-room. A hum of voices buzzed around -the tables; the waiters rushed to and fro; spoons and forks clattered. -There was none of the melancholy spirit of so many _tables-d'hote_. -The people knew one another; and the excitement of Roman life, the -oxygen in the Roman air seemed to lend an added vivacity to the -gestures and conversation. Amidst this vivacity the two grimy aesthetic -ladies attracted attention by their unvarying pose, with their eternal -evening-dress, their Jaegers, their beads, the fat books which they -read, their angry looks because people were talking. - -After dinner they sat in the drawing-room or in the hall, made friends -here and there and talked of Rome, Rome, Rome. There was always a -great fuss about the music in the different churches: they consulted -the _Herald_; they asked Rudyard, who knew everything, and gathered -round him; and he, fat and polite as ever, smiled and distributed -tickets and named the day and hour at which an important service would -be held in this church or that. To English ladies, who were not fully -informed, he would now and then, as it were casually, impart details -about the complexities of Catholic ritual and the Catholic hierarchy; -he explained the nationalities denoted by the various colours of the -seminarists whom you met in shoals of an afternoon on the Pincio, -staring at St. Peter's, in ecstasy over St. Peter's, the mighty symbol -of their mighty religion; he set forth the distinction between a church -and a basilica; he related anecdotes of the private life of Leo XIII. -His manner of speaking of all these things possessed an insinuating -charm: the English ladies, greedy for information, hung on his lips, -thought him _too_ awfully nice, asked him for a thousand particulars. - -These days were a great rest for Cornelie. She recovered from her -fatigue and felt indifferent towards Rome. But she did not think of -leaving any the sooner. Whether she was here or elsewhere was all -the same to her: she had to be somewhere. Besides, the _pension_ was -good, her fellow-boarders pleasant and cheerful. She no longer read -Hare's _Walks in Rome_ or Ovid's _Metamorphoses_, but she read Ouida's -_Ariadne_ over again. She did not care for the book as much as she -had done three years before, at the Hague; and, after that, she read -nothing. But she amused herself with the Von Rothkirch ladies for a -whole evening, looking over Miss Hope's album of seals and collection -of patterns. How mad these Americans were on titles and royalties! The -Baronin good-naturedly contributed an impression of her own arms to -the album. And the patterns were greatly admired: gold brocades; silks -heavily interwoven with silver; spangled tulles. Miss Hope related how -she had come by them: she knew one of the queen's waiting-women, who -had formerly been in service with an American; and this waiting-woman -was now able to procure the patterns for her at a high price: a -precious bit of material picked up while the queen was trying on, -or sometimes even cut out of a broad seam. The child was prouder of -her collection of patterns than an Italian prince of his paintings, -said Baronin von Rothkirch. But, notwithstanding this absurdity, this -vanity, Cornelie came to like the pretty American girl because of her -candid and unsophisticated nature. She looked most attractive in the -evening, in a black low-cut dress, or in a rose chiffon blouse. For -that matter, it was a different frock every night. She possessed a -kaleidoscopic collection of dresses, blouses and jewels. She would walk -through the ruins of the Forum in a tailor-made suit of cream cloth, -lined with orange silk; and her white lace petticoat flitted airily -over the foundations of the Basilica Julia or the Temple of Vesta. Her -gaily-trimmed hats introduced patches of colour from Regent Street or -the Avenue de l'Opera into the tragic seriousness of the Colosseum or -the ruined palace of the Palatine. The young Baronesse teased her about -her orange silk lining, so in harmony with the Forum, about her hats, -so in keeping with the seriousness of a place of Christian martyrdom, -but she was never angry: - -"It's a nice hat anyway!" she would say, in her Yankee drawl, which -always afforded a good view of her pretty teeth, but made her strain -her mouth as though she were cracking filberts. - -And the child enjoyed everything, enjoyed the Baronin and the -Baronesse, enjoyed being at a _pension_ kept by a decayed Italian -marchioness. And, as soon as she caught sight of the Marchesa -Belloni's grey, leonine head, she would make a rush for her--because -a marchioness is higher than a baroness, said Mrs. von Rothkirch--drag -her into a corner and, if possible, monopolize her throughout the -evening. Rudyard would then join them; and Cornelie, seeing this, -wondered what Rudyard was, who he was and what he was about. But this -did not interest the Baronin, who had just received a card for a mass -in the papal chapel; and the young Baronesse merely said that he told -legends of the saints so nicely, when explaining the pictures to her in -the Doria and the Corsini. - - - - -CHAPTER V - - -One evening Cornelie made the acquaintance of the Dutch family beside -whom the marchesa had first wished to place her at the table: Mrs. -Van der Staal and her two daughters. They too were spending the whole -winter in Rome: they had friends there and went out visiting. The -conversation flowed smoothly; and mevrouw invited Cornelie to come -and have a chat in her sitting-room. Next day she accompanied her new -acquaintances to the Vatican and heard that mevrouw was expecting -her son, who was coming to Rome from Florence to continue his -archaeological studies. - -Cornelie was glad to meet at the hotel a Dutch element that was -not repellant. She thought it pleasant to talk Dutch again and she -confessed as much. In a day or two she had become intimate with Mrs. -Van der Staal and the two girls; and on the evening when young Van der -Staal arrived she opened her heart more than she had ever thought that -she could do to strangers whom she had known for barely a few days. - -They were sitting in the Van der Staals' sitting-room, Cornelie in a -low chair by the blazing log-fire, for the evening was chilly. They -had been talking about the Hague, about her divorce; and she was now -speaking of Italy, of herself: - -"I no longer see-anything," she confessed. "Rome has quite bewildered -me. I can't distinguish a colour, an outline. I don't recognize people. -They all seem to whirl round me. Sometimes I feel a need to sit alone -for hours in my bird-cage upstairs, to recollect myself. This morning, -in the Vatican, I don't know: I remember nothing. It is all grey -and fuzzy around me. Then the people in the boarding-house: the same -faces every day. I see them and yet I don't see them. I see ... I see -Madame von Rothkirch and her daughter, I see the fair Urania ... and -Rudyard ... and the little Englishwoman, Miss Taylor, who is always -so tired with sight-seeing and who thinks everything most exquisite. -But my memory is so bad that, when I am alone, I have to think to -myself: Mrs. von Rothkirch is tall and stately, with the smile of the -German Empress--she _is_ rather like her--talking fast and yet with -indifference, as though the words just fell indifferently from her -lips...." - -"You're a good observer," said Van der Staal. - -"Oh, don't say that!" said Cornelie, almost vexed. "I see nothing and -I can't remember. I receive no impressions. Everything around me is -colourless. I really don't know why I have come abroad.... When I'm -alone, I think of the people I meet. I know Madame von Rothkirch now -and I know Else. Such a round merry face, with arched eyebrows, and -always a joke or a witticism: I find it tiring sometimes, she makes me -laugh so. Still, they are very nice. And the fair Urania. She tells me -everything. She is as communicative ... as I am at this moment. And -Rudyard: I see him before me too." - -"Rudyard!" smiled mevrouw and the girls. - -"What is he?" Cornelie asked, inquisitively. "He is so civil, he -ordered my wine for me, he can always get one all sorts of cards." - -"Don't you know what Rudyard is?" asked Mrs Van der Staal. - -"No; and Mrs. von Rothkirch doesn't know either." - -"Then you had better be careful," laughed the girls. - -"Are you a Catholic?" asked mevrouw. - -"No." - -"Nor the fair Urania either? Nor Mrs. von Rothkirch?" - -"No." - -"Well, that is why la Belloni put Rudyard at your table. Rudyard is a -Jesuit. Every _pension_ in Rome has a Jesuit who lives there free of -charge, if the proprietor is a good friend of the Church, and who tries -to win souls by making himself especially agreeable." - -Cornelie refused to believe it. - -"You can take my word for it," mevrouw continued, "that in a _pension_ -like this, a first-class _pension_, a _pension_ with a reputation, a -great deal of intrigue goes on." - -"La Belloni?" Cornelie enquired. - -"Our marchesa is a thorough-paced _intrigante_. Last winter, three -English sisters were converted here." - -"By Rudyard?" - -"No, by another priest. Rudyard is here for the first time this winter." - -"Rudyard walked quite a long way with me in the street this morning," -said young Van der Staal. "I let him talk, I heard all he had to say." - -Cornelie fell back in her chair: - -"I am tired of people," she said, with the strange sincerity which was -hers. "I should like to sleep for a month, without seeing anybody." - -And, after a short pause, she got up, said good-night and went to bed, -while everything swam before her eyes. - - - - -CHAPTER VI - - -She remained indoors for a day or two and had her meals served in her -room. One morning, however, she was going for a stroll in the Villa -Borghese, when she met young Van der Staal, on his bicycle. - -"Don't you ride?" he asked, jumping off. - -"No." - -"Why not?" - -"It is an exercise which doesn't suit my style," Cornelie replied, -vexed at meeting any one who disturbed the solitude of her stroll. - -"May I walk with you?" - -"Certainly." - -He gave his machine into the charge of the porter at the gate and -walked on with her, quite naturally, without saying very much: - -"It's beautiful here," he remarked. - -His words seemed to convey a simple meaning. She looked at him, for the -first time, attentively: - -"You're an archaeologist?" she asked. - -"No," he said, deprecatingly. - -"What are you, then?" - -"Nothing. Mamma says that, just to excuse me. I'm nothing and a very -useless member of society at that. And I'm not even well off." - -"But you are studying, aren't you?" - -"No. I do a little casual reading. My sisters call it studying." - -"Do you like going about, as your sisters do?" - -"No, I hate it. I never go with them." - -"Don't you like meeting and studying people?" - -"No. I like pictures, statues and trees." - -"A poet?" - -"No. Nothing. I am nothing, really." - -She looked at him, with increased attention. He was walking very simply -by her side, a tall, thin fellow of perhaps twenty-six, more of a boy -than a man in face and figure, but endowed with a certain assurance and -restfulness that made him seem older than his years. He was pale; he -had dark, cool, almost reproachful eyes; and his long, lean figure, in -his badly-kept cycling-suit, betrayed a slight indifference, as though -he did not care what his arms and legs looked like. - -He said nothing but walked on pleasantly, unembarrassed, without -finding it necessary to talk. Cornelie, however, grew fidgety and -sought for words: - -"It is beautiful here," she stammered. - -"Oh, it's very beautiful!" he replied, calmly, without seeing that -she was constrained. "So green, so spacious, so peaceful: those long -avenues, those vistas of avenues, like an antique arch, over yonder; -and, far away in the distance, look, St. Peter's, always St. Peter's. -It's a pity about those queer things lower down: that restaurant, that -milk-tent. People spoil everything nowadays.... Let us sit down here: -it is so lovely here." - -They sat down on a bench. - -"It is such a joy when a thing is beautiful," he continued. "People are -never beautiful. Things are beautiful: statues and paintings. And then -trees and clouds!" - -"Do you paint?" - -"Sometimes," he confessed, grudgingly. "A little. But really everything -has been painted already; and I can't say that I paint." - -"Perhaps you write too?" - -"There has been even more written than painted, much more. Perhaps -everything has not yet been painted, but everything has certainly been -written. Every new book that is not of absolute scientific importance -is superfluous. All the poetry has been written and every novel too." - -"Do you read much?" - -"Hardly at all. I sometimes dip into an old author." - -"But what do you do then?" she asked, suddenly, querulously. - -"Nothing," he answered, calmly, with a glance of humility. "I do -nothing, I exist." - -"Do you think that a good mode of life?" - -"No." - -"Then why don't you adopt another?" - -"As I might buy a new coat or a new bicycle?" - -"You're not speaking seriously," she said, crossly. - -"Why are you so vexed with me?" - -"Because you annoy me," she said, irritably. - -He rose, bowed civilly and said: - -"Then I had better go for a turn on my bicycle." - -And he walked slowly away. - -"What a stupid fellow!" she thought, peevishly. But she thought it -tiresome that she had wrangled with him, because of his mother and -sisters. - - - - -CHAPTER VII - - -At the hotel, however, he spoke to Cornelie politely, as though there -had been no embarrassment, no wrangling interchange of words between -them, and he even asked her quite simply--because his mother and -sisters had some calls to pay that afternoon--whether they should go to -the Palatine together. - -"I passed it the other day," she said, indifferently. "And don't you -intend to see the ruins?" - -"No." - -"Why not?" - -"They don't interest me. I can't see the past in them. I merely see -ruins." - -"But then why did you come to Rome?" he asked, irritably. - -She looked at him and could have burst into sobs: - -"I don't know," she said, meekly. "I might just as well have gone -somewhere else. But I had formed a great idea of Rome; and Rome -disappoints me." - -"How so?" - -"I find it hard and inexorable and devoid of feeling. I don't know -why, but that's the impression it makes upon me. And I am in a mood -at present which somehow makes me want something less insensible and -imperturbable." - -He smiled: - -"Come along," he said. "Come with me to the Palatine. I must show you -Rome. It is so beautiful." - -She felt too much depressed to remain alone; and she put on her things -and left the hotel with him. - -The cabmen outside cracked their whips: - -"_Vole? Vole?_" they shouted. - -He picked out one: - -"This is Gaetano," he said. "I always take him. He knows me, don't you, -Gaetano?" - -"_Si, signorino. Cavallo di sangue, signorina!_" said Gaetano, pointing -to his horse. - -They drove away. - -"I am always frightened of these cabmen," said Cornelie. - -"You don't know them," he answered, smiling. "I like them. I like the -people. They're nice people." - -"You approve of everything in Rome." - -"And you submit without reserve to a mistaken impression." - -"Why mistaken?" - -"Because that first impression of Rome, as hard and unfeeling, is -always the same and always mistaken." - -"Yes, it's that. Look, we are driving by the Forum. Whenever I see the -Forum, I think of Miss Hope and her orange lining." - -He felt annoyed and did not answer. - -"This is the Palatine." - -They alighted and passed through the entrance. - -"This wooden staircase takes us to the Palace of Tiberius. Above the -palace, on the top of the arches, is a garden from which we look down -on the Forum." - -"Tell me about Tiberius. I know that there were good and bad emperors. -We were taught that at school. Tiberius was a bad emperor, wasn't he?" - -"He was a gloomy brute. But why do you want me to tell you about him?" - -"Because otherwise I can take no interest in those arches and chambers." - -"Then let us go up to the top and sit in the garden." - -They did so. - -"Don't you feel Rome here?" he asked. - -"I feel the same everywhere," she replied. - -But he seemed not to hear her: - -"It's the atmosphere around you," he continued. "You should try to -forget our hotel, to forget Belloni and all our fellow-visitors and -yourself. When anybody first arrives here, he has all the usual trouble -about the hotel, his rooms, the _table-d'hote_, the vaguely likable or -dislikable people. You've got over that now. Clear your mind of it. -And try to feel only the atmosphere of Rome. It's as if the atmosphere -had remained the same, notwithstanding that the centuries lie piled -up one above the other. First the middle ages covered the antiquity -of the Forum and now it's hidden everywhere by our nineteenth-century -craze for travel. There you have Miss Hope's orange lining. But the -atmosphere has always remained the same. Unless I imagine it...." - -She was silent. - -"Perhaps I do," he continued. "But what does that matter to me? Our -whole life is imagination; and imagination is a beautiful thing. The -beauty of our imagination is the consolation of our lives, to those of -us who are not men of action. The past is beauty. The present is not, -does not exist. And the future does not interest me." - -"Do you ever think about modern problems?" she asked. - -"The woman question? Socialism? Peace?" - -"Well, yes, for instance." - -"No," he smiled. "I think of them sometimes, but not about them." - -"How do you mean?" - -"I get no further. That is my nature. I am a dreamer by nature; and my -dream is the past." - -"Don't you dream of yourself?" - -"No. Of my soul, my inner self? No. It interests me very little." - -"Have you ever suffered?" - -"Suffered? Yes, no. I don't know. I feel sorry for my utter uselessness -as a human being, as a son, as a man; but, when I dream, I am happy." - -"How do you come to speak to me so openly?" - -He looked at her in surprise: - -"Why should I be reticent about myself?" he asked. "I either don't talk -or I talk as I am doing now. Perhaps it is a little odd." - -"Do you talk to every one so intimately?" - -"No, hardly to anybody. I once had a friend ... but he's dead. Tell me, -I suppose you consider me morbid?" - -"No, I don't think so." - -"I shouldn't mind if you did. Oh, how beautiful it is here! Are you -drinking Rome in with your very breath?" - -"Which Rome?" - -"The Rome of antiquity. Under where we are sitting is the Palace of -Tiberius. I see him walking about there, with his tall, strong figure, -with his large, searching eyes: he was very strong, he was very gloomy -and he was a brute. He had no ideals. Farther down, over there, is the -Palace of Caligula, a madman of genius. He built a bridge across the -Forum to speak to Jupiter in the Capitol. That's a thing one couldn't -do nowadays. He was a genius and a madman. When a man's like that, -there's a good deal about him to admire." - -"How can you admire an age of emperors who were brutes and mad?" - -"Because I see their age before my eyes, in the past, like a dream." - -"How is it possible that you don't see the present before you, with the -problems of our own time, especially the eternal problem of poverty?" - -He looked at her: - -"Yes," he said, "I know. That is my sin, my wickedness. The eternal -problem of poverty doesn't affect me." - -She looked at him contemptuously: - -"You don't belong to your period," she said, coldly. - -"No." - -"Have you ever felt hungry?" - -He laughed and shrugged his shoulders. - -"Have you ever pictured yourself leading the life of a labourer, of a -factory-girl who works until she's worn out and old and half-dead for a -bare crust of bread?" - -"Oh, those things are so horrible and so ugly: don't talk about them!" -he entreated. - -The expression of her eyes was cold; the corners of her lips were -depressed as though by a sense of disgust; and she rose from her seat. - -"Are you angry?" he asked, humbly. - -"No," she said, gently, "I am not angry." - -"But you despise me, because you consider me a useless creature, an -aesthete and a dreamer?" - -"No. What am I myself, that I should reproach you with your -uselessness?" - -"Oh, if we could only find something!" he exclaimed, almost in ecstasy. - -"What?" - -"An aim. But mine would always remain beauty. And the past." - -"And, if _I_ had the strength of mind to devote myself to an aim, it -would above all be this: bread for the future." - -"How abominable that sounds!" he said, rudely but sincerely. "Why -didn't you go to London, or Manchester, or one of those black -manufacturing towns?" - -"Because I hadn't the strength of mind and because I think too much of -myself and of a sorrow that I have had lately. And I expected to find -distraction in Italy." - -"And that is where your disappointment lies. But perhaps you will -gradually acquire greater strength and then devote yourself to your -aim: bread for the future. I sha'n't envy you, however: bread for the -Future!..." - -She was silent. - -Then she said, coldly: - -"It is getting late. Let us go home...." - - - - -CHAPTER VIII - - -Duco Van Der Staal had taken a large, vault-like studio, with a chilly -north light, up three flights of stairs in the Via del Babuino. Here -he painted, modelled and studied and here he dragged all the beautiful -and antique objects that he succeeded in picking up in the little shops -along the Tiber or in the Mercato dei Fiori. That was his passion: -to hunt through Rome for a panel of an old triptych or a fragment of -ancient sculpture. In this way his studio had not remained the large, -chilly, vault-like workroom bearing witness to zealous and serious -study, but had become a refuge for dim-coloured remnants of antiquity -and ancient art, a museum for his dreaming spirit. Already as a child, -as a boy, he had felt that passion for antiquity developing; he learnt -how to rummage through the stocks of old Jewish dealers; he taught -himself to haggle when his purse was not full; and he collected first -rubbish and afterwards, gradually, objects of artistic and financial -value. And it was his great hobby, his one vice: he spent all his -pocket-money on it and, later, without reserve, the little that he was -able to earn. For sometimes, very seldom, he would finish something and -sell it. But generally he was too ill-satisfied with himself to finish -anything; and his modest notion was that everything had already been -created and that _his_ art was useless. - -This idea sometimes paralysed him for months together, without making -him unhappy. When he had the money to keep himself going--and his -personal needs were very small--he felt rich and was content in his -studio, or would wander, perfectly content, through the streets of -Rome. His long, careless, lean, slender body was at such times clad in -his oldest suit, which afforded an unostentatious glimpse of an untidy -shirt with a soft collar and a bit of string instead of a tie; and -his favourite headgear was a faded hat, battered out of shape by the -rain. His mother and sisters as a rule found him unpresentable, but had -given up trying to transform him into the well-groomed son and brother -whom they would have liked to take to the drawing-rooms of their Roman -friends. Happy to breathe the atmosphere of Rome, he would wander -for hours through the ruins and see, in a dazzling vision of phantom -columns, ethereal temples and translucent marble palaces looming up -in a shimmering sunlit twilight; and the tourists going by with their -Baedekers, who passed this long, lean young man seated carelessly on -the foundations of the Temple of Saturn, would never have believed in -his architectural illusions of harmonious ascending lines, crowned by -an array of statues in noble and god-like attitudes, high in the blue -sky. - -But he saw them before him. He raised the shafts of the pillars, he -fluted the severe Doric columns, he bent and curved the cushioned Ionic -capitals and unfurled the leaves of the Corinthian acanthuses; the -temples rose in the twinkling of an eye, the basilicas shot up as by -magic, the graven images stood white against the elusive depths of the -sky and the Via Sacra became alive. He, in his admiration, lived his -dream, his past. It was as though he had known preexistence in ancient -Rome; and the modern houses, the modern Capitol and all that stood -around the tomb of his Forum were invisible to his eyes. - -He would sit like this for hours, or wander about and sit down again -and be happy. In the intensity of his imagination, he conjured up -history from the clouds of the past, first of all as a mist, a -miraculous haze, whence the figures stepped out against the marble -background of ancient Rome. The gigantic dramas were enacted before -his dreaming eyes as on an ideal stage which stretched from the -Forum to the hazy, sun-shot azure of the Campagna, with slips that -lost themselves in the depths of the sky. Roman life came into -being, with a toga'd gesture, a line of Horace, a sudden vision of -an emperor's murder or a contest of gladiators in the arena. And -suddenly also the vision paled and he saw the ruins, the ruins only, -as the tangible shadow of his unreal illusion: he saw the ruins as -they were, brown and grey, eaten up with age, crumbled, martyred -mutilated with hammers, till only a few occasional pillars lifted -and bore a trembling architrave, that threatened to come crashing to -the ground. And the browns and greys were so richly and nobly gilded -by splashes of sunlight, the ruins were so exquisitely beautiful in -decay, so melancholy in their unwitting fortuitousness of broken lines, -of shattered arches and mutilated sculpture, that it was as though -he himself, after his airy vision of radiant dream-architecture, had -tortured and mutilated them with an artist's hand and caused them to -burst asunder and shake and tremble, for the sake of their wistful -aftermath of beauty. Then his eyes grew moist, his heart became more -full than he could bear and he went away, through the Arch of Titus by -the Colosseum, through the Arch of Constantine, on and on, and hurried -past the Lateran to the Via Appia and the Campagna, where his smarting -eyes drank in the blue of the distant Alban Hills, as though that would -cure them of their excessive gazing and dreaming.... - -Neither in his mother nor in his sisters did he find a strain that -sympathized with his eccentric tendencies; and, since that one friend -who died, he had never found another and had always been lonely, within -and without, as though the victim of a predestination which would not -allow him to meet with sympathy. But he had peopled his loneliness -so densely with his dreams that he had never felt unhappy because of -it; and, even as he loved roaming alone among the ruins and along -the country-roads, so he cherished the privacy of his lonely studio, -with the many silent figures on an old panel of some triptych, on a -tapestry, or on the many closely hung sketches all around him, all with -the charm of their lines and colours, all with the silent gesture of -their movement and emotion and all blending together in twilit corners -or a shadowy antique cabinet. And in between all this lived his china -and bronze and old silver, while the faded gold embroidery of an -ecclesiastical vestment gleamed faintly and the old leather bindings of -his books stood in comfortable brown TOWS, ready to give forth, when -his hands opened them, images which mistily drifted upwards, living -their loves and their sorrows in the tempered browns and reds and golds -of the soundless atmosphere of the studio. - -Such was his simple life, without much inward doubting, because he -made no great demands upon himself, and without the modern artist's -melancholy, because he was happy in his dreams. He had never, despite -his hotel life with his mother and sisters--he slept and took his meals -at Belloni's--met many people or concerned himself with strangers, -being by nature a little shy of Baedekered tourists, of short-skirted -English ladies, with their persistent little exclamations of uniform -admiration, and feeling entirely impossible in the half-Italian, -half-cosmopolitan set of his rather worldly mother and smart little -sisters, who spent their time dancing and cycling with young Italian -princes and dukes. - -And, now that he had met Cornelie de Retz, he had to confess to himself -that he possessed but little knowledge of human nature and that he had -never learnt to believe in the reality of such a woman, who might have -existed in books, but not in actual life. Her very appearance--her -pallor, her drooping charm, her weariness--had astonished him; and her -conversation astonished him even more: her positiveness mingled with -hesitation; her artistic feeling modified by the endeavour to take part -in her period, a period which he failed to appreciate as artistic, -enamoured as he was of Rome and of the past. And her conversation -astonished him, attractive though the sound of it was and offended -as he often was by a recurrent bitterness and irony, followed again -by depression and discouragement, until he thought it over again and -again, until in his musing he seemed to hear it once more on her own -lips, until she joined the busts and torsos in his studio and appeared -before him in the lily-like frailness of her visible actuality, against -the preraphaelite stiffness of line and the Byzantine gold and colour -of the angels and madonnas on canvas and tapestry. - -His soul had never known love; and he had always looked on love as -imagination and poetry. His life had never known more than the natural -virile impulse and the ordinary little love-affair with a model. And -his ideals on love swayed in a too wide and unreal balance between a -woman who showed herself in the nude for a few lire and Petrarch's -Laura; between the desire roused by a beautiful body and the exaltation -inspired by Dante's Beatrice; between the flesh and the dream. He had -never contemplated an encounter of kindred souls, never longed for -sympathy, for love in the full and pregnant sense of the word. And, -when he began to think and to think long and often of Cornelie de Retz, -he could not understand it. He had pondered and dreamed for days, for a -week, about a woman in a poem about a woman in real life never. - -And that he, irritated by some of her sayings, had nevertheless seen -her stand with her lily-like outline against his Byzantine triptych, -like a wraith in his lonely dreams, almost frightened him, because it -had made him lose his peace of mind. - - - - -CHAPTER IX - - -It was Christmas Day, on which occasion the Marchesa Belloni -entertained her boarders with a Christmas-tree in the drawing-room, -followed by a dance in the old Guercino dining-room. To give a ball -and a Christmas-tree was a custom with many hotel-keepers; and the -_pensions_ that gave no dance or Christmas-tree were known and numbered -and were greatly blamed by the foreigners for this breach of tradition. -There were instances of very excellent _pensions_ to which many -travellers, especially ladies, never went, because there was neither a -dance nor a Christmas-tree at Christmas. - -The marchesa realized that her tree was expensive and that her -dance cost money too and she would gladly have found an excuse for -avoiding both, but she dared not: the reputation of her _pension_, -as it happened, depended on its worldliness and smartness, on the -_table-d'hote_ in the handsome dining-room, where people dressed for -dinner, and also on the brilliant party given at Christmas. And it -was amusing to see how keen all the ladies were to receive gratis in -their bill for a whole winter's stay a trashy Christmas present and the -opportunity of dancing without having to pay for a glass of _orgeade_ -and a bit of pastry, a sandwich and a cup of soup. Giuseppe, the old -nodding major-domo, looked down contemptuously on this festivity: he -remembered the gala pomp of his archducal evenings and considered -the dance inferior and the tree paltry. Antonio, the limping porter, -accustomed to his comparatively quiet life--fetching a visitor or -taking him to the station; sorting the post twice a day at his ease; -and, for the rest, pottering around his lodge and the lift--hated the -dance, because of all the guests of the boarders, each of whom was -entitled to invite two or three friends, and because of all that tiring -fuss with carriages, when a good many of the visitors skipped into -their _vettura_ without tipping him. Round about Christmas, therefore, -relations between the marchesa and her two principal dignitaries -became far from harmonious; and a hail of orders and abuse would -patter down on the backs of the old _cameriere_, crawling wearily up -and down stairs with their hot-water cans in their trembling hands, -and of the young greenhorns of waiters, colliding with one another -in their undisciplined zeal and smashing the plates. And it was only -now, when the whole staff was put to work, that people saw how old the -_cameriere_ were and how young the waiters and qualified as disgraceful -and shocking the thrifty method of the marchesa in employing none but -wrecks and infants in her service. The one muscular _facchino_, who was -essential for hauling the luggage, cut an unexpected figure of virile -maturity and robustness. But above everything the visitors detested the -marchesa because of the great number of her servants, reflecting that -now, at Christmas time, they would have to tip every one of them. No, -they never imagined that the staff was so large! Quite unnecessarily -large too! Why couldn't the marchesa engage a couple of strong young -maids and waiters instead of all those old women and little boys? And -there was much hushed plotting and confabulating in the corners of the -passages and at meals, to decide on the tips to be given: they didn't -want to spoil the servants, but still they were staying all the winter; -and therefore one lira was hardly enough and they hesitated between -one lira twenty-five and one lira fifty. But, when they counted on -their fingers that there were fully five-and-twenty servants and that -therefore they were close on forty lire out of pocket, they thought -it an awful lot and they got up subscription-lists. Two lists went -round, one of one lira and one of twelve lire a visitor, the latter -subscription covering the whole staff. On this second list some, who -had arrived a month before and who had arranged to leave, entered their -names for ten lire and some for six lire. Five lire was by general -consent considered too little; and, when it became known that the grimy -aesthetic ladies intended to give five lire, they were regarded with -the greatest contempt. - -It all meant a lot of trouble and excitement. As Christmas drew nearer, -people streamed to the _presepii_ set up by painters in the Palazzo -Borghese: a panorama of Jerusalem and the shepherds, the angels, the -Magi and Mary and the Child in the manger with the ox and the ass. -They listened in the Ara Coeli to the preaching of little boys and -girls, who by turns climbed the platform and told the story of the -Nativity, some shyly reciting a little poem, prompted by an anxious -mother; others, girls especially, declaiming and rolling their eyes -with the dramatic fervour of little Italian actresses and ending up -with a religious moral. The people and countless tourists stood and -listened to the preaching; a pleasant spirit prevailed in the church, -where the shrill young children's voices were lifted up in oratory; -there was laughter at a gesture or a point driven home; and the priests -strolling round the church wore an unctuous smile because it was all -so pretty and so satisfactory. And in the chapel of the Santo Bambino -the miraculous wooden doll was bright with gold and jewels; and the -close-packed multitude thronged to gaze at it. - -All the visitors at Belloni's bought bunches of holly in the Piazza -di Spagna to adorn their rooms with; and some, such as the Baronin -van Rothkirch, set up a private Christmas-tree in their own rooms. On -the evening before the great party, one and all went to admire these -private trees, going in and out of one another's rooms; and all the -boarders wore a kind, festive smile and welcomed everybody, however -much at other times they might quarrel and intrigue against one -another. It was universally agreed that the Baronin had taken great -pains and that her tree was magnificent. Her bedroom had been cleverly -metamorphosed into a boudoir, the beds draped to look like divans, -the wash-hand-stands concealed; and the tree was radiant with candles -and tinsel. And the Baronin, a little sentimentally inclined, for the -season reminded her of Berlin and her lost domesticity, opened her -doors wide to everybody and was even offering the two aesthetic ladies -sweets, when the marchesa, also smiling, appeared at the door, with -her bosom moulded in sky-blue satin and with even larger crystals than -usual in her ears. The room was full: there were the Van der Staals, -Cornelie, Rudyard, Urania Hope and other guests going in and out, so -that it became impossible to move and they stood packed together or -sat on the draped beds of the mother and daughter. The marchesa led -in beside her a young man whom the others had not seen before, short, -slender, with a pale olive complexion and dark, bright, witty, lively -eyes. He was in dress-clothes and displayed the vague good manners of -a pampered and careless _viveur_, distinguished and yet conceited. And -she proudly went up to the Baronin, who kept prettily wiping her moist -eyes, and with a certain arrogance presented: - -"My nephew, Duca di San Stefano, Principe di Forte-Braccio...." - -The well-known Italian name sounded from her lips in the small, crowded -room with deliberate distinctness; and all eyes went to the young man, -who bowed low before the Baronin and then looked round the room with -a vague, ironical glance. The marchesa's nephew had not yet been seen -at the hotel that winter, but everybody knew that the young Duke of -San Stefano, Prince of Forte-Braccio, was a nephew of the marchesa's -and one of the advertisements for her _pension_. And, while the prince -talked to the Baronin and her daughter, Urania Hope stared at him as -a miraculous being from another world. She clung tight to Cornelie's -arm, as though she were in danger of fainting at the sight of so much -Italian nobility and greatness. She thought him very good-looking, -very imposing, short and slender and pale, with his carbuncle eyes -and his weary distinction and the white orchid in his button-hole. -She would have loved to ask the marchioness to introduce her to her -_chic_ nephew, but she dared not, for she remembered her father's -stockinet-factory at Chicago. - -The Christmas-tree party and the dance took place the following night. -It became known that the marchesa's nephew was coming that evening too; -and a great excitement reigned throughout the day. The prince arrived -after the presents had been taken down from the tree and distributed -and made a sort of state entry by the side of his aunt, the marchesa, -into the drawing-room, where the dancing had not yet begun, though the -guests were sitting about the room, all fixing their eyes on the ducal -and princely apparition. - -Cornelie was strolling with Duco Van der Staal, who to his mother's and -sisters' great surprise had fished out his dress-clothes and appeared -in the big hall; and they both observed the triumphant entry of la -Belloni and her nephew and laughed at the fanatically upturned eyes of -the English and American ladies. They, Cornelie and Duco, sat down in -the hall on two chairs, in front of a clump of palms, which concealed -one of the doors of the drawing-room, while the dance began inside. -They were talking of the statues in the Vatican, which they had been to -see two days before, when they heard, as though close to their ears, a -voice which they recognized as the marchesa's commanding organ, vainly -striving to sink into a whisper. They looked round in surprise and -perceived the hidden door, which was partly open, and through the open -space they faintly distinguished the slim hand and black sleeve of the -prince and a piece of the blue bosom of la Belloni, both seated on a -sofa in the drawing-room. They were therefore back to back, separated -by the half-open door. They listened for fun to the marchesa's Italian; -the prince's answers were lisped so softly that they could scarcely -catch them. And of what the marchesa said they heard only a few words -and scraps of sentences. They were listening quite involuntarily, when -they heard Rudyard's name clearly pronounced by the marchesa. - -"And who besides?" asked the prince, softly. - -"An English miss," said the marchesa. "Miss Taylor: she's sitting over -there, by herself in the corner. A simple little soul.... The Baronin -and her daughter.... The Dutchwoman: a _divorcee_.... And the pretty -American." - -"And those two very attractive Dutch girls?" asked the prince. - -The music boom-boomed louder; and Cornelie and Duco did not catch the -reply. - -"And the divorced Dutchwoman?" the prince asked next. - -"No money," the marchesa answered, curtly. - -"And the young baroness?" - -"No money," la Belloni repeated. - -"So there's no one except the stocking-merchant?" asked the prince, -wearily. - -La Belloni became cross, but Cornelie and Duco could not understand the -sentences which she rattled out through the boom-booming music. Then, -during a lull, they heard the marchesa say: - -"She is very pretty. She has tons and tons of money. She could have -gone to a first-class hotel but preferred to come here because, as a -young girl travelling by herself, she was recommended to me and finds -it pleasanter here. She has the big sitting-room to herself and pays -fifty lire a day for her two rooms. She does not care about money. She -pays three times as much as the others for her wood; and I also charge -her for the wine." - -"She sells stockings," muttered the prince, obstinately. - -"Nonsense!" said the marchesa. "Remember that there's nobody at the -moment. Last winter we had rich English titled people with a daughter, -but you thought her too tall. You're always discovering some objection. -You mustn't be so difficult." - -"I think those two little Dutch dolls attractive." - -"They have no money. You're always thinking what you have no business -to think." - -"How much did papa promise you if you...." - -The music boomed louder. - -"... makes no difference.... If Rudyard talks to her.... Miss Taylor is -easy.... Miss Hope...." - -"I don't want so many stockings as all that." - -"... very witty, I dare say.... If you don't care to...." - -"No." - -"... then I retire.... I'll tell Rudyard.... How much?" - -"Sixty or seventy thousand: exactly." - -"Are they urgent?" - -"Debts are never urgent!" - -"Do you agree?" - -"Very well. But mind, I won't sell myself for less than ten -millions.... And then you get...." - -They both laughed; and again the names of Rudyard and Urania were -pronounced. - -"Urania?" he asked. - -"Yes, Urania," replied la Belloni. "Those little Americans are very -tactful. Look at the Comtesse de Castellane and the Duchess of -Marlborough: how well they bear their husbands' honours! They cut an -excellent figure. They are mentioned in every society column and always -with respect." - -"... All right then. I am tired of these wasted winters. But not less -then ten millions." - -"Five." - -"No, ten." - -The prince and the marchesa had stood up to go. Cornelie looked at -Duco. He laughed: - -"I don't quite understand them," he said. "It's a joke, of course." - -Cornelie was startled: - -"A joke, you think, Mr. Van der Staal?" - -"Yes, they're humbugging." - -"I don't believe it." - -"I do." - -"Have you any knowledge of human nature?" - -"Oh, no, none at all!" - -"I'm getting it, gradually. I believe that Rome can be dangerous and -that an hotel-keeping marchesa, a prince and a Jesuit...." - -"What about them?" - -"Can be dangerous, if not to your sisters, because they have no money, -but at any rate to Urania Hope." - -"I don't believe it for a moment. It was all chaff. And it doesn't -interest me. What do you think of Praxiteles' _Eros_? I think it the -most divine statue that I ever saw. Oh, the _Eros_, the _Eros_! That is -love, the real love, the predestined, fatal love, begging forgiveness -for the suffering which it causes." - -"Have you ever been in love?" - -"No. I have no knowledge of human nature and I have never been in -love. You are always so definite. Dreams are beautiful, statues -are delightful and poetry is everything. The _Eros_ expresses love -completely. The love of the _Eros_ is so beautiful! I could never love -so beautifully as that.... No, it does not interest me to understand -human nature; and a dream by Praxiteles, lingering in a mutilated -marble torso, is nobler than anything that the world calls love." - -She knitted her brows; her eyes were sombre. - -"Let us go to the dancers," she said. "We are so out of it all here." - - - - -CHAPTER X - - -The day after the dance, at table, Cornelie received a strange -impression: suddenly, as she sipped her delicious Genzano, ordered -for her by Rudyard, she became aware that it was not by accident that -she was sitting with the Baronin and her daughter, with Urania and -Miss Taylor; she saw that the marchesa had an intention behind this -arrangement. Rudyard, always civil, polite, thoughtful, always full -of attentions, his pockets always filled with cards of introduction -very difficult to obtain--or so at least he contended--talked without -ceasing, lately more particularly to Miss Taylor, who went faithfully -to hear all the best church music and always returned home in ecstasy. -The pale, simple, thin little Englishwoman, who at first used to go -into raptures over museums, ruins and the sunsets on the Aventine or -the Monte Mario and who was tired by her rambles through Rome, now -devoted herself exclusively to the hundreds of churches, visited and -studied them all and above all faithfully attended the musical services -and spoke ecstatically of the choir in the Sistine Chapel and the -quavering _Glorias_ of the male _soprani_. - -Cornelie spoke to Mrs. Van der Staal and the Baronin von Rothkirch -of the conversation between the marchesa and her nephew which she -had heard through the half-open door; but neither of them, though -interested and curious, took the marchesa's words seriously, regarding -them only as so much thoughtless talk between a foolish, match-making -aunt and an unwilling nephew. Cornelie was struck by seeing how -unable people are to take things seriously; but the Baronin was -quite indifferent, saying that Rudyard could do her no harm and was -still supplying her with tickets; and Mrs. van der Staal, who had -been in Rome a long time and was accustomed to little boarding-house -conspiracies, considered that Cornelie was making herself too uneasy -about the fair Urania's fate. - -Suddenly, however, Miss Taylor disappeared from the table. They -thought that she was ill, until it came to light that she had left -the Pension Belloni. Rudyard said nothing; but, a few days later, -the whole _pension_ knew that Miss Taylor had been converted to the -Catholic faith and had moved to a _pension_ recommended by Rudyard, a -_pension_ frequented by _monsignori_ and noted for its religious tone. -Her disappearance produced a certain constraint in the conversation -between Rudyard, the German ladies and Cornelie; and the latter, in the -course of a week which the Baronin was spending at Naples, changed her -seat and joined her fellow-countrywomen the van der Staals. The Von -Rothkirches also changed, because of the draught, said the Baronin; -their seats were taken by new arrivals; and Urania was left alone with -Rudyard at lunch and dinner, amid those foreign elements. - -Cornelie reproached herself and one day spoke seriously to the American -girl and warned her. But she dared not repeat what she had overheard -at the dance; and her warning made no impression on Urania. And, -when Rudyard had obtained for Miss Hope the privilege of a private -audience of the Pope, Urania would not hear a word against Rudyard and -considered him the kindest man whom she had ever met, Jesuit or no -Jesuit. - -But Rudyard continued to appear through a haze of mystery; and people -were not agreed as to whether he was a priest or a layman. - - - - -CHAPTER XI - - -"What do those strangers matter to you?" asked Duco. - -They were sitting in his studio: Mrs. Van der Staal, Cornelie and the -girls, Annie and Emilie. Annie was pouring out the tea; and they were -discussing Miss Taylor and Urania. - -"I am a stranger to you too!" said Cornelie. - -"You are not a stranger to me, to us. But Miss Taylor and Urania don't -matter. Hundreds of shadows pass through our lives: I don't see them -and don't feel them." - -"I have talked to you too much in the Borghese and on the Palatine to -look upon you as a shadow." - -"Rudyard is a dangerous shadow," said Annie. - -"He has no hold over us," Duco replied. - -Mrs. Van der Staal looked at Cornelie. She understood the enquiring -glance and said, laughing: - -"No, he has no hold over me either. Still, if I felt the need of a -religion, I mean an ecclesiastical religion, I would rather be a Roman -Catholic than a Protestant. But, as things are...." - -She did not complete her sentence. She felt safe in this studio, -in this soft, many-coloured profusion of beautiful things, in the -affection of her friends; she felt in harmony with them all: with the -worldly charm of that somewhat superficial mother and her two pretty -girls, a little doll-like and vaguely cosmopolitan and a trifle vain -of the little marquises with whom they danced and bicycled; and with -that son, that brother, so very different from the three of them and -yet obviously related to them, as a movement, a gesture, a single -word would show. It also struck Cornelie that they accepted each -other affectionately as they were: Duco, his mother and sisters, -with their stories about the Princesses Colonna and Odescalchi; -mevrouw and the girls, him, with his worn jacket and his unkempt -hair. And, when he began to speak, especially about Rome, when he -put his dream into words, in almost bookish sentences, which however -flowed easily and naturally from his lips, Cornelie felt in harmony -with her surroundings, secure and interested and to some extent -lost that longing to contradict him which his artistic indolence -sometimes aroused in her. And, besides, his indolence suddenly seemed -to her merely apparent and perhaps an affectation, for he showed her -sketches and water-colour drawings, not one of them finished, but -every water-colour alive with light before all things, alive with all -that light of Italy: the pearl sunsets over the molten emerald of -Venice; the _campanili_ of Florence drawn vaguely and dreamily across -tender tea-rose skies; Siena fortress-like, blue-black in the bluish -moonlight; the blazing sunshine behind St. Peter's; and, above all, -the ruins, in every kind of light: the Forum in the bright sunlight, -the Palatine by twilight, the Colosseum mysterious in the night; and -then the Campagna: all the dream-like skies and luminous haze of the -glad and sad Campagna, with pale-pink mauves, dewy blues, dusky violets -or the swaggering ochres of pyro-technical sunsets and clouds flaring -like the crimson pinions of the phoenix. And, when Cornelie asked him -why nothing was finished off, he answered that nothing was right. He -saw the skies as dreams, visions and apotheoses; and on his paper they -became water and paint; and paint was not a thing to be finished off. -Besides, he lacked the self-confidence. And then he laid his skies -aside, he said, and sat down to copy Byzantine madonnas. - -When he saw that his water-colours interested her nevertheless, he -went on talking about himself: how he had at first raved over the -noble and ingenuous Primitives, Giotto and especially Lippo Memmi; -how, after that, spending a year in Paris, he had found nothing that -excelled Forain: cold, dry satire in two or three lines; how, next, in -the Louvre, Rubens had become revealed to him, Rubens whose own talent -and whose own brush he used to trace amid all the prentice-work and -imitations of his pupils, until he was able to tell which cherub was -by Rubens himself in a sky full of cherubs painted by four or five -disciples. - -And then, he said, he would pass weeks without giving a thought to -painting or taking up a brush and would go daily to the Vatican, lost -in contemplation of the magnificent marbles. - -Once he had sat dreaming a whole morning in front of the _Eros_; once -he had dreamt a poem there, to a very gentle, melodious, monotonous -accompaniment, like an inward incantation. On coming home he had tried -to put both poem and music on paper, but he had failed. Now he could -no longer look at Forain, thought Rubens coarse and disgusting, but -remained faithful to the Primitives: - -"And suppose for a moment that I painted a lot and sent a lot of -pictures to exhibitions? Should I be any the happier? Should I feel -satisfied in having done something? I doubt it. Sometimes I do finish -a water-colour and sell it; and then I can go on living for a month -without troubling mamma. Money I don't care about. Ambition is quite -foreign to my nature.... But don't let us talk about myself. Do you -still think of the future and ... bread?" - -"Perhaps," she said, with a melancholy laugh, while the studio around -her grew dusk and dim and the figures of his mother and sisters, -sitting silent, languid and uninterested in their easy chairs, -gradually faded away and every colour slowly paled. "But I am so -weak-minded. You say that you are not an artist; and I ... I am not an -apostle." - -"To give one's life a course: that is the difficulty. Every life has a -line, an appointed course, a road, a path: life has to flow along that -line to death and what comes after death; and that line is difficult to -find. I shall never find my line." - -"I don't see my line before me either." - -"Do you know, a restlessness has come over me. Mamma, listen, a -restlessness has come over me. I used to dream in the Forum, I was -happy and didn't think about my line, my appointed course. Mamma, do -you think about your line? Do you, girls?" - -His sisters giggled in the dark, sunk in their low chairs, like two -pussy-cats. Mamma got up: - -"Duco dear, you know I can't follow you. I admire Cornelie for liking -your water-colours and understanding what you mean by that line. My -line is to go home at once, for it's very late." - -"That's the line of the next two seconds. But there is a restlessness -about my line that affects it for days and weeks to come. I am not -leading the right life. The past is very beautiful and so peaceful, -because it once was. But I have lost that peace. The present is very -small. But the future!... Oh, if we could only find an aim ... for the -future!" - -They no longer listened; they went down the dark stairs, groping their -way. - -"Bread?" he asked himself, wonderingly.... - - - - -CHAPTER XII - - -One morning when Cornelie stayed indoors she went through the books -that lay scattered about her room. And she found that it was useless -for her to read Ovid, in order to study something of Roman manners, -some of which had alarmed and shocked her; she found that Dante and -Petrarch were too difficult to learn Italian from, whereas she had only -to pick up a word or two in order to make herself understood in a shop -or by the servants; she found Hare's _Walks_ a too wearisome guide, -because every cobble-stone in Rome did not inspire her with the same -interest that Hare evidently derived from it. Then she confessed to -herself that she could never see Italy and Rome as Duco Van der Staal -did. She never saw the light of the skies or the drifting of the clouds -as he had seen them in his unfinished water-colour sketches. She had -never seen the ruins transfigured in glory as he did in his hours of -dreaming on the Palatine or in the Forum. She saw a picture merely with -a layman's eye; a Byzantine madonna made no appeal to her. She was very -fond of statues; but to fall head over cars in love with a mutilated -marble torso, in the spirit in which he loved the _Eros_, seemed to her -sickly ... and yet it seemed to be the right spirit in which to see the -_Eros_. Well, not sickly, she admitted ... but morbid: the word, though -she herself smiled at it, expressed her opinion better; not sickly, but -morbid. And she looked upon an olive as a tree rather like a willow, -whereas Duco had told her that an olive was the most beautiful tree in -the world. - -She did not agree with him, either about the olive or about the -_Eros_; and yet she felt that he was right from a certain mysterious -standpoint on which there was no room for her, because it was like -a mystic eminence amid impassable sensitive spheres which were not -hers, even as the eminence was to her an unknown vantage-point of -sensitiveness and vision. She did not agree with him and yet she was -convinced of his greater rightness, his truer view, his nobler insight, -his deeper feeling; and she was certain that her way of seeing Italy, -in the disappointment of her disillusion, in the grey light of a -growing indifference, was neither noble nor good; and she knew that -the beauty of Italy escaped her, whereas to him it was like a tangible -and comprehensible vision. And she cleared away Ovid and Petrarch and -Hare's guide-book and locked them up in her trunk and took out the -novels and pamphlets which had appeared that year about the woman -movement in Holland. She took an interest in the problem and thought -that it made her more modern than Duco, who suddenly seemed to her to -belong to a bygone age, not modern, not modern. She repeated the words -with enjoyment and suddenly felt herself stronger. To be modern: that -should be her strength. One phrase of Duco's had struck her immensely, -that exclamation: - -"Oh, if we could only find an aim! Our life has a line, a path, which -it must follow...." - -To be modern: was that not a line? To find the solution of a modern -problem: was that not an aim in life? He was quite right, from his -point of view, from which he saw Italy; but was not the whole of Italy -a past, a dream ... at least that Italy which Duco saw, a dreamy -paradise of nothing but art? It could not be right to stand like that, -to see like that a dream like that. The present was here: on the grey -horizon muttered an approaching storm; and the latter-day problems -flashed like lightning. Was that not what she had to live for? She -felt for the woman, she felt for the girl: she herself had been the -girl, brought up only as a social ornament, to shine, to be pretty -and attractive and then of course to get married; she had shone and -she had married; and now she was three-and-twenty, divorced from the -husband who at one time had been her only aim and, for her sake, the -aim of her parents; now she was alone, astray, desperate and utterly -disconsolate: she had nothing to cling to and she suffered. She still -loved him, cad and scoundrel though he was; and she had thought that -she was doing something very clever, when she went abroad, to Italy, -to study art. But she did not understand art, she did not feel Italy. -Oh, how clearly she saw it, after those talks with Duco, that she would -never understand art, even though she used to sketch a bit, even though -she used to have a biscuit-group after Canova in her boudoir, _Cupid -and Psyche_: so nice for a young girl! And with what certainty she now -knew that she would never grasp Italy, because she did not think an -olive-tree so very beautiful and had never seen the sky of the Campagna -as a fluttering phoenix-wing! No, Italy would never be the consolation -of her life.... - -But what then? She had been through much, but she was alive and very -young. And once again, at the sight of those pamphlets, at the sight of -that novel, the desire arose in her soul: to be modern, to be modern! -And to take part in the problem of to-day! To live for the future! To -live for her fellow-women, married or unmarried!... - -She dared not look deep down into herself, lest she should waver. To -live for the future!... It separated her a little more from Duco, that -new ideal. Did she mind? Was she in love with him? No, she thought not. -She had been in love with her husband and did not want to fall in love -at once with the first agreeable young man whom she chanced to meet in -Rome.... - -And she read the pamphlets, about the feminine problem and love. Then -she thought of her husband, then of Duco. And wearily she dropped the -pamphlets and reflected how sad it all was: people, women, girls. She, -a woman, a young woman, an aimless woman: how sad her life was! And -Duco: he was happy. And yet he was seeking the line of his life, yet he -was looking out for his aim. A new restlessness had entered into him. -And she wept a little and anxiously twisted herself on her cushions and -clasped her hands and prayed, unconsciously, without knowing to whom -she was praying: - -"O God, tell me what to do!" - - - - -CHAPTER XIII - - -It was then, after a few days, that Cornelie conceived the idea -of leaving the boarding-house and going to live in rooms. The -hotel-life disturbed her budding thoughts, like a wind of vanity -that was constantly blighting very vague and fragile blossoms; and, -despite a torrent of abuse from the marchesa, who reproached her with -having engaged to stay the whole winter, she moved into the rooms -which she had found with Duco Van der Staal, after much hunting and -stair-climbing. They were in the Via dei Serpenti, up any number of -stairs: a set of two roomy, but almost entirely unfurnished apartments, -containing only the absolute essentials; and, though the view extended -far and wide above the house-tops of Rome to the circular ruin of -the Colosseum, the rooms were rough and uncomfortable, bare and -uninviting. Duco had not approved of them and said that they made him -shiver, although they faced the sun; but there was something about the -ruggedness of the place that harmonized with Cornelie's new mood. - -When they parted that day, he thought how inartistic she was and she -how unmodern he was. They did not meet again for several days; and -Cornelie was very lonely, but did not feel her loneliness, because -she was writing a pamphlet on the social position of divorced women. -The idea was suggested to her by a few sentences in a tract on the -feminist problem; and at once, without wasting much time in thought, -she flung off her sentences in a succession of impulses and intuitions, -rough-hewn, cold and clear; she wrote in an epistolary style, without -literary art, as though to warn girls against cherishing too many -illusions about marriage. - -She had not made her rooms comfortable; she sat there, high up over -Rome, with her view across the house-tops to the Colosseum, writing, -writing and writing, absorbed in her sorrow, uttering herself in her -stubborn sentences, feeling intensely bitter, but pouring the wormwood -of her soul into her pamphlet. Mrs. Van der Staal and the girls, -who came to see her, were surprised by her untidy appearance, her -rough-looking rooms, with a dying fire in the little grate and with no -flowers, no books, no tea and no cushions; and, when they went away -after fifteen minutes, pleading urgent errands, they looked at one -another, tripping down the endless stairs, with eyes of amazement, -utterly at a loss to understand this transformation of an interesting, -elegant little woman, surrounded by an aura of poetry and a tragic -past, into an "independent woman," working furiously at a pamphlet full -of bitter invective against society. And, when Duco looked her up again -in a week's time and came to sit with her a little, he remained silent, -stiff and upright in his chair, without speaking, while Cornelie read -the beginning of her pamphlet to him. He was touched by the glimpses -which it revealed to him of personal suffering and experience, but he -was irritated by a certain discord between that slender, lily-like -woman, with her drooping movements, and the surroundings in which -she now felt at her ease, entirely absorbed in her hatred for the -society--Hague society--which had become hostile to her because she -refused to go on living with a cad who ill-treated her. And, while she -was reading, Duco thought: - -She would not write like that if she were not writing it all down from -her own suffering. Why doesn't she make a novel of it? Why generalize -from one's personal sorrows and why that bitter, warning voice?... - -He did not like it. He thought the sound of that voice was hard, those -truths so personal, that bitterness unattractive and that hatred of -convention so small. And, when she put a question to him, he did not -say much, nodded his head in vague approval and remained sitting in his -stiff, uncomfortable attitude. He did not know what to answer, he was -unable to admire, he thought her inartistic. And yet a great compassion -welled up within him when he saw, in spite of it all, how charming she -would be and what charm and womanly dignity would be hers could she -find the line of her life and move harmoniously along that line with -the music of her own movement. He now saw her taking a wrong road, a -path pointed out to her by the fingers of others and not entered upon -from the impulse of her own soul. And he felt the deepest pity for -her. He, an artist, but above all a dreamer, sometimes saw vividly, -despite his dreaming, despite his sometimes all-embracing love of line -and colour and atmosphere; he, the artist and dreamer, sometimes very -clearly saw the emotion looming through the outward actions of his -fellow-creatures, saw it like light shining through alabaster; and he -suddenly saw her lost, seeking, straying: seeking she herself knew not -what, straying she herself knew not through what labyrinth, far from -her line, the line of her life and the course of her soul's journey, -which she had never yet found. - -She sat before him excitedly. She had read her last pages with a -flushed face, in a resonant voice, her whole being in a fever. She -looked as if she would have liked to fling those bitter pages at the -feet of her Dutch sisters, at the feet of all women. He, absorbed -in his speculations, melancholy in his pity for her, had scarcely -listened, nodding his head in vague approval. And suddenly she began -to speak of herself, revealed herself wholly, told him her life: her -existence as a young girl at the Hague, her education with a view to -shining a little and being attractive and pretty, with not one serious -glance at her future, only waiting for a good match, with a flirtation -here and a little love-affair there, until she was married: a good -match, in her own circle; her husband a first lieutenant of hussars, a -fine, handsome fellow, of a good, distinguished family, with a little -money. She had fallen in love with him for his handsome face and his -fine figure, which his uniform showed to advantage, and he with her -as he might have done with any other girl who had a pretty face. Then -came the revelation of those very early days: the discord between -their characters manifesting itself luridly at once. She, spoilt at -home, dainty, delicate, fastidious, but selfishly fastidious and -flying out against any offence to her own spoilt little _ego_; he no -longer the lover but immediately and brutally the man with rights to -this and rights to that, with an oath here and a roar there; she with -neither the tact nor the patience to make of their foundering lives -what could still be made of them, nervous, quick-tempered, quick to -resent coarseness, which made his savagery flare up so violently that -he ill-treated her, swore at her, struck her, shook her and banged her -against the wall. - -The divorce followed. He had not consented at first, content, in spite -of all, to have a house and in that house a wife, female to him, the -male, and declining to return to the discomfort of life in chambers, -until she simply ran away, first to her parents, then to friends in -the country, protesting loudly against the law, which was so unjust -to women. He had yielded at last and allowed himself to be accused of -infidelity, which was not beside the truth. She was now free, but stood -as it were alone, looked at askance by all her acquaintances, refusing -to yield to their conventional demand for that sort of half-mourning -which, according to their conventional ideas, should surround a -divorced woman and at once returning to her former life, the gay life -of an unmarried girl. But she had felt that this could not go on, both -because of her acquaintances and because of herself: her acquaintances -looking at her askance and she loathing her acquaintances, loathing -their parties and dinners, until she felt profoundly unhappy, lonely -and forlorn, without anything or anybody to cling to, and experienced -all the depression that weighs down on the divorced woman. Sometimes, -in her heart of hearts, she reflected that by dint of great patience -and great tact she might have managed that man, that he was not wicked, -only coarse, that she was still fond of him, or at least of his -handsome face and his sturdy figure. Love, no, it was not love; but had -she ever thought of love as she now sometimes pictured it? And did not -nearly everybody live more or less so-so, with a good deal of give and -take? - -But this regret she hardly confessed to herself, did not now confess to -Duco; and what she did confess was her bitterness, her hatred of her -husband, of marriage, of convention, of people, of the world, of all -the great generalities, generalizing her own feelings into one great -curse against life. He listened to her with pity. He felt that there -was something noble in her, which, however, had been stifled from, the -beginning. He forgave her for not being artistic, but he was sorry that -she had never found herself, that she did not know what she was, who -she was, what her life should be, or where the line of her life wound, -the only path which she ought to tread, as every life follows one path. -Oh, how often, if a person would let herself go, like a flower, like a -bird, like a cloud, like a star which so obediently ran its course, she -would find her happiness and her life, even as the flower or the bird -finds them, even as the cloud drifts before the sun, even as the star -follows its course through the heavens! But he told her nothing of his -thoughts, knowing that, especially in her present mood of bitterness, -she would not understand them and could derive no comfort from them, -because they would be too vague for her and too far removed from her -own manner of thinking. She thought of herself, but imagined that she -was thinking of women and girls and their movement towards the future. -Women's lines ... but had not every woman a line of her own? Only, how -few of them knew it: their direction, their path, their line of life, -their wavering course in the twilight of the future. And perhaps, -because they did not know it for themselves, they were now all seeking -together a broad path, a main road, along which they would march in -troops, in a threatening multitude of women, in regiments of women, -with banners and mottoes and war-cries, a broad path, parallel with the -movement of the men, until the two paths would melt into one, until the -troops of women would mingle with the troops of men, with equal rights -and equal fullness of life.... - -He said nothing to her. She noticed his silence and did not see how -much was going on within him, how earnestly he was thinking of her, -how profoundly he pitied her. She thought that she had bored him. And -suddenly, around her, she saw the dim, barren room, saw that the -fire was out; and her zeal subsided, her fever cooled and she thought -her pamphlet bad, lacking strength and conviction. What would she not -have given for a word from him! But he sat silent, seemed to take no -interest, probably did not admire her style of writing. And she felt -sad, deserted, lonely, estranged from him and bitter because of the -estrangement; she felt ready to weep, to sob; and, strange to say, in -her bitterness she thought of _him_, of her husband, with his handsome -face. She could not restrain herself, she wept. Duco came up to her, -put his hand on her shoulder. Then she felt something of what was going -on within him and that his silence was not due to coldness. She told -him that she could not remain alone that evening: she was too wretched, -too wretched. He comforted her, said that there was much that was good, -much that was true in her pamphlet; that he was not a good judge of -these modern questions; that he was never clever except when he talked -about Italy; that he felt so little for people and so much for statues, -so little for what was newly building for a coming century and so much -for what lay in ruins and remained over from earlier centuries. He said -it as though apologizing. She smiled through her tears but repeated -that she could not stay alone that evening and that she was coming with -him to Belloni's, to his mother and sisters. And they went together, -they walked round together; and, to divert her mind, he spoke to her -of his own thoughts, told her anecdotes of the Renascence masters. She -did not hear what he said, but his voice was sweet to her ears. There -was something so gentle about his indifference to the modern things -that interested her, he had so much calmness, healing as balsam, in the -restfulness of his soul, which allowed itself to move along the golden -thread of his dreams, as though that thread was the line of his life, -so much calmness and gentleness that she too grew calmer and gentler -and looked up to him with a smile. - -And, however far removed they might be from each other--he going along -a dreamy path, she lost in an obscure maze--they nevertheless felt each -other approaching, felt their souls drawing nearer to each other, while -their bodies moved beside each other in the actual street, through -Rome, in the evening. He put his arm through hers to guide her steps. - -And, when they came in sight of Belloni's, she thanked him, she did not -know exactly for what: for the look in his eyes, for his voice, for -the walk, for the consolation which she felt inexplicably yet clearly -radiating from him; and she was glad to have come with him this evening -and to feel the distraction of the Belloni _table-d'hote_ around her. - -But at night, alone, alone in her bare rooms, she was overcome by -her wretchedness as by a sea of blackness; and, looking out at the -Colosseum, which showed faintly as a black arc in the black night, she -sobbed until she felt herself sinking to the point of death, derelict, -lonely and forlorn, high up above Rome, above the roofs, above the pale -lights of Rome by night, under the clouds of the black night, sinking -and derelict, as though she were drifting, a ship-wrecked waif on an -ocean which drowned the world and roared its plaint to the inexorable -heavens. - - - - -CHAPTER XIV - - -Nevertheless Cornelie recovered her calmness when her pamphlet was -finished. She unpacked her trunks, arranged her rooms a little more -snugly and, now more at her ease, rewrote the pamphlet and, in the -revision, improved her style and even her ideas. When she had done -working in the morning, she usually lunched at a small _osteria_, -where she nearly always met Duco van der Staal and had her meal with -him at a little table. As a rule she dined at Belloni's, beside the -Van der Staals, in order to obtain a little diversion. The marchesa -had not bowed to her at first, though she suffered her to attend her -_table-d'hote_, at three lire an evening; but after a time she bowed -to Cornelie again, with a bitter-sweet little smile, for she had relet -her two rooms at a higher price. And Cornelie, in her calmer mood, -found it pleasant to change in the evening, to see Mrs. Van der Staal -and the girls, to listen to their little stories about the Roman -_salons_ and to cast a glance over the long tables. And they saw that -the guests were ever again different, as in a kaleidoscope of fleeting -personalities. Rudyard had disappeared, owing money to the marchesa, no -one knew whither; the Von Rothkirches had gone to Greece; but Urania -Hope was still there and sat next to the Marchesa Belloni. On her other -side was the nephew, the Prince of Forte-Braccio, Duke of San Stefano, -who dined at Belloni's every night. And Cornelie saw that a sort of -conspiracy was in progress, the marchesa and the prince laying siege -to the vain little American from either side. And next day she saw two -_monsignori_ seated in eager conversation with Urania at the marchesa's -table, while the marchesa and the prince nodded their heads. All the -visitors commented on it, every eye was turned in that direction, -everybody watched the manoeuvres and delighted in the romance. - -Cornelie was the only one who was not amused. She would have liked -to warn Urania against the marchesa, the prince and the _monsignori_ -who had taken Rudyard's place, but especially against marriage, even -marriage with a prince and duke. And, growing excited, she spoke -to Mrs. Van der Staal and the girls, repeating phrases out of her -pamphlet, glowing with her red young hatred against society and people -and the world. - -Dinner was over; and, still eagerly talking, she went with the Van -der Staals--mevrouw and the girls and Duco--to the drawing-room, sat -down in a corner, resumed her conversation, flew out at mevrouw, who -had contradicted her, and then suddenly saw a fat lady--the girls had -already nicknamed her the Satin Frigate--come towards her with a smile -and say, while still at some distance: - -"I beg your pardon, but there's something I want to say. Look here, I -have been to Belloni's regularly every winter for the last ten years, -from January to Easter; and every evening after dinner--but _only_ -after dinner--I sit in _this_ corner, at _this_ table, on _this_ sofa. -I hope you won't mind, but I should be glad to have my own seat now." - -And the Satin Frigate smiled amiably; but, when the Van der Staals and -Cornelie rose in mute amazement, she dumped herself down with a rustle -on the sofa, bobbed up and down for a moment on the springs, laid her -crochet-work on the table with a gesture as though she were planting -the Union Jack in a new colony and said, with her most amiable smile: - -"Very much obliged. So many thanks." - -Duco roared, the girls giggled, but the Satin Frigate merely nodded to -them good-humouredly. And, not even yet realizing what had happened, -astounded but gay, they sat down in another comer, the girls still -seized with an irrepressible giggle. The two aesthetic ladies, in the -evening-dress and the Jaegers, who sat reading at the table in the -middle of the room, closed their two books with one slam, rose and -indignantly went away, because people were laughing and talking in the -drawing-room: - -"It's a shame!" they said, aloud. - -And, angular, arrogant and grimy, they stalked out through the door. - -"What strange people!" thought Duco, smiling. "Shadows of people!... -Their lines curl like arabesque through ours. Why do they cross our -lines with their petty movements and why are ours never crossed by -those which perhaps would be dearest to our souls?..." - -He always took Cornelie back to the Via dei Serpenti. They walked -slowly through the silent, deserted streets. Sometimes it was late in -the evening, but sometimes it was immediately after dinner and then -they would go through the Corso and he would generally ask her to come -and sit at Aragno's for a little. She agreed and they drank their -coffee amid the gaiety of the brightly-lit cafe, watching the bustle -on the pavement outside. They exchanged few words, distracted by the -passers-by and the visitors to the cafe; but they both enjoyed this -moment and felt at one with each other. Duco evidently did not give -a thought to the unconventionality of their behaviour; but Cornelie -thought of Mrs. Van der Staal and that she would not approve of it or -consent to it in one of her daughters, sitting alone with a gentleman -in a cafe in the evening. And Cornelie also remembered the Hague and -smiled at the thought of her Hague friends. And she looked at Duco, -who sat quietly, pleased to be sitting with her, and drank his coffee -and spoke a word now and again or pointed to a queer type or a pretty -woman passing.... - -One evening, after dinner, he suggested that they should all go to the -ruins. It was full moon, a wonderful sight. But mevrouw was afraid -of malaria, the girls of foot-pads; and Duco and Cornelie went by -themselves. The streets were quite empty, the Colosseum rose menacingly -like a fortress in the night; but they went in and the moonlight blue -of the night shone through the open arches: the round pit of the arena -was black on one side with shadow, while the stream of moonlight -poured in on the other side, like a white flood, like a cascade; and -it was as though the night were haunted, as though the Colosseum were -haunted by all the dead past of Rome, emperors, gladiators and martyrs; -shadows prowled like lurking wild animals, a patch of light suggested -a naked woman and the galleries seemed to rustle with the sound of -the multitude. And yet there was nothing and Duco and Cornelie were -alone, in the depths of the huge, colossal ruin, half in shadow and -half in light; and, though she was not afraid, she was obsessed by -that awful haunting of the past and pushed closer to him and clutched -his arm and felt very, very small. He just pressed her hand, with his -simple ease of manner, to reassure her. And the night oppressed her, -the ghostliness of it all suffocated her, the moon seemed to whirl -giddily in the sky and to expand to a gigantic size and spin round -like a silver wheel. He said nothing, he was in one of his dreams, -seeing the past before him. And silently they went away and he led her -through the Arch of Titus into the Forum. On the left rose the ruins of -the imperial palaces; and all around them stood the black fragments, -with a few pillars soaring on high and the white moonlight pouring -down like a ghostly sea out of the night. They met no one, but she -was frightened and clung tighter to his arm. When they sat down for a -moment on a fragment of the foundation of some ancient building, she -shivered with cold. He started up, said that she must be careful not to -catch a chill; and they walked on and left the Forum. He took her home -and she went upstairs alone, striking a match to see her way up the -dark staircase. Once in her room, she perceived that it was dangerous -to wander about the ruins at night. She reflected how little Duco had -spoken, not thinking of danger, lost in his nocturnal dream, peering -into the awful ghostliness. Why ... why had he not gone alone? Why had -he asked her to go with him? She fell asleep after a chaos of whirling -thoughts: the prince and Urania, the fat satin lady, the Colosseum -and the martyrs and Duco and Mrs. Van der Staal. His mother was so -ordinary, his sisters charming but commonplace and he ... so strange! -So simple, so unaffected, so unreserved; and for that very reason so -strange. He would be impossible at the Hague, among her friends. And -she smiled as she thought of what he had said and how he had said it -and how he could sit quietly silent, for minutes on end, with a smile -about his lips, as though thinking of something beautiful.... - -But she must warn Urania.... - -And she wearily fell asleep. - - - - -CHAPTER XV - - -Cornelie's premonition regarding Mrs. Van der Staal's opinion of her -intercourse with Duco was confirmed: mevrouw spoke to her seriously, -saying that she would compromise herself if she went on like that and -adding that she had spoken to Duco in the same sense. But Cornelie -answered rather haughtily and nonchalantly, declared that, after -always minding the conventions and becoming very unhappy in spite of -it, she had resolved to mind them no longer, that she valued Duco's -conversation and that she was not going to be deprived of it because of -what people thought or said. And then, she asked Mrs. Van der Staal, -who were "people?" Their three or four acquaintances at Belloni's? Who -knew her besides? Where else did she go? Why should she care about the -Hague? And she gave a scornful laugh, loftily parrying Mrs. Van der -Staal's arguments. - -The conversation caused a coolness between them. Wounded in her touchy -over-sensitiveness, she did not come to dinner at Belloni's that -evening. Next day, meeting Duco at their little table in the _osteria_, -she asked him what he thought of his mother's rebuke. He smiled -vaguely, raising his eyebrows, obviously nut realizing the commonplace -truth of his mother's words, saying that those were just mamma's ideas, -which, of course, were all very well and current in the set in which -mamma and his sisters lived, but which he didn't enter into or bother -about, unless Cornelie thought that mamma was right. And Cornelie -blazed out contemptuously, shrugged her shoulders, asked who or what -there was for whose sake she should allow herself to break off their -friendly intercourse. They ordered a _mezzo-fiasco_ between them and -had a long, chatty lunch like two comrades, like two students. He said -that he had been thinking over her pamphlet; he talked, to please her, -about the modern woman, modern marriage, the modern girl. She condemned -the way in which Mrs. Van der Staal was bringing up her daughters, that -light, frivolous education and that endless going about on the look for -a husband. She said that she spoke from experience. - -They walked along the Via Appia that afternoon and went to the -Catacombs, where a Trappist showed them round. When Cornelie returned -home she felt pleasantly light and cheerful. She did not go out again; -she piled up the logs on her fire against the evening, which was -turning chilly, and supped off a little bread and jelly, so as not to -go out for her dinner. Sitting in her tea-gown, with her hands folded -over her head, she stared into the briskly burning logs and let the -evening speed past her. She was satisfied with her life, so free, -independent of everything and everybody. She had a little money, she -could go on living like this. She had no great needs. Her life in -rooms, in little restaurants was not expensive. She wanted no clothes. -She felt satisfied. Duco was an agreeable friend: how lonely she would -be without him! Only her life must acquire some aim. What aim? The -feminist movement? But how, abroad? It was such a different movement -to work at.... She would send her pamphlet now to a newly founded -women's paper. But then? She wasn't in Holland and she didn't want -to go to Holland; and yet there would certainly be more scope there -for her activity, for exchanging views with others. Whereas here, in -Rome.... An indolence overcame her, in the drowsiness of her cosy room. -He certainly was a cultivated fellow, even though he was not modern. -What a lot he knew about history, about Italy; and how cleverly he told -it all! The way he explained Italy to her, she was interested in the -country after all. - -Only, he wasn't modern. He had no insight into Italian politics, into -the struggle between the Quirinal and the Vatican, into anarchism, -which was showing its head at Milan, into the riots in Sicily.... -An aim in life: what a difficult thing it was! And, in her evening -drowsiness after a pleasant day, she did not feel the absence of an -aim and enjoyed the soft luxury of letting her thoughts glide on in -unison with the sleepy evening hours, in a voluptuous self-indulgence. -She looked at the sheets of her pamphlet, scattered over her big -writing-table, a real table to work at: they lay yellow under the light -of her reading-lamp; they had not all been recopied, but she was not in -the mood now; she threw a log into the little grate and the fire smoked -and blazed. So pleasant, that foreign habit of burning wood instead of -coal.... - -And she thought of her husband. She missed him sometimes. Could she not -have managed him, with a little tact and patience? After all, he was -very nice during the period of their engagement. He was rough, but not -bad. He might have sworn at her sometimes, but perhaps he did not mean -any great harm. He waltzed divinely, he swung you round so firmly.... -He was good-looking and, she had to confess, she was in love with him, -if only for his handsome face, his handsome figure. There was something -about his eyes and mouth that she was never able to resist. When he -spoke, she had to look at his mouth. However, that was all over and -done with.... - -After all, perhaps the life of the Hague was too monotonous for her -temperament. She liked travelling, seeing new people, developing -new ideas; and she had never been able to settle down in her little -set. And now she was free, independent of all ties, of all people. If -Mrs. Van der Staal was angry, she didn't care.... And, all the same, -Duco _was_ rather modern, in his indifference to convention. Or was -it merely the artistic side of him? Or was he, as a man who was not -modern, indifferent to it even as she, a modern woman, was? A man could -allow himself greater licence. A man was not so easily compromised.... -A modern woman. She repeated the words proudly. She drew herself up, -stretching out her arms, looked at herself in the glass: her slender -figure, her delicate little face, a trifle pale, with the eyes big and -grey and bright under their remarkably long lashes, her light-brown -hair in a loose, tangled coil, the lines of her figure, like those of a -drooping lily, very winsome in the creased folds of her old tea-gown, -pale-pink and faded.... What was her path in life? She felt herself to -be something more than a worker and a fighter, to be very complex, felt -that she was a woman too, felt a great womanliness inside her, like a -weakness which would hamper her energy. And she wandered through the -room, unable to make up her mind to go to bed, and, staring into the -gloomy ashes of the expiring fire, she thought of her future, of what -she would become and how, of how she would go and whither, along which -curve of life, wandering through what forests, winding through what -alleys, crossing which other curves of which other, seeking souls.... - - - - -CHAPTER XVI - - -The idea had long fixed itself in Cornelie's mind that she must speak -to Urania Hope; and one morning she sent her a note asking for an -appointment that afternoon. Miss Hope wrote back assenting; and at -five o'clock Cornelie found her at home in her handsome and expensive -sitting-room at Belloni's: many lights, many flowers; Urania hammering -on the piano in an indoor gown of Venetian lace; the table decked with -a rich tea, with cut bread-and-butter, cakes and sweets. Cornelie had -said that she wanted to see Miss Hope alone, on a matter of importance, -and at once asked if she would be alone, feeling a doubt about it, now -that Urania was receiving her so formally. But Urania reassured her: -she had said that she was at home to no one but Mrs. de Retz and was -very curious to know what Cornelie had come to talk about. Cornelie -reminded Urania of her former warning and, when Urania laughed, she -took her hand and looked at her with such serious eyes that she made an -impression of the American girl's frivolous nature and Urania became -puzzled. Urania now suddenly thought it very momentous--a secret, -an intrigue, a danger, in Rome!--and they whispered together. And -Cornelie, no longer feeling anxious amid this increasing intimacy, -confessed to Urania what she had heard through the half-open door: the -marchesa's machinations with her nephew, whom she was absolutely bent -on marrying to a rich heiress at the behest of the prince's father, -who seemed to have promised her so much for putting the match through. -Then she spoke of Miss Taylor's conversion, effected by Rudyard: -Rudyard, who did not seem able to achieve his purpose with Urania, -failing to obtain a hold on her confiding but frivolous, butterfly -nature, and who, as Cornelie suspected, had for that reason incurred -the disfavour of his ecclesiastical superiors and vanished without -settling his debt to the marchesa. His place appeared to have been -taken by the two _monsignori_, who looked more dignified and worldly -and displayed greater unctuousness, and were more lavish in smiles. And -Urania, staring at this danger, at these pit-falls under her feet which -Cornelie had suddenly revealed to her, now became really frightened, -turned pale and promised to be on her guard. Really she would have -liked to tell her maid to pack up at once, so flat they might leave -Rome as soon as possible, for another town, another _pension_, one -with lots of titled people: she adored titles! And Cornelie, seeing -that she had made an impression, continued, spoke of herself, spoke -of marriage in general, said that she had written a pamphlet against -marriage and on _The Social_ _Position of Divorced Women_. And she -spoke of the suffering which she had been through and of the feminist -movement in Holland. And, once in the vein, she abandoned all restraint -and talked more and more emphatically, until Urania thought her -exceedingly clever, a very clever girl, to be able to argue and write -like that on a _question brulante_, laying a fine stress on the first -syllables of the French words. She admitted that she would like to -have the vote and, as she said this, spread out the long train of her -lace tea-gown. Cornelie spoke of the injustice of the law which leaves -the wife nothing, takes everything from her and forces her entirely -into her husband's power; and Urania agreed with her and passed the -little dish of chocolate-creams. And, to the accompaniment of a second -cup of tea, they talked excitedly, both speaking at once, neither -listening to what the other was saying; and Urania said that it was a -shame. From the general discussion they relapsed to the consideration -of their particular interests: Cornelie depicted the character of her -husband, unable, in the coarseness of his nature, to understand a woman -or to consent that a woman should stand beside him and not beneath -him. And she once more returned to the Jesuits, to the danger of Rome -for rich girls travelling alone, to that virago of a marchesa and to -the prince, that titled bait which the Jesuits flung to win a soul and -to improve the finances of an impoverished Italian house which had -remained faithful to the Pope and refused to serve the king. And both -of them were so vehement and excited that they did not hear the knock -and looked up only when the door slowly opened. They started, glanced -round and both turned pale when they saw the Prince of Forte-Braccio -enter the room. He apologized with a smile, said that he had seen a -light in Miss Urania's sitting-room, that the porter had told him she -was engaged, but that he had ventured to disobey her orders. And he sat -down; and, in spite of all that they had been saying, Urania thought it -delightful to have the prince sitting there and accepting a cup of tea -at her hands and graciously consenting to eat a piece of cake. - -And Urania showed her album of coats of arms--the prince had already -contributed an impression of his--and next the album with patterns -of the queen's ball-dresses. Then the prince laughed and felt in his -pocket for an envelope; he opened it and carefully produced a cutting -of blue brocade embroidered with silver and seed-pearls. - -"What is it?" asked Urania, in ecstasy. - -And he said that he had brought her a pattern of her majesty's last -dress; his cousin--not a Black, like himself, but a White, belonging -not to the papal but to the court party and a lady-in-waiting to the -queen--had procured this cutting for him for Urania's album. Urania -would see it herself: the queen would wear the dress at next week's -court ball. He was not going, he did not even go to his cousin's -officially, not to her parties; but he saw her sometimes, because of -the family relationship, out of friendship. And he begged Urania not -to give him away: it might injure him in his career--"What career?" -Cornelie wondered to herself--if people knew that he saw much of his -cousin; but he had called on her pretty often lately, for Urania's -sake, to get her that pattern. - -And Urania was so grateful that she forgot all about the social -position of girls and women, married and unmarried, and would gladly -have sacrificed her right to the franchise for such a charming Italian -prince. Cornelie became vexed, rose, bowed coldly to the prince and -drew Urania with her to the door: - -"Don't forget what we have been saying," she warned her. "Be on your -guard." - -And she saw the prince look at her sarcastically as they whispered -together, suspecting that she was talking about him, but proud of the -power of his personality and title and attentions over the daughter of -an American stockinet-manufacturer. - - - - -CHAPTER XVII - - -A coolness had arisen between Mrs. Van der Staal and Cornelie; and -Cornelie no longer went to dine at Belloni's. She did not see mevrouw -and the girls again for weeks; but she saw Duco daily. Notwithstanding -the essential differences in their characters, they had grown so -accustomed to being together that they missed each other if a day -passed without their meeting; and so they had gradually come to lunch -and dine together every day, almost as a matter of course: in the -morning at the _osteria_ and in the evening at some small restaurant or -other, usually very simply. To avoid dividing the bill, Duco would pay -one time and Cornelie the next. Generally they had much to talk about: -he taught her Rome, took her after lunch to all manner of churches and -museums; and under his guidance she began to understand, appreciate -and admire. By unconscious suggestion he inspired her with some of his -ideas. She found painting very difficult, but understood sculpture much -more readily. And she began to look upon him as not merely morbid; she -looked up to him, he spoke quite simply to her, as from his exalted -standpoint of feeling and knowledge and understanding, of very exalted -matters which she, as a girl and later as a young married woman, had -never seen in the glorious apotheosis which he caused to rise before -her like the first gleam of a dawn, of a new day in which she beheld -new types of life, created of all that was noblest in the artist's -soul. He regretted that he could not show her Giotto in the Santa -Croce at Florence and the Primitives in the Uffizi and that he had -to teach her Rome straight away; but lie introduced her to all the -exuberant art-life of the Papal Renascence, until, under the influence -of his speech, she shared that life for a single intense second and -until Michael Angelo and Raphael stood out before her, also living. -After a day like this, he would think that, after all, she was not so -hopelessly inartistic; and she thought of him with respect, even after -the suggestion was interrupted and when she reflected on what she had -seen and heard and really, deep down in herself, no longer understood -things so well as she had that morning, because she was lacking in -love for them. But so much glamour of colour arid of the past remained -whirling before her eyes in the evening that it made her pamphlet seem -drab and dull; and the feminist movement ceased to interest her and she -did not care about Urania Hope. - -He admitted to himself that he had quite lost his peace of mind, that -Cornelie stood before him in his thoughts, between him and his old -triptychs, that his lonely, friendless, ingenuous, simple life, content -with wandering through and outside Rome, with reading, dreaming and now -and then painting a little, had changed entirely in habit and in line, -now that the line of his life had joined that of hers and they both -seemed to be going one way, he did not really know why. Love was not -exactly the word for the feeling that drew him towards her. And just -very vaguely, inwardly and unconsciously he suspected, though he never -actually said or even thought as much, that it was the line of her -figure, which was marked by something almost Byzantine, the slenderness -of the frame, the long arms, the drooping lily-line of the woman who -suffered, with the melancholy in her grey eyes, overshadowed by their -almost too-long lashes; that it was the noble shape of her hand, small -and pretty for a tall woman; that it was a movement of her neck, as -of a swaying stalk, or a tired swan trying to glance backwards. He -had never met many women and those whom he had met had always seemed -very ordinary; but she was unreal to him, in the contradictions of her -character, in its vagueness and intangibility, in all the half-tints -which escaped his eye, accustomed to half-tints though it was.... What -was she like? What he had always seen in her character was a woman -in a novel, a heroine in a poem. What was she as a living woman of -flesh and blood? She was not artistic and she was not inartistic; she -had no energy and yet she did not lack energy; she was not precisely -cultivated and yet, obeying her impulse and her intuition, she wrote -a pamphlet on one of the most modern questions and worked at it and -revised and copied it, till it became a piece of writing no worse than -another. She had a spacious way of thinking, loathing all the pettiness -of the cliques, no longer feeling at home, after her suffering, in her -little Hague set; and here, in Rome, at a dance, she listened behind -a door to a nonsensical conspiracy, hardly worthy of the name, he -thought, and had gone to Urania Hope to mingle with the confused curves -of smaller lives, curves without importance, of people whom he despised -for their lack of line, of colour, of vision, of haze, of everything -that was dear as life to him and made up life for him.... What was -she like? He did not understand her. But her curve was of importance -to him. She was not without a line: a line of art and line of life; -she moved in the dream of her own indefiniteness before his gazing -eyes; and she loomed up out of the haze, as out of the twilight of his -studio atmosphere, and stood before him like a phantom. He would not -call that love; but she was dear to him like a revelation that was -constantly veiling itself in secrecy. And his life as a lonely wanderer -was, it was true, changed; but she had introduced no inharmonious -habit into his life: he enjoyed taking his meals in a little cafe or -_osteria_; and she took them with him easily and simply, not squalidly -but pleasantly and harmoniously, with an adaptability and with just -as much natural grace as when she used to dine of an evening at the -_table-d'hote_ at Belloni's. All this--that contradictory admixture -of unreality, of inconsistency; that living vision of indefiniteness; -that intangibility of her individual essence; that self-concealment of -the soul; that blending of her essential characteristics--had become -a charm to him: a restlessness, a need, a nervous want in his life, -otherwise so restful, so easily contented and calm, but above all a -charm, an indispensable everyday charm. - -And, without troubling about what people might think, about what Mrs. -Van der Staal thought, they would one day go to Tivoli together, or -another day walk from Castel Gandolfo to Albano and drive to the Lago -di Nemi and picnic at the Villa Sforza-Cesarini, with the broken -capital of a classic pillar for a table. They rested side by side in -the shadow of the trees, admired the camellias, silently contemplated -the glassy clearness of the lake, Diana's looking-glass, and drove -back over Frascati. They were silent in the carriage; and he smiled as -he reflected how they had been taken everywhere that day for man and -wife. She also thought of their increasing intimacy and at the same -time thought that she would never marry again. And she thought of her -husband and compared him with Duco, so young in the face but with eyes -full of depth and soul, a voice so calm and even, with everything that -he said so much to the point, so accurately informed; and then his -calmness, his simplicity, his lack of passion, as though his nerves -had schooled themselves only to feel the calmness of art in the dreamy -mist of his life. And she confessed to herself, there, in the carriage -beside him, amid the softly shelving hills, purpling away in the -evening, while before her faded the rose-mallow of a pale gold sunset, -that he was dear to her because of that cleverness, that absence of -passion, that simplicity and that accuracy of information--a clear -voice sounding up out of the dreamy twilight--and that she was happy -to be sitting beside him, to hear that voice and by chance to feel his -hand, happy in that her line of life had crossed his, in that their -two lines seemed to form a path towards the increasing brightness, the -gradual daily elucidation of their immediate future.... - - - - -CHAPTER XVIII - - -Cornelie now saw no one except Duco. Mrs. van der Staal had broken with -her and would not allow her daughters to have any further intercourse -with her. A coolness had arisen even between the mother and the son. -Cornelie saw no one now except Duco and, at times, Urania Hope. The -American girl came to her pretty often and told her about Belloni's, -where the people talked about Cornelie and Duco and commented on their -relations. Urania was glad to think herself above that hotel gossip, -but still she wanted to warn Cornelie. Her words displayed a simple -spontaneity of friendship that appealed to Cornelie. When Cornelie, -however, asked after the prince, she became silent and confused and -evidently did not wish to say much. Then, after the court ball, at -which the queen had really worn the dress embroidered with seed-pearls, -Urania came and looked Cornelie up again and admitted, over a cup of -tea, that she had that morning promised to go and see the prince at -his own place. She said this quite simply, as though it were the most -natural thing in the world. Cornelie was horrified and asked her how -she could have promised such a thing. - -"Why not?" Urania replied. "What is there in it? I receive his visits. -If he asks me to come and see his rooms--he lives in the Palazzo -Ruspoli and wants to show me his pictures and miniatures and old -lace--why should I refuse to go? Why should I make a fuss about it? I -am above any such narrow-mindedness. We American girls go about freely -with our men friends. And what about yourself? You go for walks with -Mr. Van der Staal, you lunch with him, you go for trips with him, you -go to his studio...." - -"I have been married," said Cornelie. "I am responsible to no one. You -have your parents. What you are thinking of doing is imprudent and -high-handed. Tell me, does the prince think of ... marrying you?" - -"If I become a Catholic." - -"And...?" - -"I think ... I shall. I have written to Chicago," she said, -hesitatingly. - -She closed her beautiful eyes for a second and went pale, because the -title of princess and duchess flashed before her sight: - -"Only...." she began. - -"Only what?" - -"I sha'n't have a cheerful life. The prince belongs to the Blacks. They -are always in mourning because of the Pope. They have hardly anything -in their set: no dances, no parties. If we got married, I should like -him to come to America with me. Their home in the Abruzzi is a lonely, -tumble-down castle. His father is a very proud, stand-offish, silent -person. I have been told so by ever so many people. What am I to do, -Cornelie? I'm very fond of Gilio: his name is Virgilio. And then, you -know, the title is an old Italian title: Principe di Forte-Braccio, -Duca di San Stefano.... But then, you see, that's all there is to it. -San Stefano is a hole. That's where his papa lives. They sell wine and -live on that. And olive-oil; but they don't make any money. My father -manufactures stockinet; but he has grown rich on it. They haven't many -family-jewels. I have made enquiries.... His cousin, the Contessa -di Rosavilla, the lady-in-waiting to the queen, is nice ... but we -shouldn't see her officially. I shouldn't be able to go anywhere. It -does strike me as rather boring." - -Cornelie spoke vehemently, blazed out and repeated her phrases: against -marriage in general and now against this marriage in particular, merely -for the sake of a title. Urania assented: it was merely for the title; -but then there was Gilio too, of course: he was so nice and she was -fond of him. But Cornelie didn't believe a word of it and told her so -straight out. Urania began to cry: she did not know what to do. - -"And when were you to go to the prince?" - -"This evening." - -"Don't go." - -"No, no, you're right, I sha'n't go." - -"Do you promise me?" - -"Yes, yes." - -"Don't go, Urania." - -"No, I sha'n't go. You're a dear girl. You're quite right: I won't go. -I swear to you I won't." - - - - -CHAPTER XIX - - -The undertaking which Urania had given was so vague, however, that -Cornelie felt uneasy and spoke of it to Duco that evening, when she met -him at the restaurant. But he was not interested in Urania, in what -she did or didn't do; and he shrugged his shoulders indifferently. -Cornelie, on the other hand, was silent and absent-minded and did -not listen to what he was talking about: a side-panel of a triptych, -undoubtedly by Lippo Memmi, which he had discovered in a little shop by -the Tiber; the angel of the Annunciation, almost as beautiful as the -one in the Uffizi, kneeling with the stir of his last flight yet about -him, with the lily-stem in his hands. But the dealer asked two hundred -lire for it and he did not want to give more than fifty. And yet the -dealer had not mentioned Memmi's name, did not suspect that the angel -was by Memmi. - -Cornelie was not listening; and suddenly she said: "I am going to the -Palazzo Ruspoli." - -He looked up in surprise: - -"What for?" - -"To ask for Miss Hope." - -He was dumb with amazement and stared at her open-mouthed. - -"If she's not there," Cornelie went on, "it's all right. If she is, if -she has gone after all, I'll ask to speak to her on urgent business." - -He did not know what to say, thinking her sudden idea so strange, so -eccentric, thinking it so unnecessary that her curve should cross the -curves of insignificant, indifferent people, that he did not know how -to choose his words. Cornelie glanced at her watch: - -"It's past half-past nine. If she does go, she will go about this time." - -She called the waiter and paid the bill. And she buttoned her coat and -stood up. He followed after her: - -"Cornelie," he began, "isn't what you are doing rather strange? It'll -mean all sorts of worries for you." - -"If one always objected to being worried, one would never do a good -action." - -They walked on in silence, he moving irritably by her side. They did -not speak: he thought her intention simply crazy; she thought him -wanting in chivalry, not to wish to protect Urania. She was thinking -of her pamphlet, of her fellow-women; and she wanted to protect Urania -from marriage, from that prince. And they walked through the Corso -to the Palazzo Ruspoli. He became nervous, made another attempt to -restrain her; but she had already asked the porter: - -"Is _il signore principe_ at home?" - -The man looked at her suspiciously: - -"No," he said, curtly. - -"I believe he is. If so, ask if Miss Hope is with his excellency. Miss -Hope was not at home; I believe that she was coming to see the prince -this evening; and I want to speak to her urgently ... on a matter which -will not brook delay. Here: la Signora de Retz...." - -She handed him her card. She spoke with the greatest self-possession -and referred to Urania's visit calmly and simply, as though it were an -everyday occurrence for American girls to call on Italian princes in -the evening and as though she were persuaded that the porter knew of -this custom. The man was disconcerted by her attitude, bowed, took the -card and went away. Cornelie and Duco waited in the portico. - -He admired her calmness. He considered her behaviour eccentric; but -she carried out her eccentricity with a self-assurance which once more -showed her in a new light. Would he never understand her, would he -never grasp anything or know anything for certain of that changeful -and intangible vagueness of hers? He could never have spoken those few -words to that porter in just that tone! Where had she got that tact -from, that dignified, serious attitude towards that imposing janitor, -with his long cane and his cocked hat? She did it all as easily as she -ordered their simple dinner, with a pleasant familiarity, of the waiter -at their little restaurant. - -The porter returned: - -"Miss Hope and his excellency beg that you will come upstairs." - -She looked at Duco with a triumphant smile, amused at his confusion: - -"Will you come, too?" - -"Why, no," he stammered. "I can wait for you here." - -She followed the footman up the stairs. The wide corridor was hung with -family-portraits. The drawing-room-door was open and the prince came -out to meet her. - -"Please forgive me, prince," she said, calmly, putting out her hand. - -His eyes were small and pinched and gleamed like carbuncles; he was -white with rage; but he controlled himself and pressed his lips to the -hand which she gave him. - -"Forgive me," she went on. "I want to speak to Miss Hope on an urgent -matter." - -She entered the drawing-room; Urania was there, blushing and -embarrassed. - -"You understand," Cornelie said, with a smile, "that I would not have -disturbed you if it had not been important. A question between women -... and still important!" she continued, jestingly and the prince -made an insipid, gallant reply. "May I speak to Miss Hope alone for a -moment?" - -The prince looked at her. He suspected unfriendliness in her and more, -hostility. But he bowed, with his insipid smile, and said that he would -leave the ladies to themselves. He went to another room. - -"What is it, Cornelie?" asked Urania, in agitation. She took Cornelie's -two hands and looked at her anxiously. - -"Nothing," said Cornelie, severely. "I have nothing to say to you. Only -I had my suspicions and felt sure that you would not keep your promise. -I wanted to make certain if you were here. Why did you come?" - -Urania began to weep. - -"Don't cry!" whispered Cornelie, mercilessly. "For God's sake don't -start crying! You've done the most thoughtless thing imaginable...." - -"I know I have!" Urania confessed, nervously, drying her tears. - -"Then why did you do it?" - -"I couldn't help it." - -"Alone, with him, in the evening! A man well-known to be a bad lot." - -"I know." - -"What do you see in him?" - -"I'm fond of him." - -"You only want to marry him for his title. For the sake of his title -you're compromising yourself. What if he doesn't respect you this -evening as his future wife? What if he compels you to be his mistress?" - -"Cornelie! Don't!" - -"You're a child, a thoughtless child. And your father lets you travel -by yourself ... to see 'dear old Italy!' You're an American and -broad-minded: that's all right; to travel through the world pluckily on -your own is all right; but you're not a woman, you're a baby!" - -"Cornelie...." - -"Come away with me; say that you're going with me ... for an urgent -reason. Or no ... better say nothing. Stay. But I'll stay too." - -"Yes, you stay too." - -"We'll send for him now." - -"Yes." - -Cornelie rang the bell. A footman appeared. - -"Tell his excellency that we are ready." - -The man went away. In a little while the prince entered. He had never -been treated like this in his own house. He was seething with rage, but -he remained very polite and outwardly calm: - -"Is the important matter settled?" he asked, with his small eyes and -his hypocritical smile. - -"Yes; thank you very much for your discretion in leaving us to -ourselves," said Cornelie. "Now that I have spoken to Miss Hope, I am -greatly relieved by what she has told me. Aha, you would like to know -what we were talking about!" - -The prince raised his eyebrows. Cornelie had spoken archly, holding -up her finger as though in threat, smiling; and the prince looked at -her and saw that she was handsome. Not with the striking beauty and -freshness of Urania Hope, but with a more complex attractiveness, that -of a married woman, divorced, but very young; that of a _fin-de-siecle_ -woman, with a faintly perverse expression in her deep grey eyes, moving -under very long lashes; that of a woman of peculiar grace in the -drooping lines of her tired, lax, morbid charm: a woman who knew life; -a woman who saw through him: he was certain of it; a woman who, though -disliking him, nevertheless spoke to him coquettishly in order to -attract him, to win him, unconsciously, from sheer womanly perversity. -And he saw her, in her perverse beauty, and admired her, sensitive as -he was to various types of women. He suddenly thought her handsomer and -less commonplace than Urania and much more distinguished and not so -ingenuously susceptible to his title, a thing which he thought so silly -in Urania. He was suddenly at his ease with her, his anger subsided: he -thought it fun to have two good-looking women with him instead of one; -and he jested in return, saying that he was consumed with curiosity, -that he had been listening at the door, but had been unable to catch a -word, alas! - -Cornelie laughed with coquettish gaiety and looked at her watch. She -said something about going, but sat down at the same time, unbuttoned -her coat and said to the prince: - -"I have heard so much about your miniatures. Now that I have the -chance, may I see them?" - -The prince was willing, charmed by the look in her eyes, by her voice; -he was all fire and flame in a second. - -"But," said Cornelie, "my escort is waiting outside in the portico. He -would not come up: he doesn't know you. It is Mr. Van der Staal." - -The prince laughed as he glanced at her. He knew of the gossip at -Belloni's. He did not for a moment doubt the existence of a _liaison_ -between Van der Staal and Signora de Retz. He knew that they did not -care for the proprieties. And he began to like Cornelie very much. - -"But I will send to Mr. Van der Staal at once to ask him to come up." - -"He is waiting in the portico," said Cornelie. "He won't like to...." - -"I'll go myself," said the prince, with obliging vivacity. - -He left the room. The ladies stayed behind. Cornelie took off her coat, -but kept on her hat, because her hair was sure to be untidy. She looked -into the glass: - -"Have you your powder on you?" she asked Urania. - -Urania took her little ivory powder-box from her bag and handed it -to Cornelie. And, while Cornelie powdered her face, Urania looked at -her friend and did not understand. She remembered the impression of -seriousness which Cornelie had made on her at their first meeting: -studying Rome; afterwards, writing a pamphlet on the woman question -and the position of divorced women. Then her warnings against marriage -and the prince. And now she suddenly saw her as a most attractive, -frivolous woman, irresistibly charming, even more bewitching than -actually beautiful, full of coquetry in the depths of her grey eyes, -which glanced up and down under the curling lashes, simply dressed in -a dark silk blouse and a cloth skirt, but with so much distinction and -so much coquetry, with so much dignity and yet with a touch of yielding -winsomeness, that she hardly knew her. - -But the prince had returned, bringing Duco with him. Duco was nervously -reluctant, not knowing what had happened, not grasping how Cornelie had -acted. He saw her sitting quietly, smiling; and she at once explained -that the prince was going to show her his miniatures. - -Duco declared flatly that he did not care for miniatures. The prince -suspected from his irritable tone that he was jealous. And this -suspicion incited the prince to pay attentions to Cornelie. And he -behaved as though he were showing his miniatures only to _her_, as -though he were showing _her_ his old lace. She admired the lace in -particular and rolled it between her delicate fingers. She asked him to -tell her about his grandmothers, who used to wear the lace: had they -had any adventures? He told her one which made her laugh very much; -then he told an anecdote or two, vivaciously, flaming up under her -glance, and she laughed. Amid the atmosphere of that big drawing-room, -his study--it contained his writing-table--with the candles lighted -and flowers everywhere for Urania, a certain perverse gaiety began -to reign, a frivolous _joie de vivre_. But only between Cornelie and -the prince. Urania had fallen silent; and Duco did not speak a word. -Cornelie was a revelation to him also. He had never seen her like that: -not at the dance on Christmas Day, nor at the _table-d'hote_, nor in -his studio, nor on their excursions, nor in their restaurant. Was she a -woman, or was she ten women? - -And he confessed to himself that he loved her, that he loved her more -at each revelation, more with each woman that he saw in her, like a -new facet which she made to gleam and glitter. But he could not speak, -could not join in their pleasantry, feeling strange in that atmosphere, -strange in that atmosphere of buoyant animal spirits, caused by nothing -but aimless words, as though the French and Italian which they mixed up -together were dropping so many pearls, as though their jests shone like -so much tinsel, as though their equivocal playing upon words had the -iridescence of a rainbow.... - -The prince regretted that his tea was no longer fit to drink, but he -rang for some champagne. He thought that his plans had partly failed -that evening, for, fearing to lose Urania, he had intended to compel -her; seeing her hesitation, he had resolved to force the irreparable. -But his nature was so devoid of seriousness--he was marrying to please -his father and the Marchesa Belloni rather than himself; he enjoyed -his life quite as well with a load of debts and no wife as he could -hope to do with a wife and millions of money--that he began to consider -the failure of his plans highly amusing and had to laugh within -himself when he thought of his father, of his aunt the marchesa and of -their machinations, which had no effect on Urania, because a pretty, -flirtatious woman had objected. - -"Why did she object?" he wondered, as he poured out the foaming -Monopole, spilling it over the glasses. "Why does she put herself -between me and the American stocking-seller? Is she herself in Italy to -hunt for a title?" - -But he did not care: he thought the intruder charming, pretty, very -pretty, coquettish, seductive, bewitching. He fussed around her, -neglecting Urania, almost forgetting to fill her glass. And, when it -grew late and Cornelie at last rose to go and drew Urania's arm through -hers and looked at the prince with a glance of triumph which they -mutually understood, he whispered in her ear: - -"I am ever so grateful to you for visiting me in my humble abode. You -have defeated me: I acknowledge myself defeated." - -The words appeared to be merely an allusion to their jesting discussion -about nothing; but, uttered between him and her, between the prince and -Cornelie, they sounded full of meaning; and he saw the smile of victory -in her eyes.... - -He stayed behind in his room and poured himself out what remained of -the champagne. And, as he raised the glass to his lips, he said, aloud: - -"_O, che occhi! Che belli occhi!... Che belli occhi!..._" - - - - -CHAPTER XX - - -Next day, when Duco met Cornelie at the _osteria_, she was very -cheerful and excited. She told him that she had already received a -reply from the woman's paper to which she had sent her pamphlet the -week before and that her work was not only accepted but would be paid -for. She was so proud at earning money for the first time that she was -as merry as a little child. She did not speak of the previous evening, -seemed to have forgotten Urania, but felt an exuberant need to talk. - -She formed all sorts of great plans: to travel about as a journalist, -to fling herself into the movement of the great cities, to pursue every -reality, to have herself sent by some paper as a delegate to congresses -and festivals. The few guilders which she was earning already made -her intoxicated with zeal; and she would like to make a lot of money -and do a great deal and consider no fatigue. He thought her simply -adorable: in the half light of the _osteria_, as she sat at the little -table eating her _gnocchi_, with in front of her the _mezzo-fiasco_ -of pale-yellow wine of the country, her usual languor acquired a new -vivacity which astonished him; her outline, half-dark on the left, -lighted on the right by the sunshine in the street, acquired a modern -grace of drawing which reminded him of the French draughtsmen: the -rather pale face with the delicate features, lit up by her smile, -faintly indicated under the sailor hat, which slanted over her eyes; -the hair, touched with gold, or a dark light-brown; the white veil -raised into a rumpled mist above; her figure, slender and gracious in -the simple, unbuttoned coat, with a bunch of violets in her blouse. - -The manner in which she helped herself to wine, in which she addressed -the _cameriere_--the only one, who knew them well, from seeing them -daily--with a pleasant familiarity; the vivacity replacing her languor; -her great plans, her gay phrases: all this seemed to shine upon him, -unconstrained and yet distinguished, free and yet womanly and, above -all, easy, as she was at her ease everywhere, with an assimilative tact -which for him constituted a peculiar harmony. He thought of the evening -before, but she did not speak of it. He thought of that revelation -of her coquetry, but she was not thinking of coquetry. She was never -coquettish with him. She looked up to him, regarded him as clever and -exceptional, though not belonging to his time; she respected him for -the things which he said and thought; and she was as matter-of-fact -towards him as one chum towards another, who happened to be older and -cleverer. She felt for him a sincere friendship, an indescribable -something that implied the need of being together, of living together, -as though the lines of their two lives should form one line. It was not -a sisterly feeling and it was not passion and to her mind it was not -love; but it was a great sense of respectful tenderness, of longing -admiration and of affectionate delight at having met him. If she never -saw him again, she would miss him as she would never miss any one in -her life. And that he took no interest in modern questions did not -lower him in the eyes of this young modern Amazon, who was about to -wave her first banner. It might vex her for an instant, but it did -not carry weight in her estimation of him. And he saw that, with him, -she was simply affectionate, without coquetry. Yet he would never -forget what she had been like yesterday, with the prince. He had felt -jealousy and noticed it in Urania also. But she herself had acted so -spontaneously in harmony with her nature that she no longer thought of -that evening, of the prince, of Urania, of her own coquettishness or of -any possible jealousy on their side. - -He paid the bill--it was his turn--and she gaily took his arm and said -that she had a surprise in store for him, with which he would be very -pleased. She wanted to give him something, a handsome, a very handsome -keepsake. She wanted to spend on it the money she was going to receive -for her article. But she hadn't got it yet. As though that mattered! It -would come in due time. And she wanted to give him his present now. - -He laughed and asked what it could be. She hailed a carriage and -whispered an address to the driver. Duco did not hear. What could it -be? But she refused to tell him yet. - -The _vetturino_ drove them through the Borgo to the Tiber and stopped -outside a dark little old-curiosity-shop, where the wares lay heaped up -right out into the street. - -"Cornelie!" Duco exclaimed, guessing. - -"Your Lippo Memmi angel. I'm getting it for you. Not a word!" - -The tears came to his eyes. They entered the shop. "Ask him how much he -wants for it." - -He was too much moved to speak; and Cornelie had to ask the price and -bargain. She did not bargain long: she bought the panel for a hundred -and twenty lire. She herself carried it to the victoria. - -And they drove back to his studio. They carried the angel up the stairs -together, as though they were bearing an unsullied happiness into his -home. In the studio they placed the angel on a chair. Of a noble -aspect, of a somewhat Mongolian type, with long, almond-shaped eyes, -the angel had just knelt down in the last stir of his flight; and the -gold scarf of his gold-and-purple cloak fluttered in the air while -his long wings quivered straight above him. Duco stared at his Memmi, -filled with a twofold emotion, because of the angel and because of her. - -And with a natural gesture he spread out his arms: "May I thank you, -Cornelie?" - -And he embraced her; and she returned his kiss. - - - - -CHAPTER XXI - - -When she came home she found the prince's card. It was an ordinary -civility after yesterday evening, her unexpected visit to the Palazzo -Ruspoli, and she did not give it a second thought. She was in a -pleasant frame of mind, pleased with herself, glad that her work would -appear first as an article in _Het Recht der Vrouw_[1]--she would -publish it as a pamphlet afterwards--and glad that she had made Duco -happy with the Memmi. She changed into her tea-gown and sat down by the -fire in her musing attitude and thought of how she could carry out her -great plans. To whom ought she to apply? There was an International -Women's Congress sitting in London; and _Het Recht der Vrouw_ had sent -her a prospectus. She turned over the pages. Different feminist leaders -were to speak; there would be numbers of social questions discussed: -the psychology of the child; the responsibility of the parents; the -influence on domestic life of women's admission to all the professions; -women in art, women in medicine; the fashionable woman; the woman at -home, on the stage; marriage- and divorce-laws. - -In addition, the prospectus gave concise biographies of the speakers, -with their portraits. There were American, Russian, English, Swedish, -Danish women; nearly every nationality was represented. There were old -women and young women: some pretty, some ugly; some masculine, some -womanly; some hard and energetic, with sexless boys' faces: one or -two only were elegant, with low-cut dresses and waved hair. It was -not easy to divide them into groups. What impulse in their lives had -prompted them to join in the struggle for women's rights? In some, -no doubt, inclination, nature; in an occasional case, vocation; in -another, the desire to be in the fashion. And, in her own case, what -was the impulse?... She dropped the prospectus in her lap and stared -into the fire and reflected. Her drawing-room education passed before -her once more, followed by her marriage, by her divorce.... - -What was the impulse? What was the inducement?... She had come to it -gradually, to go abroad, to extend her sphere of vision, to reflect, -to learn about art, about the modern life of women. She had glided -gradually along the line of her life, with no great effort of will or -striving, without even thinking much or feeling much.... She glanced -into herself, as though she were reading a modern novel, the psychology -of a woman. Sometimes she seemed to will things, to wish to strive, as -just now, to pursue her great plans. Sometimes she would sit thinking, -as she often did in these days, beside her cosy fire. Sometimes she -felt, as she now did, for Duco. But mostly her life had been a gradual -gliding along the line which she had to follow, urged by the gentle -pressure of the finger of fate.... For a moment she saw it clearly. -There was a great sincerity in her: she never posed either to herself -or to others. There were contradictions in her, but she recognized -them all, in so far as she could see herself. But the open landscape -of her soul became clear to her at that moment. She saw the complexity -of her being gleam with its many facets.... She had taken to writing, -out of impulse and intuition; but was her writing any good? A doubt -rose in her mind. A copy of the code lay on her table, a survival of -the days of her divorce; but had she understood the law correctly? -Her article was accepted; but was the judgement of the editress to be -trusted? As her eyes wandered once again over those women's portraits -and biographies, she became afraid that her work would not be good, -would be too superficial, and that her ideas were not directed by study -and knowledge. But she could also imagine her own photograph appearing -in that prospectus, with her name under it and a brief comment: writer -of _The Social Position of Divorced Women_, with the name of the paper, -the date and so on. And she smiled: how highly convincing it sounded! - -But how difficult it was to study, to work and understand and act and -move in the modern movement of life! She was now in Rome: she would -have liked to be in London. But it did not suit her at the moment to -make the journey. She had felt rich when she bought Duco's Memmi, -thinking of the payment for her article; and now she felt poor. She -would much have liked to go to London. But then she would have missed -Duco. And the congress lasted only a week. She was pretty well at home -here now, was beginning to love Rome, her rooms, the Colosseum lying -yonder like a dark oval, like a sombre wing at the end of the city, -with the hazy-blue mountains behind it. - -Then the prince came into her mind and for the first time she thought -of yesterday, saw that evening again, an evening of jesting and -champagne: Duco silent and sulky, Urania depressed and the prince -small, lively, slender, roused from his slackness as an aristocratic -man-about-town and with his narrow carbuncle eyes. She thought him -really pleasant; once in a way she liked that atmosphere of coquetry -and flirtation; and the prince had understood her. She had saved -Urania, she was sure of that; and she felt the content of her good -action.... - -She was too lazy to dress and go to the restaurant. She was not very -hungry and would stay at home and sup on what was in her cupboard: a -couple of eggs, bread, some fruit. But she remembered Duco and that he -would certainly be waiting for her at their little table and she wrote -him a note and sent it by the hall-porter's boy.... - -Duco was just coming down, on his way out to the restaurant, when he -met the little fellow on the stairs. He read the note and felt as if -he was suffering a grievous disappointment. He felt small and unhappy, -like a child. And he went back to his studio, lit a single lamp, threw -himself on a broad couch and lay staring in the dusk at Memmi's angel, -who, still standing on the chair, glimmered vaguely gold in the middle -of the room, sweet as comfort, with his gesture of annunciation, as -though he sought to announce all the mystery that was about to be -fulfilled.... - - -[1] Women's Rights. - - - - -CHAPTER XXII - - -A few days later, Cornelie was expecting a visit from the prince, who -had asked her for an appointment. She was sitting at her writing-table, -correcting the proofs of her article. A lamp on the writing-table cast -a soft glow over her through a yellow silk shade; and she wore her -tea-gown of white _crepe de Chine_, with a bunch of violets at her -breast. Another lamp, on a pedestal, cast a second gleam from a corner; -and the room flickered in cosy intimacy with the third light from the -log-fire, falling over water-colours by Duco, sketches and photographs, -white anenomes in vases, violets everywhere and one tall palm. The -writing-table was littered with books and printed sheets, bearing -witness to her work. - -There was a knock at the door; and, at her "Come in," the prince -entered. She remained seated for a moment, laid down her pen and rose. -She went up to him with a smile and held out her hand. He kissed it. He -was very smartly dressed in a frock-coat, with a silk hat and pale-grey -gloves; he wore a pearl pin in his tie. They sat down by the fire and -he paid her compliments in quick succession, on her sitting-room, her -dress and her eyes. She made a jesting reply, and he asked if he was -disturbing her: - -"Perhaps you were writing an interesting letter to some one near your -heart?" - -"No, I was revising some proofs." - -"Proofs?" - -"Yes." - -"Do you write?" - -"I have just begun to." - -"A story?" - -"No, an article." - -"An article? What about?" - -She gave him the long title. He looked at her open-mouthed. She laughed -gaily: - -"You would never have believed it, would you?" - -"Santa Maria!" he murmured in surprise, unaccustomed in his own world -to "modern" women, taking part in a feminist movement. "Dutch?" - -"Yes, Dutch." - -"Write in French next time: then I can read it." - -She laughed and gave her promise, poured him out a cup of tea, handed -the chocolates. He nibbled at them: - -"Are you so serious? Have you always been? You were not serious the -other day." - -"Sometimes I am very serious." - -"So am I." - -"I gathered that. If I had not come that time, you might have become -very serious." - -He gave a fatuous laugh and looked at her knowingly: - -"You are a wonderful woman!" he said. "Very interesting and very -clever. What you want to happen happens." - -"Sometimes." - -"Sometimes what I want also. Sometimes I also am very clever. When I -want a thing. But generally I don't want it." - -"You did the other day." - -He laughed: - -"Yes! You were cleverer than I then. To morrow perhaps I shall be -cleverer than you." - -"Who knows!" - -They both laughed. He nibbled the chocolates in the dish, one after the -other, and asked if he might have a glass of port instead of tea. She -poured him out a glass. - -"May I give you something?" - -"What?" - -"A souvenir of our first acquaintance." - -"It is very charming of you. What is it to be?" - -He took something, wrapped in tissue-paper, from his pocket and handed -it to her. She opened the little parcel and saw a strip of old Venetian -lace, worked in the shape of a flounce, for a low bodice. - -"Do accept it," he besought her. "It is a lovely piece. It is such a -pleasure to me to give it to you." - -She looked at him with all her coquetry in her eyes, as though she were -trying to see through him. - -"You must wear it like this." - -He stood up, took the lace and draped it over her white tea-gown from -shoulder to shoulder. His fingers fumbled with the folds, his lips just -touched her hair. - -She thanked him for his gift. He sat down again: - -"I am glad that you will accept it." - -"Have you given Miss Hope something too?" - -He laughed, with his little laugh of conquest: - -"Patterns are all she wants, patterns of the queen's ball-dresses. I -wouldn't dare to give you patterns. To you I give old lace." - -"But you nearly ruined your career for the sake of that pattern?" - -"Oh, well!" he laughed. - -"Which career?" - -"Oh, don't!" he said, evasively. "Tell me, what do you advise me to do?" - -"What do you mean?" - -"Shall I marry her?" - -"I am against all marriage, between cultivated people." - -She wanted to repeat some of her phrases, but thought to herself, why? -He would not understand them. He looked at her profoundly, with his -carbuncle eyes: - -"So you are in favour of free love?" - -"Sometimes. Not always. Between cultivated people." - -He was certain now, had any doubt still lingered in his mind, that a -_liaison_ existed between her and Van der Staal. - -"And do you think me ... cultivated?" - -She laughed provocatively, with a touch of scorn in her voice: - -"Listen. Shall I speak to you seriously?" - -"I wish you would." - -"I consider neither you nor Miss Hope suited for free love." - -"So I am not cultivated?" - -"I don't mean it in the sense of being civilized. I mean modern -culture." - -"So I am not modern?" - -"No," she said, slightly irritated. - -"Teach me to be modern." - -She gave a nervous laugh: - -"Oh, don't let us talk like this! You want to know my advice. I advise -you _not_ to marry Urania." - -"Why not?" - -"Because you would both of you have a wretched life. She is a dear -little American _parvenue_...." - -"I am offering her what I possess; she is offering me what she -possesses...." - -He nibbled at the chocolates. She shrugged her shoulders: - -"Then marry her," she said, with indifference. - -"Tell me that you don't want me to and I won't." - -"And your father? And the marchesa?" - -"What do you know about them?" - -"Oh ... everything and nothing!" - -"You are a demon!" he exclaimed. "An angel and a demon! Tell me, what -do you know about my father and the marchesa?" - -"For how much are you selling yourself to Urania? For not less than ten -millions?" - -He looked at her in bewilderment. - -"But the marchesa thinks five enough. And a very handsome sum it is: -five millions. Which is it, dollars or lire?" - -He clapped his hands together: - -"You are a devil!" he cried. "You are an angel and a devil! How do you -know? How _do_ you know? Do you know everything?" - -She flung herself back in her chair and laughed: "Everything." - -"But how?" - -She looked at him and shook her head tantalizingly. - -"Tell me." - -"No. It's my secret." - -"And you think that I ought not to sell myself?" - -"I dare not advise you as regards your own interest." - -"And as regards Urania?" - -"I advise her not to do it." - -"Have you done so already?" - -"Once in a way." - -"So you are my enemy?" he exclaimed, angrily. - -"No," she said, gently, wishing to conciliate him. "I am a friend." - -"A friend? To what length?" - -"To the length to which _I_ wish to go." - -"Not the length to which _I_ wish?" - -"Oh, no, never!" - -"But perhaps we both wish to go to the same length?" - -He had stood up, with his blood on fire. She remained seated calmly, -almost languidly, with her head thrown back. She did not reply. He -fell on his knees, seized her hand and was kissing it before she could -prevent him: - -"Oh, angel, angel! Oh, demon!" he muttered, between his kisses. - -She now withdrew her hand, pushed him away from her gently and said: - -"How quick an Italian is with his kisses!" - -She laughed at him. He rose from his knees: - -"Teach me what Dutchwomen are like, though they are slower than we." - -She pointed to his chair, with an imperious gesture: - -"Sit down," she said. "I am not a typical Dutchwoman. If I were, I -should not have come to Rome. I pride myself on being a cosmopolitan. -But we were not discussing that, we were speaking of Urania. Are you -thinking seriously of marrying her?" - -"What can I do, if you thwart me? Why not be on my side, like a dear -friend?" - -She hesitated. Neither of these two, Urania nor he, was ripe for her -ideas. She despised them both. Very well, let them get married: he in -order to be rich; she to become a princess and duchess. - -"Listen to me," she said, bending towards him. "You want to marry her -for the sake of her millions. But your marriage will be unhappy from -the beginning. She is a frivolous little thing; she will want to cut a -dash ... and you belong to the Blacks." - -"We can live at Nice: then she can do as she pleases. We will come -to Rome now and again, go to San Stefano now and again. And, as for -unhappiness," he continued, pulling a tragic face, "what do I care? I -am not happy as it is. I shall try to make Urania happy. But my heart -... will be elsewhere." - -"Where?" - -"With the feminist movement." - -She laughed: - -"Well, shall I be nice to you?" - -"Yes." - -"And promise to help you?" - -What did she care, when all was said? - -"Oh, angel, demon!" he cried. He nibbled at a chocolate. "And what does -Mr. Van der Staal think of it?" he asked, mischievously. - -She raised her eyebrows: - -"He doesn't think about it. He thinks only of his art." - -"And of you." - -She looked at him and bowed her head in queenly assent: - -"And of me." - -"You often dine with him." - -"Yes." - -"Come and dine with me one day." - -"I shall be delighted." - -"To-morrow evening? And where?" - -"Wherever you like." - -"In the Grand-Hotel?" - -"Ask Urania to come too." - -"Why not you and I alone?" - -"I think it better that you should invite your future wife. I will -chaperon her." - -"You are right. You are quite right. And will you ask Mr. Van der Staal -also to give me the pleasure of his company?" - -"I will." - -"Until to-morrow then, at half-past eight?" - -"Until half-past eight to-morrow." - -He rose to take his leave: - -"Propriety demands that I should go," he said. "Really I should prefer -to stay." - -"Well, then stay ... or stay another time, if you have to go now." - -"You are so cold." - -"And you don't think enough of Urania." - -"I think of the feminist movement." - -He sat down. - -"I'm afraid you must go," she said, laughing with her eyes. "I have to -dress ... to go and dine with Mr. Van der Staal." - -He kissed her hand: - -"You are an angel and a demon. You know everything. You can do -anything. You are the most interesting woman I ever met." - -"Because I correct proofs." - -"Because you are what you are." - -And, very seriously, still holding her hand, he said, almost -threateningly: - -"I shall never be able to forget you." - -And he went away. As soon as she was alone, she opened all her windows. -She realized, it was true, that she was something of a coquette, but -that lay in her nature: she was like that involuntarily, to some men. -Certainly not to all. Never to Duco. Never to men whom she respected. -Whereas she despised that little prince, with his blazing eyes and his -habit of kissing people.... But he served to amuse her.... - -And she dressed and went out and reached the restaurant long after -the appointed hour; found Duco waiting for her at their little table, -with his head in his hands, and at once told him that the prince had -detained her. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIII - - -Duco had at first wished to decline the invitation, but Cornelie -said that she would think it pleasanter if he came. And it was an -exquisite dinner in the restaurant of the Grand-Hotel and Cornelie -had enjoyed herself exceedingly and looked most charming in an old -yellow ball-dress, dating back to the first days of her marriage, -which she had altered quickly here and there and draped with the -prince's old lace. Urania had looked very handsome, with her clear, -fresh complexion, her shining eyes and gleaming teeth, clad in a -close-fitting frock in the latest fashion, blue-black spangles on black -tulle, as though she were moulded in a cuirass: the prince said, a -siren with a mermaid's tail. And the people at the other tables had -stared across at theirs, for everybody knew Virgilio di Forte-Braccio; -everybody knew that he was going to marry a rich American heiress; -and everybody had noticed that he was paying great attention to the -slender, fair-haired woman whom nobody knew. She had been married, they -thought; she was chaperoning the future princess; and she was very -intimate with that young man, a Dutch painter, who was studying art in -Italy. They had soon found out all that there was to know. - -Cornelie had thought it pleasant that they all looked at her; and she -had flirted so obviously with the prince that Urania had become angry. -And early next morning, while Cornelie was still in bed, no longer -thinking of last night but pondering over a sentence in her pamphlet, -the maid knocked, brought in her breakfast and letters and said that -Miss Hope was asking to speak to her. Cornelie had Urania shown in, -while she remained in bed and drank her chocolate. And she looked up -in surprise when Urania at once overwhelmed her with reproaches, burst -into sobs, scolded and raved, made a violent scene, said that she now -saw through her and admitted that the marchesa had urged her to be -careful of Cornelie, whom she described as a dangerous woman. Cornelie -waited until she had had her say and replied coolly that she had -nothing on her conscience, that on the contrary she had saved Urania -and been of service to her as a chaperon, though she did not tell her -that the prince had wanted her, Cornelie, to dine with him alone. But -Urania refused to listen and went on ranting. Cornelie looked at her -and thought her vulgar in that rage of hers, talking her American -English, as though she were chewing filberts and at last she answered, -calmly: - -"My dear girl, you're upsetting yourself about nothing. But, if -you like, I will write to the prince that he must pay me no more -attentions." - -"No, no, don't do that: it'll make Gilio think I'm jealous!" - -"And aren't you?" - -"Why do you monopolize Gilio? Why do you flirt with him? Why do -you make yourself conspicuous with him, as you did yesterday, in a -restaurant full of people?" - -"Well, if you dislike it, I won't flirt with Gilio again or make myself -conspicuous with him again. I don't care twopence about your prince." - -"That's an extra reason." - -"Very well, dear, that's settled." - -Her coolness calmed Urania, who asked: - -"And do we remain good friends?" - -"Why, of course, my dear girl. Is there any occasion for us to quarrel? -I don't see it." - -Both of them, the prince and Urania, were quite indifferent to -her. True, she had preached to Urania in the beginning, but about a -general idea: when afterwards she perceived Urania's insignificance, -she withdrew the interest which she took in her. And, if the girl was -offended by a little gaiety and innocent flirtation, very well, them -should be no more of it. Her thoughts were more with the proofs which -the post had brought her. - -She got out of bed and stretched herself: - -"Go into the sitting-room, Urania dear, and just let me have my bath." - -Presently, all fresh and smiling, she joined Urania in the -sitting-room. Urania was crying. - -"My dear child, why are you upsetting yourself like this? You've -achieved your ideal. Your marriage is as good as certain. You're -waiting for an answer from Chicago? You're impatient? Then cable out. -I should have cabled at once in your place. You don't imagine, do you, -that your father has any objection to your becoming Duchess di San -Stefano?" - -"I don't know yet what I myself want," said Urania, weeping. "I don't -know, I don't know." - -Cornelie shrugged her shoulders: - -"You're more sensible than I thought," she said. - -"Are you really my friend? Can I trust you? Can I trust your advice?" - -"I won't advise you again. I have advised you. You must know your own -mind." - -Urania took her hand: - -"Which would you prefer, that I accepted Gilio ... or not?" - -Cornelie looked her straight in the eyes: - -"You're making yourself unhappy about nothing. You think--and the -marchesa probably thinks with you--that I want to take Gilio from you? -No, darling, I wouldn't marry Gilio if he were king and emperor. I -have a bit of the socialist in me: I don't marry for the sake of a -title." - -"No more would I." - -"Of course, darling, no more would you. I never dreamt of suggesting -that you would. But you ask _me_ which I should prefer. Well, I tell -you in all sincerity: I don't prefer either. The whole business leaves -me cold." - -"And you call yourself my friend!" - -"So I am, dear, and I will remain your friend. Only don't come -overwhelming me with reproaches on an empty stomach!" - -"You're a flirt." - -"Sometimes. It comes natural to me. But, honestly, I won't be so again -with Gilio." - -"Do you mean it?" - -"Yes, of course. What do I care? He amuses me; but, if it offends you, -I'll gladly sacrifice my amusement for your sake. I don't value it so -much." - -"Are you fond of Mr. Van der Staal?" - -"Very." - -"Are you going to marry him, Cornelie?" - -"No, dear. I sha'n't marry again. I know what marriage means. Are you -coming for a little walk with me? It's a fine day; and you have upset -me so with your little troubles that I can't do any work this morning. -It's lovely weather: come along and buy some flowers in the Piazza di -Spagna." - -They went and bought the flowers. Cornelie took Urania back to -Belloni's. As she walked away, on the road to the _osteria_ for lunch, -she heard somebody following her. It was the prince. - -"I caught sight of you from the corner of the Via Aurora," he said -"Urania was just going home." - -"Prince," she said at once, "there must be no more of it." - -"Of what?" - -"No more visits, no more joking, no more presents, no more dinners at -the Grand-Hotel, no more champagne." - -"Why not?" - -"The future princess won't have it." - -"Is she jealous?" - -Cornelie described the scene to him: - -"And you mayn't even walk with me." - -"Yes, I may." - -"No, no." - -"I shall, for all that." - -"By the right of the man, of the strongest?" - -"Exactly." - -"My vocation is to fight against it. But to-day I am untrue to my -vocation." - -"You are charming ... as always." - -"You mustn't say that any more." - -"Urania's a bore.... Tell me, what do you advise me to do? Shall I -marry her?" - -Cornelie gave a peal of laughter: - -"You both of you keep asking _my_ advice!" - -"Yes, yes, what do you think?" - -"Marry her by all means!" - -He did not observe her contempt. - -"Exchange your escutcheon for her purse," she continued and laughed and -laughed. - -He now perceived it: - -"You despise me, perhaps both of us." - -"Oh, no!" - -"Tell me that you don't despise me." - -"You ask me my opinion, Urania is a very sweet, dear child, but she -ought not to travel by herself. And you...." - -"And I?" - -"You are a delightful boy. Buy me those violets, will you?" - -"_Subito, subito!_" - -He bought her the bunch of violets: - -"You're crazy over violets, aren't you?" - -"Yes. This must be your second ... and your last present. And here we -say good-bye." - -"No, I shall take you home." - -"I'm not going home." - -"Where are you going?" - -"To the _osteria_. Mr Van der Staal is waiting for me." - -"He's a lucky man! - -"Why?" - -"He needs must be!" - -"I don't see why. Good-bye, prince." - -"Ask me to come too," he entreated. "Let me lunch with you." - -"No," she said, seriously. "Really not. It's better not. I believe...." - -"What?" - -"That Duco is just like Urania." - -"Jealous?... When shall I see you again?" - -"Really, believe me, it's better not.... Goodbye, prince. And thank you -... for the violets." - -He bent over her hand. She went into the _osteria_ and saw that Duco -had witnessed their leave-taking through the window. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIV - - -Duco was silent and nervous at table. He played with his bread; and his -fingers trembled. She felt that he had something on his mind: - -"What is it?" she asked, kindly. - -"Cornelie," he said, excitedly, "I want to speak to you." - -"What about?" - -"You're not behaving properly." - -"In what respect?" - -"With the prince. You've seen through him and yet ... yet you go on -putting up with him, yet you're always meeting him. Let me finish," he -said, looking around him: there was no one in the restaurant save two -Italians, sitting at the far table, and they could speak without being -overheard. "Let me finish," he repeated, when she tried to interrupt -him. "Let me say what I have to say. You of course are free to act as -you please. But I am your friend and I want to advise you. What you -are doing is not right. The prince is a cad, a low, common cad. How -can you accept presents from him and invitations? Why did you compel -me to come yesterday? The dinner was one long torture to me. You know -how fond I am of you: why shouldn't I confess it? You know how high -I hold you. I can't bear to see you lowering yourself with him. Let -me speak. Lowering, I say. He is not worthy to tie your shoe-strings. -And you play with him, you jest with him, you flirt--let me speak--you -flirt with him. What can he be to you, a coxcomb like that? What part -can he play in your life? Let him marry Miss Hope: what do you care -about either of them? What do inferior people matter to you, Cornelie? -I despise them and so do you. I know you do. Then why do you cross -their lives? Let them live in the vanity of their titles and money: -what is it all to you? I don't understand you. Oh, I know, you're not -to be understood, all the woman part of you! And I love everything that -I see of you: I love you in everything. It doesn't matter whether I -understand you. But I do feel that _this_ isn't right. I ask you not to -see the prince any more. Have nothing more to do with him. Cut him.... -That dinner, last night, was a torture to me...." - -"My poor boy," she said, gently, filling his glass from their _fiasco_, -"but why?" - -"Why? Why? Because you're lowering yourself." - -"I do not stand so high. No, let _me_ speak now. I do not stand -high. Because I have a few modern ideas and a few others which are -broader-minded than those of most women? Apart from that I am an -ordinary woman. When a man is cheerful and witty, it amuses me. No, -Duco, I'm speaking now. I don't consider the prince a cad. I may think -him a coxcomb, but I think him cheerful and witty. You know that I -too am very fond of you, but you are neither cheerful nor witty. Now -don't get angry. You are much more than that. I'm not even comparing -_il nostro Gilio_ with you. I won't say anything more about you, or -you will become conceited, but cheerful and witty you are not. And my -poor nature sometimes feels a need for these qualities. What have I in -my life? Nothing but you, you alone. I am very glad to possess your -friendship, very happy in having met you. But why may I not sometimes -be cheerful? Really, there is a little light-heartedness in me, a -little frivolity even. Am I bound to fight against it? Duco, am I -wicked?" - -He smiled sadly; there was a moist light in his eyes; and he did not -answer. - -"I can fight, if necessary," she resumed. "But is this a thing to fight -against? It is a passing bubble, nothing more. I forget it the next -minute. I forget the prince the next minute. And you I do not forget." - -He was looking at her radiantly. - -"Do you understand that? Do you understand that I don't flirt and fence -with you? Shake hands and stop being angry." - -She gave him her hand across the table and he pressed her fingers: - -"Cornelie," he said, softly. "Yes, I feel that you are loyal. Cornelie, -will you be my wife?" - -She looked straight in front of her and drooped her head a little -and stared before her earnestly. They were no longer eating. The two -Italians stood up, bowed and went away. They were alone. The waiter set -some fruit before them and withdrew. - -They both sat silent for a moment. Then she spoke in a gentle voice; -and her whole being displayed so tender a melancholy that he could have -burst into sobs and worshipped her where she sat. - -"I knew of course that you would ask me that some day. It was in the -nature of things. A great friendship like ours was bound to lead to -that question. But it can't be, dearest Duco. It can't be, my dear, -dear boy. I have my own ideas ... but it's not that. I am against -marriage ... but it's not that. In some cases a woman is unfaithful to -all her ideas in a single second.... Then what _is_ it?..." - -She stared wide-eyed and passed her hand over her forehead, as though -she did not see clearly. Then she continued: - -"It is this, that I am afraid of marriage. I have been through -it, I know what it means.... I see my husband before me now. I see -that habit, that groove before me, in which the subtler individual -characteristics are effaced. That is what marriage is: a habit, a -groove. And I tell you candidly: I think marriage loathsome. I think -passion beautiful, but marriage is not passion. Passion can be noble -and superhuman, but marriage is a human institution based upon our -petty human morality and calculation. And I have become frightened -of those prudent moral ties. I promised myself--and I believe that I -shall keep my promise--never to marry again. My whole nature has become -unfitted for it. I am no longer the Hague girl going to parties and -dinners and looking out for a husband, together with her parents.... My -love for _him_ was passion. And in my marriage he wanted to restrict -that passion to a groove and a custom. Then I rebelled.... I'd rather -not talk about it. Passion lasts too short a time to fill a married -life.... Mutual esteem to follow, _etcetera_? One needn't marry for -that. I can feel esteem just as well without being married. Of course -there is the question of the children, there _are_ many difficulties. -I can't think it all out now. I merely feel now, very seriously and -calmly, that I am not fit to marry and that I never will marry again. -I should not make you happy.... Don't be sad, Duco. I am fond of you, -I love you. And perhaps ... had I met you at the right moment, had I -met you before, in my Hague life ... you would certainly have stood too -high for me. I could not have grown fond of you. Now I can understand -you, respect you and look up to you. I tell you this quite simply, that -I love you and look up to you, look up to you, in spite of all your -gentleness, as I never looked up to my husband, however much he made -his manly privilege prevail. And you are to believe that, very firmly -and with great certainty, and you must believe that I am true. I am -coquettish ... only with Gilio." - -He looked at her through his silent tears. He stood up, called the -waiter, paid the bill absent-mindedly, while everything swam and -flashed before his eyes. They went out of the door and she hailed a -carriage and told the man to drive to the Villa Doria-Pamphili. She -remembered that the gardens were open. They drove there in silence, -steeped in their thoughts of the future that was opening tremulously -before them. Sometimes he heaved a deep breath and quivered all over -his body. Once she fervently squeezed his hand. At the gate of the -villa they alighted and walked up the majestic avenues. Rome lay in -the depths below; and they suddenly saw St. Peter's. But they did not -speak; and she suddenly sat down on an ancient bench and began to weep -softly and feebly. He put his arm round her and comforted her. She -dried her tears, smiled and embraced him and returned his kiss.... -Twilight fell; and they went back. He gave the address of his studio. -She accompanied him. And she gave herself to him, in all her truthful -sincerity and with a love so violent and so great that she thought she -would swoon in his arms. - - - - -CHAPTER XXV - - -They did not alter their mode of life. Duco, however, after a scene -with his mother, no longer slept at Belloni's but in a little room, -adjoining his studio, originally filled with trunks and lumber. -Cornelie was sorry about the scene: she had always had a liking for -Mrs. Van der Staal and the girls. But a certain pride arose in her; -and Cornelie despised Mrs. Van der Staal because she was unable to -understand either her or Duco. Still, she would have been pleased -to prevent this coolness. At her advice Duco went to see his mother -again, but she remained cool and sent him away. Thereupon Cornelie -and Duco went to Naples. They did not do this by way of an elopement, -they did it quite simply: Cornelie told Urania and the prince that she -was going to Naples for a little while and that Van der Staal would -probably follow her. She did not know Naples and would appreciate -it greatly if Van der Staal showed her the town and the surrounding -country. Cornelie kept on her rooms in Rome. And they spent a fortnight -of sheer, careless and immense happiness. Their love grew spacious -and blossoming in the golden sunlight of Naples, on the blue gulfs of -Amalfi, Sorrento, Capri and Castellamare, simply, irresistibly and -restfully. They glided gradually along the purple thread of their -lives, they walked hand in hand down their lines now fused into one -path, heedless of the laws and ideas of men; and their attitude was so -lofty, their action so serene and so certain of their happiness, that -their relations did not degenerate into insolence, although within -themselves they despised the world. But this happiness softened all -that pride in their soaring souls, as if their happiness were strewing -blossoms all around it. They lived in a dream, first among the marbles -in the museum, then on the flower-strewn cliffs of Amalfi, on the beach -of Capri or on the terrace of the hotel at Sorrento, with the sea -roaring at their feet and, in a pearly haze, yonder, vaguely white, as -though drawn in white chalk, Castellamare and Naples and the ghost of -Vesuvius, with its hazy plume of smoke. - -They held aloof from everybody, from all the people and excursionists; -they had their meals at a small table; and it was generally thought -that they were newly married. If others looked up their names in the -visitors' book, they read two names and made whispered comments. But -the lovers did not hear, did not see; they lived their dream, looking -into each other's eyes or at the opal sky, the pearly sea and the hazy, -white mountain-vistas, studded with villages like little specks of -chalk. - -When their money was almost exhausted, they smiled and went back to -Rome and resumed their former lives: she in her rooms and he, now, in -his studio; and they took their meals together. But they pursued their -dreams among the ruins in the Via Appia, around and near Frascati, -beyond the Ponte Molle, on the slopes of the Monte Mario and in the -gardens of the villas, among the statues and paintings, mingling their -happiness with the Roman atmosphere: he interweaving his new-found love -with his love for Rome; she growing to love Rome because of him. And -because of that charm they were surrounded by a sort of aura, through -which they did not see ordinary life or meet ordinary people. - -At last, one afternoon, Urania found them both at home, in Cornelie's -room, the fire lighted, she smiling and gazing into the fire, he -sitting at her feet and she with her arm round his neck. And they were -evidently thinking of so little besides their own love that neither -of them heard her knock and both suddenly saw her standing before -them, like an unexpected reality. Their dream was over for that day. -Urania laughed, Cornelie laughed and Duco pushed an easy chair closer. -And Urania, blithe, beautiful and brilliant, told them that she was -engaged. Where on earth had they been hiding, she asked, inquisitively. -She was engaged. She had been to San Stefano, she had seen the old -prince. And everything was lovely and good and dear: the old castle a -dear old house, the old man a dear old man. She saw everything through -the glitter of her future princess' title. Princess and duchess! The -wedding-day was fixed: immediately after Easter, in a little more than -three months therefore. It was to be celebrated at San Carlo, with -all the splendour of a great wedding. Her father was coming over for -it with her youngest brother. She was obviously not looking forward -to their arrival. And she never finished talking: she gave a thousand -details about her bridal outfit, with which the marchesa was helping -her. They were going to live at Nice, in a large flat. She raved -about Nice: that was a first-rate idea of Gilio's. And incidentally -she remembered and told them that she had become a Catholic. That was -a great nuisance! But the _monsignori_ saw to everything and she -allowed herself to be guided by them. And the Pope was to receive her -in private audience, together with Gilio. The difficulty was what to -wear at the audience: black, of course, but ... velvet, satin? What did -Cornelie advise her? She had such excellent taste. And a black-lace -veil on her head, with brilliants. She was going to Nice next day, with -the marchesa and Gilio, to see their flat. - -When she was gone after begging Cornelie to come and admire her -_trousseau_, Cornelie said, with a smile: - -"She is happy. After all, happiness is something different for -everybody, A _trousseau_ and a title would not make me happy." - -"These are the small people," he said, "who cross our lives now and -again. I prefer to get out of their way." - -And they did not say so, but they both thought--with their fingers -interlaced, her eyes gazing into his--that they also were happy, but -with a loftier, better and nobler happiness; and pride arose within -them; and they beheld as in a vision the line of their life winding up -a steep hill. But happiness snowed blossoms down upon it; and amid the -snowing blossoms, holding high their proud heads, with smiles and eyes -of love, they walked on in their dream remote from mankind and reality. - - - - -CHAPTER XXVI - - -The months dreamed past. And their happiness caused such a summer to -bloom in them that she ripened in beauty and be in talent; the pride in -them broke into expression: in her it was the blossoming of her being, -in him it was energy; her languid charm became transformed into a proud -slenderness; her contour increased in fullness; a light illumined -her eyes, a gladness shone about her mouth. His hands quivered with -nervous emotion when he took up his brushes; and the skies of Italy -arched firmaments before his eyes like a canopy of love and fervid -colour. He drew and completed a series of water-colours: hazes of -dreamy atmosphere which suggested Turner's noblest creations; natural -monuments of sheer haze; all the milky blue and pearly mistiness of the -Bay of Naples, like a goblet filled with light in which a turquoise -is melted into water; and he sent them to Holland, to London, found -that he had suddenly discovered his vocation, his work and his fame: -courage, strength, aim and conquest. - -She too achieved a certain success with her article: it was discussed, -contested; her name was mentioned. But she felt a certain indifference -when she read her name in connection with the feminist movement. She -preferred to live with him his life of observation and emotion; and she -often imparted to all the haze of his vision, to the excessive haziness -of his colour-dream, a lustre of light, a definite horizon, a streak -of actuality which gave realism to the mist of his ideal. She learnt -with him to distinguish and to feel nature, art, all Rome; and, when -a symbolic impulse overmastered him, she surrendered herself to it -entirely. He planned a large sketch of a procession of women, mounting -along a line of life that wound up a hill: they seemed to be moving out -of a crumbling city of antiquity, whose pillars, joined by a single -architrave, quivered on high in a violet haze of evening dusk; they -seemed to be releasing themselves from the shadow of the ruins fading -away on the horizon into the void of night; and they thronged upwards, -calling to one another aloud, beckoning to one another with great -waving streamers and pennants; they grasped hammer and pick-axe with -sinewy arms; and the throng of them moved up and up, along the line, -where the light grew whiter and whiter, until in the hazy air there -dimly showed the distant vista of a new city, whose iron buildings, -like central stations and Eiffel towers in the white glimmer of the -distance, gleamed up very faintly with a reflection of glass arches and -glass roofs and, high in the air, the musical staves of the threads of -sound and accompaniment.... - -And to so great an extent did their influences work upon each other's -souls that she learnt to see and he learnt to think: she saw beauty, -art, nature, haze and emotion and no longer imagined them but felt -them; he, as in his sketch, a very vague, modern city of glass and -iron, saw a modern city rising out of his dream-haze and thought of -a modern question, in accordance with his own nature and aptitudes. -She learnt above all to see and feel like a woman in love, with the -eyes and heart of the man she loves; he thought out the question -plastically. But whatever the imperfection in the absoluteness of their -new spheres of feeling and thought, the reciprocal influence, through -their love, gave them a happiness so great, so united, that at that -moment they could not contemplate it or apprehend it: it was almost -ecstasy, a faint unreality, in which they dreamed, whereas it was all -pure truth and tangible actuality. Their manner of thinking, feeling -and living was an ideal of reality, an ideal entered and attained, -along the gradual line of their life, along the golden thread of -their love; and they scarcely apprehended or contemplated it, because -the everyday life still clung to them. But only to the smallest, -inevitable extent. They lived apart; but in the morning she went to -him and found him working at his sketch; and she sat down beside him -and leant her head on his shoulder; and they thought it out together. -He sketched each figure in his procession of women separately and -sought for the features and the modelling of the figures: some had the -Mongolian aspect of Memmes angel of the Annunciation, others Cornelie's -slenderness and her later, fuller wholesomeness; he sought for the -folds of the costumes: the women escaped from the violet dusk of the -ruined city in pleated pepli; and farther on their garments altered as -in a masquerade of the ages: the long trains of the medieval ladies, -the veils of the sultanas, the homespun of the workwomen, the caps of -the nursing sisters, the attire becoming more modern as the wearer -personified a more modern age. And in this grouping the draughtsmanship -was so unsubstantial and sober, the transition from drooping folds to -practical stiffness so careful and so gradual, that Cornelie hardly -perceived the transition, that she appeared to be contemplating one -style, one fashion in dress, whereas each figure nevertheless was -clad in a different stuff, of different cut, falling into different -lines.... The drawing displayed an old-mastery purity, a simplicity of -outline, which was nevertheless modern, nervous and morbid, but without -the conventional ideal of symbolical human forms; the grouping showed -a Raphaelite harmony, the water-colour tints of the first studies the -haze of Italy the ruined city loomed in the dusk as he saw the Forum -looming; the city of iron and glass gleamed up with its architecture -of light, such as he had seen from Sorrento shining around Naples. She -felt that he was creating a great work and had never taken so lively an -interest in anything as she now did in his idea and his sketches. She -sat behind him silent and still and followed his drawing of the waving -banners and fluttering pennants; and she did not breathe when she saw -him, with a few dabs of white and touches of light--as though light -were one of the colours on his palette--make the glass city emerge as -from a dream on the horizon. Then he would ask her something about one -of the figures and put his arm around her and draw her to him; and they -would long sit scrutinizing and thinking out lines and ideas, until -evening fell and the evening chill shuddered through the studio and -they rose slowly from their seats. Then they went out and in the Corso -they returned to real life: silently, sitting at Aragno's, they watched -the bustle outside; and in their little restaurant, with their eyes -absorbing each other's glance, they ate their simple dinner and looked -so obviously and harmoniously happy that the Italians, the two who also -always sat at the far table, at that same hour, smiled as they bowed to -them on entering.... - - - - -CHAPTER XXVII - - -At the same time Duco developed great powers of work: so much thought -dimly took shape before him that he was constantly discovering another -motive and symbolizing it in another figure. He sketched a life-size -woman walking, with that admixture of child, woman and goddess which -characterized his figures, and she walked slowly down a descending -line towards a sombre depth, without seeing or understanding; her eyes -towards the abyss in magnetic attraction; vague hands hovered around -her like a cloud and softly pushed and guided her; on the hill-top, on -high rocks, in the bright light, other figures, holding harps, called -to her; but she went towards the depth, pushed by hands; in the abyss -blossomed strange purple orchids, like mouths of love.... - -When Cornelie came to his studio one morning, he had suddenly sketched -this idea. It came upon her as a surprise, for he had not mentioned -it to her: the idea had sprung up suddenly; the quick, spontaneous -execution had not taken him an hour. He was almost apologizing to her -when he saw her surprise. She certainly admired it, but shuddered at it -and preferred _The Banners_, the great water-colour, the procession of -the women marching to the battle of life. - -And to please her he put the straying woman aside and worked on -solely at the striving women. But constantly a fresh thought came and -disturbed him in his work; and in her absence he would sketch some -new symbol, until the sketches accumulated and lay spread on every -side. She put them away in portfolios; she removed them from easel and -board; she saved him from wandering too far from _The Banners_; and -this was the one thing that he completed. - -Thus smoothly did their life seem willing to run, along a gracious -line, in one golden direction, while his symbols blossomed like flowers -on either side, while the azure of their love seemed to form the sky -overhead; but she plucked away the superfluous flowers and only _The -Banners_ waved above their path, in the firmament of their ecstasy, -even as they waved above the militant women. - -They had but one distraction, the wedding of the prince and Urania: a -dinner, a ball and the ceremony at San Carlo, attended by all the Roman -aristocracy, who however welcomed the wealthy American bride with a -certain reserve. But, when the Prince and Princess di Forte-Braccio -left for Nice, all distraction was at an end; and the days once more -glided along the same gracious golden line. And Cornelie retained only -one unpleasant recollection: her meeting during those festive days with -Mrs. Van der Staal, who cut her persistently, turned her back on her -and succeeded in conveying to her that the friendship was over. She had -accepted the position; she had realized how difficult it was--even if -Mrs. Van der Staal had been willing to speak to her--to explain to a -woman like this, rooted in her social and worldly conventions, her own -proud ideas of freedom, independence and happiness. And she had avoided -the girls also, understanding that Mrs. Van der Staal wished it. She -was not angry at all this nor hurt; she could understand it in Duco's -mother: she was only a little sad about it, because she liked Mrs. -Van der Staal and liked the two girls. But she quite understood: it -had to be so; Mrs. Van der Staal knew or suspected everything. Duco's -mother could not act differently, though the prince and Urania, for -friendship's sake, overlooked any _liaison_ between Duco and Cornelie; -though the Roman world during the wedding-festivities accepted them -simply as friends, as acquaintances, as fellow-countrymen, whatever -they might whisper, smiling, behind their fans. But now those -festivities were over, now they had passed that point of contact with -the world and people, now their golden line once more sloped gently and -evenly before them.... - -Then Cornelie, not thinking of the Hague at all, received a letter from -the Hague. The letter was from her father and consisted of several -sheets, which surprised her, for he never wrote. What she read startled -her greatly, but did not at first dishearten her altogether, perhaps -because she did not realize the full import of her father's news. He -implored her forgiveness. He had long been in financial difficulties. -He had lost a great deal of money. They would have to move into a -smaller house. The atmosphere at home was unpleasant: Mamma cried -all day; the sisters quarrelled; the family proffered advice; the -acquaintances were disagreeable. And he implored her forgiveness. He -had speculated and lost. And he had also lost her own little capital, -which he managed for her, her godmother's legacy. He asked her not to -think too hardly of him. Things might have turned out differently; -and then she would have been three times as well off. He admitted it, -he had done wrong; but still he was her father and he asked her, his -child, to forgive him and requested her to come home. - -She was at first greatly startled, but soon recovered her calmness. -She was in too happy a mood of vital harmony to be depressed by the -news. She received the letter in bed, did not get up at once, reflected -a little, then dressed, breakfasted as usual and went to Duco. He -received her with enthusiasm and showed her three new sketches. She -reproached him gently for allowing himself to be distracted from his -main idea, said that these distractions would exhaust his activity, -his perseverance. She urged him to keep on working at _The Banners_. -And she inspected the great water-colour intently, with the ancient, -crumbling Forum-like city and the procession of the women towards the -metropolis of the future, standing high in the dawn. And suddenly it -was borne in upon her that her future also had fallen into ruins and -that its crumbling arches hung menacingly over her head. Then she -gave him her father's letter to read. He read it twice, looked at her -aghast and asked what she proposed to do. She said that she had already -thought it over, but so far decided only upon the most immediate thing -to be done: to give up her rooms and come to him in his studio. She had -just enough left to pay the rent of her rooms. But, after that, she had -no money, no money at all. She had never consented to accept alimony -from her husband. All that was still due to her was the payment for her -article. - -He at once put out his hands to her, kissed her and said that this -had been also his idea at once, that she should come to him and live -with him. He had enough: a tiny patrimony; he made a little money -in addition: there would be enough for the two of them. And they -laughed and kissed and glanced round the studio. Duco slept in a small -adjoining den, a sort of long wall-cupboard. And they glanced round -to see what they could do. Cornelie knew: here, a curtain draped over -a cord, with her washhand-stand behind it. That was all she needed, -only that little corner: otherwise Duco would not have a good light. -They were very merry and thought it a jolly, a capital idea. They -went out at once, bought a little iron bedstead and a dressing-table -and themselves hung up the curtain. Then they both went to pack the -trunks in the Via di Serpenti ... and dined at the _osteria_. Cornelie -suggested that they should dine at home now and then: it was cheaper. -When they returned home, she was enchanted that her installation took -up so little room, hardly six feet by six, with that little bed behind -the curtain. They were very cheerful that evening. The bohemianism -of it all amused them. They were in Italy, the land of sunshine, -of beauty, of _lazzaroni_, of beggars who slept on the steps of a -cathedral; and they felt akin to that sunny poverty. They were happy, -they wanted for nothing. They would live on nothing, or at any rate on -very little. And they saw the future bright, shining. They were closer -together now, they would live more closely linked together. They loved -each other and were happy in a land of beauty, in an ideal of noble -symbolism and life-embracing art. - -Next morning he worked zealously, without a word, absorbed in his -dream, in his work; and she, likewise, silent, contented, happy, -examined her blouses and skirts attentively and reflected that she -would need nothing more for quite another year and that her old clothes -were amply sufficient for their life of happiness and simplicity. - -And she answered her father's letter very briefly, saying that she -forgave him, that she was sorry for all of them, but that she was not -coming back to the Hague. She would provide for her own maintenance, by -writing. Italy was cheap. That was all she wrote. She did not mention -Duco. She cut herself off from her family, in thought and in fact. She -had met with no sympathy from any of them during her unhappy marriage, -during the painful days of her divorce; and now, in her turn, she felt -no affection for them. And her happiness made her partial and selfish. -She wanted nothing but Duco, nothing but their harmonious life in -common. He sat working, laughing to her now and then as she lay on the -couch and reflected. She looked at the women marching to battle; she -too could not remain lying on a couch, she too would have to sally -forth and fight. She foresaw that she would have to fight ... for him. -He was at present in the first fine frenzy of his art; but, if this -slackened, momentarily, after a result of some kind, after a success -for himself and the world, that would be commonplace and logical; and -then _she_ would have to fight. He was the noble element in their -two lives; his art could never become her bread-winner. His little -fortune amounted to hardly anything. She would have liked to work and -make money for both of them, so that he need not depart from the pure -principle of his art. But how was she to strive, how to work for their -lives and their bread? What could she do? Write? It brought in so -little. What else? She was overcome by a slight melancholy, because she -could do so little. She possessed minor talents and accomplishments: -she wrote a good style, she sang, she played the piano, she could make -a blouse and she knew something about cooking. She would herself do the -cooking now and then and would make her own clothes. But that was all -so small, so little. Strive? Work? In what way? However, she would do -what she could. And suddenly she took up a Baedeker, turned over the -pages and sat down to write at Duco's writing-table. She thought for a -moment and began a casual article, a travel-picture for a newspaper, -about the environs of Naples that was easier than at once beginning -about Rome. And in the studio, filled with a faint warmth of the fire, -because the room faced north and was chilly, everything became still -and silent, save for the occasional scratching of her pen or the noise -made by him when fumbling among his chalks and paint-brushes. She wrote -a few pages but could not hit upon an ending. Then she got up; he -turned round and smiled at her, with his smile of friendly happiness. - -And she read to him what she had written. It was not in the style of -her pamphlet. It contained no invective; it was a pleasant traveller's -sketch. - -He thought it very nice, but nothing out of the way. But that wasn't -necessary, she said, defending herself. And he kissed her, for her -industry and her pluck. It was raining that day and they did not go out -for their lunch; there were eggs and tomatoes and she made an omelette -on an oil-stove. They drank water, ate quantities of bread. And, while -the rain outside lashed the great curtainless window of the studio, -they enjoyed their repast, sitting like two birds that huddle side by -side, against each other, so as not to get wet. - - - - -CHAPTER XXVIII - - -It was a couple of months after Easter, in the spring days of May. -The-flood of tourists had ebbed away immediately after the great church -festivities; and Rome was already very hot and growing very quiet. One -morning, when Cornelie was crossing the Piazza di Spagna, where the -sunshine streamed along the cream-coloured front of the Trinita de' -Monti and down the monumental staircase, where only a few beggars and -the very last flower-boy sat dreaming with blinking eye-lids in a shady -corner, she saw the prince coming towards her. He bowed to her with a -smile of gladness and hastened up to speak to her: - -"How glad I am to meet you! I am in Rome for a day or two, on my way to -San Stefano, to see my father on business. Business is always a bore; -and this is more so than usual. Urania is at Nice. But it is too hot -there and we are going away. We have just returned from a trip on the -Mediterranean. Four weeks on board a friend's yacht. It was delightful! -Why did you never come to see us at Nice, as Urania asked you to?" - -"I really wasn't able to come." - -"I went to call on you yesterday in the Via dei Serpenti. They told me -you had moved." - -He looked at her with a touch of mocking laughter in his small, -glittering eyes. She did not speak. - -"After that I did not like to commit a further indiscretion," he said, -meaningly. "Where are you going?" - -"To the post-office." - -"May I come with you? Isn't it too hot for walking?" - -"Oh, no, I love the heat! Come by all means, if you like. How is -Urania?" - -"Very well, capital. She's capital. She's splendid, simply splendid. -I should never have thought it. I should never have dared to think -it. She plays her part to perfection. So far as she is concerned, -I don't regret my marriage. But, for the rest, _Gesu mio_, what a -disappointment, what a disillusion!" - -"Why?" - -"You knew, did you not--I even now don't know how--you knew for how -many millions I sold myself? Not five millions but ten millions. Ah, -_signora mia_, what a take-in You saw my father-in-law at the time -of our wedding. What a Yankee, what a stocking-merchant and what a -tradesman! We're no match for him: I, papa, or the marchesa. First -promises, contracts: oh, rather! But then haggling here, haggling -here. We're no good at that: neither papa nor I. Aunt alone was able -to haggle. But she was no match for the stocking-merchant. She had not -learnt that, in all the years for which she kept a boarding-house. Ten -millions? Five millions? Not three millions! Or yes, perhaps we did -get something like that, _pus_ a heap of promises, for our children's -children, when everybody's dead. Ah, signora, signora, I was better -off before I was married! True, I had debts then and not now. But -Urania is so economical, so practical! I should never have thought -it of her. It has been a disappointment to everybody: papa, my aunt, -the _monsignori_. You should have seen them together. They could have -scratched one another's eyes out. Papa almost had a stroke, my aunt -nearly came to blows with the _monsignori_.... Ah, signora, signora, I -don't like it! I am a victim. Winter after winter, they angled with me. -But I didn't want to be the bait, I struggled, I wouldn't let the fish -bite. And then this came of it. Not three millions. Lire, not dollars. -I was so stupid, I thought at first it would be dollars. And Urania's -economy! She doles out my pocket-money. She controls everything, does -everything. She knows exactly how much I lose at the club. Yes, you -may laugh, but it's sad. Don't you see that I sometimes feel as if -I could cry? And she has such queer notions. For instance, we have -a flat at Nice and we keep on my rooms in the Palazzo Ruspoli, as a -_pied-a-terre_ in Rome. That's enough: we don't come often to Rome, -because we are 'black' and Urania thinks it dull. In the summer, we -were to go here or there, to some watering-place. That was all right, -that was settled. But now Urania suddenly conceives the notion, of -selecting San. Stefano as a summer residence. San Stefano! I ask you! -I shall never be able to stand it. True, it's high up, it's cool: it's -a pleasant climate, good, fresh mountain air. But I need more in my -life than mountain air. I can't live on mountain air. Oh, you wouldn't -know Urania! She can be so awfully obstinate. It's settled now, beyond -recall: in. the summer, San Stefano. And the worst of it is that she -has won papa's heart by it. I have to suffer. They're two to one -against me. And the worst of it is that Urania says we shall have to -be very economical, in order to do San Stefano up a bit. It's a famous -historical place, but fallen into grisly disrepair. It's not our fault: -we never had any luck. There was once a Forte-Braccio pope; after that -our star declined and we never had another stroke of luck again. San -Stefano is the type of ruined greatness. You ought to see the place. To -economize, to renovate San Stefano That's Urania's ideal. She has taken -it into her head to do that honour to our ancestral abode. However, -she has won papa's heart by it and he has recovered from his stroke. -But can you understand now that _il povero_ _Gilio_ is poorer than he -was before he acquired shares in a Chicago stocking-factory?" - -There was no checking his flow of words. He felt profoundly unhappy, -small, beaten, tamed, conquered, destroyed and he had a need to ease -his heart. They had passed the post-office and now retraced their -steps. He looked for sympathy from Cornelie and found it in the smiling -attention with which she listened to his grievances. She replied that, -after all, it showed that Urania had a real feeling for San Stefano. - -"Oh, yes!" he admitted, humbly. "She is very good. I should never -have thought it. She is every inch a princess and duchess. It's -splendid. But the ten millions: gone, an illusion!... But tell me: how -well you're looking! Each time I see you, you've grown lovelier and -lovelier. Do you know that you're a very lovely woman? You must be very -happy, I'm certain! You're an exceptional woman, I always said so. I -don't understand you.... May I speak frankly? Are we good friends, you -and I? I don't understand. I think what you have done such a terrible -thing. I have never heard of anything like it in our world." - -"I don't live in your world, prince." - -"Very well, but all the same your world must have much the same ideas -about it. And the calmness, the pride, the happiness with which you -do, just quietly, as you please! I think it perfectly awful. I stand -aghast at it.... And yet ... it's a pity. People in my world are very -easy-going. But that sort of thing is not allowed!" - -"Prince, once more, I have no world. My world is my own sphere." - -"I don't understand that. Tell me, how am I to tell Urania? For I -should think it delightful if you would come and stay at San Stefano. -Oh, do come, do: come to keep us company! I entreat you. Be charitable, -do a good work.... But first tell me, how shall I tell Urania?" - -She laughed: - -"What?" - -"What they told me in the Via dei Serpenti, that your address was now -Signor Van der Staal's studio, Via del Babuino." - -Laughing, she looked at him almost pityingly: - -"It is too difficult for you to tell her," she replied, a little -condescendingly. "I will myself write to Urania and explain my conduct." - -He was evidently relieved: - -"That's delightful, capital! And ... will you come to San Stefano?" - -"No, I can't really." - -"Why not?" - -"I can no longer move in the circle in which you live, after my change -of address," she said, half laughing, half seriously. - -He shrugged his shoulders: - -"Listen," he said. "You know our Roman society. So long as certain -conventions are observed. everything's permitted." - -"Exactly; but it's just those conventions which I don't observe." - -"And that's where you are wrong. Believe me, I am saying it as your -friend." - -"I live according to my own laws and I don't want to move in your -world." - -He folded his hands in entreaty: - -"Yes, yes, I know. You are a 'new woman.' You have your own laws. But -I beseech you, take pity on me. Be an angel of mercy and come to San -Stefano." - -She seemed to hear a note of seduction in his voice and therefore said: - -"Prince, even if it agreed with the conventions of your world ... even -then I shouldn't wish to. For I will not leave Van der Staal." - -"You come first and let him come a little later. Urania will be glad -to have his advice on some artistic questions, concerning the 'doing -up' of San Stefano. We have a lot of pictures there. And old things -generally. Do let's arrange that. I am going to San Stefano to-morrow. -Urania will follow me in a week. I will suggest to her to ask you down -soon." - -"Really, prince ... it can't happen just yet." - -"Why not?" - -She looked at him for some time before answering: - -"Shall I be candid with you?" - -"But of course!" - -They had already passed the post-office twice. The street was quite -silent and deserted. He looked at her enquiringly. - -"Well, then," she said, "we are in great financial difficulties. We -have no money at present. I have lost my little capital; and the small -sum which I earned by writing an article is spent. Duco is working -hard, but he is engaged on a big work and making nothing in the -meantime. He expects to receive a bit of money in a month or so. But -at the moment we have nothing, nothing at all. That is why I went to -a shop by the Tiber this morning to ask how much a dealer would give -for a couple of old pictures which Duco wants to sell. He doesn't like -parting with them, but there's no help for it. So you see that I can't -come. I should not care to leave him; besides, I should not have the -money for the journey or a decent wardrobe." - -He looked at her. The first thing that he had noticed was her new and -blooming loveliness; now he noticed that her skirt was a little worn -and her blouse none too fresh, though she wore a couple of roses in the -waist-band. - -"Gesu mio!" he exclaimed. "And you tell me that so calmly, so quietly!" - -She smiled and shrugged her shoulders: - -"What would you have me do? Moan and groan about it?" - -"But you are a woman ... a woman to revere and respect!" he cried. "How -does Van der Staal take it?" - -"He is a bit depressed, of course. He has never known money trouble. -And it hinders him from employing his full talent. But I hope to help -him bear up during this difficult time. So you see, prince, that I -can't come to San Stefano." - -"But why didn't you write to us? Why not ask us for money?" - -"It is very nice of you to say that, but the idea never even occurred -to us." - -"Too proud?" - -"Yes, too proud." - -"But what a position to be in! What can I do for you? May I give you -two hundred lire? I have two hundred lire on me. And I will tell Urania -that I gave it to you." - -"No, thank you, prince. I am very grateful to you, but I can't accept -it." - -"Not from _me_?" - -"No." - -"Not from Urania?" - -"Not from her either." - -"Why not?" - -"I want to earn my money and I can't accept alms." - -"A fine principle. But for the moment...." - -"I remain true to it." - -"Will you allow me to tell you something?" - -"What?" - -"I admire you. More than that: I love you." She made a gesture with her -hand and wrinkled her brows. - -"Why mayn't I tell you so? An Italian does not keep his love concealed. -I love you. You are more beautiful and nobler and superior to anything -that I could ever imagine any woman to be.... Don't be angry with me: -I am not asking anything of you. I am a bad lot, but at this moment I -really feel the sort of thing that you see in our old family-portraits, -an atom of chivalry which has survived by accident. I ask for nothing -from you. I merely tell you--and I say it in Urania's name as well as -my own--that you can always rely on us. Urania will be angry that you -haven't written to us." - -They now entered the post-office and she bought a few stamps: - -"There go my last soldi," she said, laughing and showing her empty -purse. "We wanted the stamps to write to the secretary of an exhibition -in London. Are you seeing me home?" - -She saw suddenly that he had tears in his eyes. - -"Do accept two hundred lire from me!" he entreated. - -She smilingly shook her head. - -"Are you dining at home?" he asked. - -She gave him a quizzing look: - -"Yes," she said. - -He was unwilling to ask any further questions, was afraid lest he -should wound her: - -"Be kind," he said, "and dine with me this evening. I'm bored. I -have no friends in Rome at the moment. Everybody is away. Not at the -Grand-Hotel, but in a snug little restaurant, where they know me. I'll -come and fetch you at seven o'clock. Do be nice and come! For my sake!" - -He could not restrain his tears. - -"I shall be delighted," she said, softly, with her smile. - -They were standing in the porch of the house in the Via del Babuino -where the studio was. He raised her hand to his lips and pressed a -fervent kiss upon it. Then he took off his hat and hurried away. She -went slowly up the stairs, mastering her emotion before she entered the -studio. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIX - - -She found Duco lying listlessly on the sofa. He had a bad headache and -she sat down beside him. - -"Well?" he asked. - -"The man offered me eighty lire for the Memmo," she said, "but he -declared that the panel was not by Gentile da Fabriano: he remembered -having seen it here." - -"The man's crazy," he replied. "Or else he is trying to get my Gentile -for nothing.... Cornelie, I really can't sell it." - -"Well, Duco, then we'll think of something else," said she, laying her -hand on his aching forehead. - -"Perhaps one or two smaller things, a knick-knack or two," he moaned. - -"Perhaps. Shall I go back to him this afternoon?" - -"No, no, I'll go. But, really, it is easier to buy that sort of thing -than to sell it." - -"That is so, Duco," she agreed, laughing. "But I asked yesterday what I -should get for a pair of bracelets; and I'll dispose of those to-day. -And that will keep us going for quite a month. But I have some news for -you. Do you know whom I met?" - -"No." - -"The prince." - -He gave a scowl: - -"I don't like that cad," he said. - -"I've told you before, Duco. I don't consider him a cad. And I don't -believe he is one either. He asked us to dine with him this evening, -quite quietly." - -"No, I don't care about it." - -She said nothing. She stood up, boiled some water on a spirit-stand and -made tea: - -"Duco dear, I've been careless about lunch. A cup of tea and some -bread-and-butter is all I can give you. Are you very hungry?" - -"No," he said, evasively. - -She hummed a tune while she poured out the tea into an antique cup. She -cut the bread-and-butter and brought it to him on the sofa. Then she -sat down beside him, with her own cup in her hand. - -"Cornelie, hadn't we better lunch at the _osteria_?" - -She laughed and showed him her empty purse: - -"Here are the stamps," she said. - -Disheartened, he flung himself back on the cushions. - -"My dear boy," she continued, "don't be so down. I shall have some -money this afternoon, for the bracelets. I ought to have sold them -sooner. Really, Duco, it's not of any importance. Why haven't you been -working? It would have cheered you up." - -"I didn't feel inclined and I had a headache." - -She waited a moment and then said: - -"The prince was angry that we didn't write and ask him to help us. He -wanted to give me two hundred lire...." - -"You refused, surely?" he asked, fiercely. - -"Well, of course," she answered, calmly. "He invited us to stay at San -Stefano, where they will be spending the summer. I refused that too." - -"Why?" - -"I haven't the clothes.... But you wouldn't care to go, would you?" - -"No," he said, dully. - -She drew his head to her and stroked his forehead. A wide patch of -reflected afternoon light fell through the studio-window from the -blue sky outside; and the studio was like a confused swirl of dusty -colour, in which the outlines stood forth with their arrested action -and changeless emotion. The raised embroideries of the chasubles and -stoles, the purples and sky-blues of Gentile's panel, the mystic -luxury of Memmi's angel in his cloak of heavily-pleated brocade, with -the golden lily-stem between his fingers, were like a hoard of colour -and flashed in that reflected light like so many handfuls of jewels. -On the easel stood the water-colour of _The Banners_, with its noble -refinement. And, as they sat on the sofa, he leaning his head against -her, both drinking their tea, they harmonized in their happiness with -that background of art. And it seemed incredible that they should be -worried about a couple of hundred lire, for they were surrounded by -colour as of precious stones and her smile was still radiant. But his -eyes were dejected and his hand hung limply by his side. - -She went out again that afternoon for a little while, but soon returned -again, saying that she had sold the bracelets and that he need not -worry any longer. And she sang and moved gaily about the studio. She -had made a few purchases: an almond-tart, biscuits and a small bottle -of port. She had carried the things home herself, in a little basket, -and she sang as she unpacked them. Her liveliness cheered him; he stood -up and suddenly sat down to _The Banners_. He looked at the light and -thought that he would be able to work for an hour longer. He was filled -with transport as he contemplated the drawing: he saw a great deal that -was good in it, a great deal that was beautiful. It was both spacious -and delicate; it was modern and yet free of any modern _trucs_; there -was thought in it and yet purity of line and grouping. And the colours -were restful and dignified: purple and grey and white; violet and -pale-grey and bright white; dusk, twilight, light; night, dawn, day. -The day especially, the day dawning high up yonder, was a day of white, -self-conscious sunlight: a bright certitude, in which the future became -clear. But as a cloud were the streamers, pennants, flags, banners, -waving in heraldic beauty above the heads of the militant women -uplifted in ecstasy.... He selected his colours, chose his brushes, -worked zealously, until there was no light left. Then he sat down -beside her, happy and contented. In the falling dusk they drank some -of the port, ate some of the tart. He felt like it, he said; he was -hungry.... - -At seven o'clock there was a knock. He started up and opened the door; -the prince entered. Duco's forehead clouded over; but the prince did -not perceive it, in the twilit studio. Cornelie lit a lamp: - -"Scusi, prince," she said. "I am positively distressed: Duco does not -care to go out--he has been working and is tired--and I had no one to -send and tell you that we could not accept your invitation." - -"But you don't mean that, surely! I had reckoned so absolutely on -having you both to dinner! What shall I do with my evening if you don't -come!" - -And, bursting into a flow of language, the complaints of a spoiled -child, the entreaties of an indulged boy, he began to persuade Duco, -who remained unwilling and sullen. At last Duco rose, shrugged his -shoulders, but, with a compassionate, almost insulting smile, yielded. -But he was unable to suppress his sense of unwillingness; his jealousy -because of the quick repartees of Cornelie and the prince remained -unassuaged, like an inward pain. At the restaurant he was silent at -first. Then he made an effort to join in the conversation, remembering -what Cornelie had said to him on that momentous day at the _osteria_: -that she loved him, Duco; that she did not even compare the prince -with him; but ... that he was not cheerful or witty. And, conscious -of his superiority because of that recollection, he displayed a -smiling superciliousness towards the prince, for all his jealousy, -condescending slightly and suffering his pleasantry and his flirtation, -because it amused Cornelie, that clashing interplay of swift words and -short, parrying phrases, like the dialogue in a French comedy. - - - - -CHAPTER XXX - - -The prince was to leave for San Stefano next day; and early in the -morning Cornelie sent him the following letter: - - -"MY DEAR PRINCE, - -"I have a favour to ask of you. Yesterday you were so good as to offer -to me help. I thought then that I was in a position to decline your -kind offer. But I hope that you will not think me very changeable -if I come to you to-day with this request: lend me what you offered -yesterday to give me. - -"Lend me two hundred lire. I hope to be able to repay you as soon as -possible. Of course it need not be a secret from Urania; but don't -let Duco know. I tried to sell my bracelets yesterday, but sold only -one and received very little for it. The goldsmith offered me far too -little, but I had to let him have one at forty lire, for I had not a -soldo left! And so I am writing to appeal to your friendship and to -ask you to put the two hundred lire in an envelope and let me come and -fetch it myself from the porter. Pray receive my sincere thanks in -advance. - -"What a pleasant evening you gave us yesterday! A couple of hours' -cheerful talk like that, at a well-chosen dinner, does me good. However -happy I may be, our present position of financial anxiety sometimes -depresses me, though I keep up my spirits for Duco's sake. Money -worries interfere with his work and impair his energy. So I discuss -them with him as little as I can; and I particularly beg you not to -let him into our little secret. - -"Once more, my best and most sincere thanks. - - CORNELIE DE RETZ." - -When she left the house that morning, she went straight to the Palazzo -Ruspoli: - -"Has his excellency gone?" - -The porter bowed respectfully and confidentially: - -"An hour ago, signora. His excellency left a letter and a parcel for me -to give you if you should call. Permit me to fetch them." - -He went away and soon returned; he handed Cornelie the parcel and the -letter. - -She walked down a side-street turning out of the Corso, opened the -envelope and found a few bank-notes and this letter: - - -"MOST HONOURED LADY, - -"I am so glad that you have applied to me at last; and Urania also -will approve. I feel I am acting in accordance with her wishes when -I send you not two hundred but a thousand lire, with the most humble -request that you will accept it and keep it as long as you please. For -of course I dare not ask you to take it as a present. Nevertheless -I am making so bold as to send you a keepsake. When I read that you -were compelled to sell a bracelet, I hated the idea so that, without -stopping to think, I ran round to Marchesini's and, as best I could, -picked you out a bracelet which, at your feet, I entreat you to accept. -You must not refuse your friend this. Let my bracelet be a secret from -Urania as well as from Van der Staal. - -"Once more receive my sincere thanks for deigning to apply to me for -aid and be assured that I attach the highest value to this mark of -favour. - - "Your most humble servant, - - "VIRGILIO DI F.-B." - -Cornelie opened the parcel and found a velvet case containing a -bracelet in the Etruscan style: a narrow gold band set with pearls and -sapphires. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXI - - -In those hot May days, the big studio facing north was cool while the -town outside was scorching. Duco and Cornelie did not go out before -nightfall, when it was time to think of dining somewhere. Rome was -quiet: Roman society had fled; the tourists had migrated. They saw -nobody and their days glided past. He worked diligently; _The Banners_ -was finished: the two of them, with their arms around each other's -waists and her head on his shoulder, would sit in front of it, proudly -smiling, during the last clays before the drawing was to be sent to -the International Exhibition in Knightsbridge. Their feeling for each -other had never contained such pure harmony, such unity of concord, -as now, when his work was done. He felt that he had never worked so -nobly, so firmly, so unhesitatingly, never with the same strength, yet -never so tenderly; and he was grateful to her for it. He confessed to -her that he could never have worked like that if she had not thought -with him and felt with him in their long hours of sitting and gazing at -the procession, the pageant of women, as it wound out of the night of -crumbling pillars to the city of sheer increasing radiance and gleaming -palaces of glass. There was rest in his soul, now that he had worked -so greatly and nobly. There was pride in them both: pride because of -their life, their independence, because of that work of noble and -stately art. In their happiness there was much that was arbitrary; -they looked down upon people, the multitude, the world; and this was -especially true of him. In her there was more of quietude and humility, -though outwardly she showed herself as proud as he. Her article on _The -Social Position of Divorced Women_ had been published in pamphlet form -and made a success. But her own performance did not make her proud as -Duco's art made her proud, proud of him and of their life and their -happiness. - -While she read in the Dutch papers and magazines the reviews of -her pamphlet--often displaying opposition but never any slight and -always acknowledging her authority to speak on the question--while -she read her pamphlet through again, a doubt arose within her of her -own conviction. She felt how difficult it was to fight with a single -mind for a cause, as those symbolic women in the drawing marched to -the fight. She felt that what she had written was inspired by her own -experience, by her own suffering and by these only; she saw that she -had generalized her own sense of life and suffering, but without deeper -insight into the essence of those things: not from pure conviction, but -from anger and resentment; not from reflection, but after melancholy -musing upon her own fate; not from her love of her fellow-women, but -from a petty hatred of society. And she remembered Duco's silence at -that time, his mute disapproval, his intuitive feeling that the source -of her excitement was not pure, but the bitter and turbid spring of -her own experience. She now respected his intuition; she now perceived -the essential purity of his character; she now felt that he--because -of his art--was high, noble, without ulterior motives in his actions, -creating beauty for its own sake. But she also felt that she had roused -him to it. That was her pride and her happiness; and she loved him more -dearly for it. But about herself she was humble. She was conscious of -her femininity, of all the complexity of her soul, which prevented her -from continuing to fight for the objects of the feminist movement. And -she thought again of her education, of her husband, her short but sad -married life ... and she thought of the prince. She felt herself so -complex and she would gladly have been homogeneous. She swayed between -contradiction and contradiction and she confessed to herself that she -did not know herself. It gave a tinge of melancholy to her days of -happiness. - -The prince ... was not her pride only apparent that she had asked him -not to tell Urania that she was living with Duco, because she would -tell her so herself? In reality, she feared Urania's opinion.... -She was troubled by the dishonesty of the life: she called the -intersections of her line with the lines of other small people the -petty life. Why, so soon as she crossed one of these intersections, did -she feel, as though by instinct, that honesty was not always wise? What -became of her pride and her dignity--not apparently, but actually--from -the moment that she feared Urania's criticism, from the moment that -she feared lest this criticism might be unfavourable to her in one -respect or another? And why did she not speak of Virgilio's bracelet -to Duco? She did not speak of the thousand lire because she knew that -money matters depressed him and that he did not want to borrow from the -prince, because, if he knew about it, he would not be able to work free -from care; and her concealment had been for a noble object. But why did -she not speak of Gilio's bracelet?... - -She did not know. Once or twice she had tried to say, just naturally -and casually: - -"Look, I've had this from the prince, because I sold that one bracelet." - -But she was not able to say it, she did not know why. Was it because -of Duco's jealousy? She didn't know, she didn't know. She felt that -it would make for peace and tranquillity if she said nothing about -the bracelet and did not wear it. Really she would have been glad to -send it back to the prince. But she thought that unkind, after all his -readiness to assist her. - -And Duco ... he thought that she had sold the bracelets for a good -sum, he knew that she had received money from the publisher, for her -pamphlet. He asked no further questions and ceased to think about -money. They lived very simply.... But still she disliked his not -knowing, even though it had been good for his work that he had not -known. - -These were little things. These were little clouds in the golden skies -of their great and noble Life, their life of which they were proud. -And she alone saw them. And, when she saw his eyes, radiant with the -pride of life; when she heard his voice, vibrating with his new assured -energy and pride; and when she felt his embrace, in which she felt the -thrill of his delight in the happiness which she brought him, then -she no longer saw the little clouds, then she felt her own thrill of -delight in the happiness which he had brought her and she loved him so -passionately that she could have died in his arms.... - - - - -CHAPTER XXXII - - -Urania wrote most charmingly. She said that they were having a very -quiet time with the old prince at San Stefano, as they were not -inviting visitors because the castle was too gloomy, too shabby, too -lonely, but that she would think it most delightful if Cornelie would -come and spend a few weeks with them. She added that she would send Mr. -Van der Staal an invitation as well. The letter was addressed to the -Via dei Serpenti and forwarded to Cornelie from there. She understood -from this that Gilio had not mentioned that she was living in Duco's -studio and she understood also that Urania accepted their _liaison_ -without criticizing it.... - -_The Banners_ had been dispatched to London; and, now that Duco was -no longer working, a slight indolence and a vague boredom hung about -the studio, which was still cool, while the town was scorching. And -Cornelie wrote to Urania that she was very glad to accept and promised -to come in a week's time. She was pleased that she would meet no other -guests at the castle, for she had no dresses for a country-house visit. -But with her usual tact she freshened up her wardrobe, without spending -much money. This took up all the intervening days; and she sat sewing -while Duco lay on the sofa and smoked cigarettes. He also had accepted, -because of Cornelie and because the district around the Lake of San -Stefano, which was overlooked by the castle, attracted him. He promised -Cornelie with a smile not to be so stiff. He would do his best to make -himself agreeable. He looked down rather haughtily on the prince. He -considered him a scallywag, but no longer a bounder or a cad. He -thought him childish, but not base or ignoble. - -Cornelie went off. He took her to the station. In the cab she kissed -him fondly and told him how much she would miss him during those few -days. Would he come soon? In a week? She would be longing for him; -she could not do without him. She looked deep into his eyes, which -she loved. He also said that he would be terribly bored without her. -Couldn't he come earlier, she asked. No, Urania had fixed the date. - -When he helped her into a second-class compartment, she felt sad to -be going without him. The carriage was full; she occupied the last -vacant seat. She sat between a fat peasant and an old peasant-woman; -the man civilly helped her to put her little portmanteau in the rack -and asked whether she minded if he smoked his pipe. She civilly -answered no. Opposite them sat two priests in frayed cassocks. An -unimportant-looking little brown wooden box was lying between their -feet: it was the extreme unction, which they were taking to a dying -person. - -The peasant entered into conversation with Cornelie, asked if she was -a foreigner: English, no doubt? The old peasant-woman offered her a -tangerine orange. - -The remainder of the compartment was occupied by a middle-class family: -father, mother, a small boy and two little sisters. The slow train -shook, rattled and wound its way along, stopping constantly. The little -girls kept on humming tunes. At one station a lady stepped out of a -first-class carriage with a little girl of five, in a white frock and a -hat with white ostrich-feathers. - -"_Oh, che bellezza_!" cried the small boy. "Mamma, mamma, look! Isn't -she beautiful? Isn't she lovely? _Divinamente_! Oh ... mamma!" - -He closed his black eyes, lovelorn, dazzled by the little white girl of -five. The parents laughed, the priests laughed, everybody laughed. But -the boy was not at all confused: - -"_Era una bellezza_!" he repeated once more, casting a glance of -conviction all around him. - -It was very hot in the train. Outside, the mountains gleamed white -on the horizon and glittered like a fire with opal reflections. -Close to the railway stood a row of eucalyptus-trees, sickle-leaved, -brewing a heavy perfume. On the dry, sun-scorched plain, the wild -cattle grazed, lifting their black curly heads with indifference to -the train. In the stifling, stewing heat, the passengers' drowsy -heads nodded up and down, while a smell of sweat, tobacco-smoke and -orange-peel mingled with the scent of the eucalyptuses outside. The -train swung round a curve, rattling like a toy-train of tin coaches -almost tumbling over one another And a level stretch of unruffled la -zulite--metallic, crystalline, sky-blue--came into view, spreading into -an oval goblet between slopes of mountain-land, like a very deep-set -vase in which a sacred fluid was kept blue and pure and motionless -by a wall of rocky hills, which rose higher and higher until, as the -train swung and rattled round the clear goblet, at one lofty point a -castle stood, coloured like the rocks, broad, massive and monastic, -with the cloisters running down the slope. It rose in noble and sombre -melancholy; and from the train one could hardly distinguish what was -rock and what was building-stone, as though it were all one barbaric -growth, as though the castle had grown naturally out of the rock and, -in growing, had assumed something of the shape of a human dwelling of -the earliest times. And, as though the oval with its divine blue water -had been a sacred reservoir, the mountains hedged, in the Lake of San -Stefano and the castle rose as its sombre guardian. - -The train wound along a curve by the water-side, swung round a bend, -then round another and stopped: San Stefano. It was a small, quiet -town, lying sleepily in the sun, without life or traffic, and visited -only in the winter by day-trippers, who came from Rome to see the -cathedral and the castle and tasted the wine of the country at the -_osteria._ - -When Cornelie alighted, she at once saw the prince. - -"How sweet of you to come and look us up in our eyrie!" he cried, in -rapture, eagerly pressing her two hands. - -He led her through the station to his little basket-carriage, with two -little horses and a tiny groom. A porter would bring her luggage to the -castle. - -"It's delightful of you to come!" he repeated. "You have never been to -San Stefano before? You know the cathedral is famous. We shall go right -through the town: the road to the castle runs behind it." - -He was smiling with pleasure. He started the horses with a click of -his tongue, with a repeated shake of the reins, like a child. They -flew along the road, between the low, sleepy little houses, across the -square, where in the glowing sunlight the glorious cathedral rose, -Lombardo-Romanesque in style, begun in the eleventh and added to in -every succeeding century, with the _campanile_ on the left and the -_battisterio_ on the right: marvels of architecture in red, black and -white marble, one vast sculpture of angels, saints and prophets and -all as it were covered with a thick dust of ages, which had long since -tempered the colours of the marble to rose, grey and yellow and which -hovered between the groups as the one and only thing that had been -left over of all those centuries, as though they had sunk into dust in -every crevice. - -The prince drove across a long bridge, whose arches were the remains of -an ancient aqueduct and now stood in the river, the bed of which was -quite dried up, with children playing in it. Then he let the little -horses climb at a foot's pace. The road led steeply, winding, barren -and rocky, up to the castle, while valleys of olives sank beneath them, -affording an ever wider view over the ever wider panorama of blue-white -mountains and opal horizons gleaming in the sun, with suddenly a -glimpse of the lake, the oval goblet, now sunk deeper and deeper, as in -a fluted brim of sun-scorched hills, its blue growing deeper and more -precipitous, a mystic blue that caught all the blue of the sky, until -the air shimmered between lake and sky as in long spirals of light that -whirled before the eyes. Until suddenly there drifted an intoxication -of orange-blossom, a heavy, sensual breath as of panting love, as -though thousands of mouths were exhaling a perfumed breath that hung -stiflingly in the windless atmosphere of light, between the lake and -the sky. - -The prince, happy and vivacious, talked a great deal, pointed this -way and that with his whip, clicked at the horses, asked Cornelie -questions, asked if she did not admire the landscape. Slowly, straining -the muscles of their hind-legs, the horses drew the carriage up the -ascent. The castle lay massive, huddling close to the ground. The lake -sank lower and lower. The horizons became wider, like a world; a fitful -breeze blew away some of the orange-blossom breath. The road became -broad, easy and level. The castle lay extended like a fortress, like -a town, behind its pinnacled walls, with gate within gate. They drove -in, across a courtyard, under an archway into a second courtyard. And -Cornelie received a sensation of awe, a vision of pillars, arches, -statues, arcades and fountains. They alighted. - -Urania ran out to meet her, embraced her, welcomed her affectionately -and took her up the stairs and through the passages to her room. The -windows were open; she looked out at the lake and the town and the -cathedral. And Urania kissed her again and made her sit down. And -Cornelie was struck by the fact that Urania had grown thin and had lost -her former brilliant beauty of an American girl, with the unconscious -look of a _cocotte_ in her eyes, her smile and her clothes. She was -changed. She had "gone off" a little and was no longer so pretty, as -though her good looks had been a short-lived pretence, consisting -of freshness rather than line. But, if she had lost her bloom, she -had gained a certain distinction, a certain style, something that -surprised Cornelie. Her gestures were quieter, her voice was softer, -her mouth seemed smaller and was not always splitting open to display -her white teeth; her dress was exceedingly simple: a blue skirt and a -white blouse. Cornelie found it difficult to realize that the young -Princess of Forte-Braccio, Duchess of San Stefano, was Miss Urania -Hope of Chicago. A slight melancholy had come over her, which became -her, even though she was less pretty. And Cornelie reflected that -she must have some sorrow, which had smoothed her angles, but that -she was also tactfully accommodating herself to her entirely novel -environment. She asked Urania if she was happy. Urania said yes, with -her sad smile, which was so new and so surprising. And she told her -story. They had had a pleasant winter at Nice, but among a cosmopolitan -circle of friends, for, though her new relations were very kind, they -were exceedingly condescending and Virgilio's friends, especially the -ladies, kept her at arm's length in an almost insolent fashion. Already -during the honeymoon she had perceived that the aristocracy were -prepared to tolerate her, but that they could never forget that she was -the daughter of Hope the Chicago stockinet-manufacturer. She had seen -that she was not the only one who, though she was now a princess and -duchess, was accepted on sufferance and only for her millions: there -were others like herself. She had formed no friendships. People came -to her parties and dances: they were _frere et compagnon_ and hand and -glove with Gilio; the women called him by his Christian name, laughed -and flirted with him and seemed quite to approve of him for marrying -a few millions. To Urania they were just barely civil, especially the -women: the men were not so difficult. But the whole thing saddened -her, especially with all these women of the higher nobility--bearers -of the most famous names in Italy--who treated her with condescension -and always managed to exclude her from every intimacy, from all private -gatherings, from all cooperation in the matter of parties or charities. -When everything had been discussed, then they asked the Principessa -di Forte-Braccio to take part and offered her the place to which she -was entitled and even did so with scrupulous punctiliousness. They -manifestly treated her as a princess and an equal in the eyes of the -world, of the public. But in their own set she remained Urania Hope. -And the few other, middle-class millionaire elements of course ran -after her, but she kept these at a distance; and Gilio approved. And -what had Gilio said when she once complained of her grievance to -him? That she, by displaying tactfulness, would certainly conquer -her position, but with great patience and after many, many years. -She was now crying, with her head on Cornelie's shoulder: oh, she -reflected, she would never conquer them, those haughty women! What -after all was she, a Hope, compared with all those celebrated families, -which together made up the ancient glory of Italy and which, like the -Massimos, traced back their descent to the Romans of old? - -Was Gilio kind? Yes, but from the beginning he had treated her as -"his wife." All his pleasantness, all his cheerfulness was kept for -others: he never talked to her much. And the young princess wept: she -felt lonely, she sometimes longed for America. She had now invited her -brother to stay with her, a nice boy of seventeen, who had come over -for her wedding and travelled about Europe a little before returning -to his farm in the Far West. He was her darling, he consoled her; but -he would be gone in a few weeks. And then what would she have left? -Oh, how glad she was that Cornelie had come! And how well she was -looking, prettier than she had ever seen her look! Van der Staal had -accepted: he would be here in a week. She asked, in a whisper, were -they not going to get married? Cornelie answered positively no; she was -not marrying, she would never marry again. And, in a sudden burst of -candour, unable to conceal things from Urania, she told her that she -was no longer living in the Via dei Serpenti, that she was living in -Duco's studio. Urania was startled by this breach of every convention; -but she regarded her friend as a woman who could do things which -another could not. So it was only their happiness and friendship, she -whispered, as though frightened, and without the sanction of society? -Urania remembered Cornelie's imprecations against marriage, and, -formerly, against the prince. But she did like Gilio a little now, -didn't she? Oh, she, Urania, would not be jealous again! She thought it -delightful that Cornelie had come; and Gilio, who was bored, had also -looked forward so to her arrival. Oh, no, Urania was no longer jealous! - -And, with her head on Cornelie's shoulder and her eyes still full of -tears, she seemed merely to ask for a little friendship, a little -affection, a few kind words and caresses, this wealthy American child -who now bore the title of an ancient Italian house. And Cornelie felt -for her because she was suffering, because she was no longer a small, -insignificant person, whose line of life happened to cross her own. -She took her in her arms, comforted her, the weeping little princess, -as with a new friendship; she accepted her in her life as a friend, -no longer as a small, insignificant person. And, when Urania, staring -wide-eyed, remembered Cornelie's warning, Cornelie treated that warning -lightly and said that Urania ought to show more courage. Tact, she -possessed, innate tact. But she must be courageous and face life as it -came.... - -They stood up and, clasped in each other's arms, looked out of the -open window. The bells of the cathedral were pealing through the air; -the cathedral rose in noble pride from out of a very low huddle of -roofs, a gigantic cathedral for so small a town, an immense symbol of -ecclesiastical dominion over the roof-tops of the little town kneeling -in reverence. And the awe which had filled Cornelie in the courtyard, -among the arcades, statues and fountains, inspired her anew, because -glory and grandeur, dying but not dead, mouldering but not spent, -seemed to loom dimly from the mystic blue of the lake, from the age-old -architecture of the cathedral, up the orange-clad hills to the castle, -where at an open window stood a young foreign woman, discouraged, -although that phantom of glory and grandeur needed her millions in -order to endure for a few more generations.... - -"It is beautiful and stately, all this past," thought Cornelie. "It is -great. But still it is no longer anything. It is a phantom. For it is -gone, it is all gone, it is but a memory of proud and arrogant nobles, -of narrow souls that do not look towards the future." - -And the future, with a confusion of social problems, with the waving of -new banners and streamers, now whirled before her in the long spirals -of light, which, like blue notes of interrogation, shimmered before her -eyes, between the lake and the sky. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXIII - - -Cornelie had changed her dress and now left her room. She went down -the corridor and saw nobody. She did not know the way, but walked -on. Suddenly a wide staircase fell away before her, between two -rows of gigantic marble candelabra; and Cornelie came to an _atrio_ -which opened over the lake. The walls, with frescoes by Mantegna, -representing feats of bygone San Stefanos, supported a cupola which, -painted with sky and clouds, appeared as though it were open to the -outer air and which was surrounded by groups of cupids and nymphs -looking down from a balustrade. - -She stepped outside and saw Gilio. He was sitting on the balustrade of -the terrace, smoking a cigarette and gazing at the lake. He came up to -her: - -"I was almost sure that you would come this way," he said. "Aren't you -tired? May I show you round? Have you seen our Mantegnas? They have -suffered badly They were restored at the beginning of the century.[1] -They look rather dilapidated, don't they? Do you see that little -mythological scene up there, by Giulio Romano? Come here, through this -door. But it's locked. Wait...." - -He called out an order to some one below. Presently an old serving-man -arrived with a heavy bunch of keys, which he handed to the prince. - -"You can go, Egisto. I know the keys." - -The man went away. The prince opened a heavy bronze door. He showed her -the bas-reliefs: - -"Giovanni da Bologna," he said. - -They went on, through a room hung with tapestries; the prince pointed -to a ceiling by Ghirlandajo: the apotheosis of the only pope of the -house of San Stefano. Next through a hall of mirrors, painted by -Mario de' Flori. The dusty, musty smell of an ill-kept museum, with -its atmosphere of neglect and indifference, stifled the breath; the -white silk window-curtains were yellow with age, soiled by flies; the -red curtains of Venetian damask hung in moth-eaten rags and tatters; -the painted mirrors were dull and tarnished; the arms of the Venetian -glass chandeliers were broken. Pushed aside anyhow, like so much -rubbish in a lumber-room, stood the most precious cabinets, inlaid -with bronze, mother-of-pearl and ebony panels, and mosaic tables of -lapis-lazuli, malachite and green, yellow, black and pink marble. -In the tapestries--Saul and David, Esther, Holofernes, Salome--the -vitality of the figures had evaporated, as though they were suffocated -under the grey coat of dust that lay thick upon their worn textures and -neutralized every colour. - -In the immense halls, half-dark in their curtained dusk, a sort of -sorrow lingered, like a melancholy of hopeless, conquered exasperation, -a slow decline of greatness and magnificence; between the masterpieces -of the most famous painters mournful empty spaces yawned, the witnesses -of pinching penury, spaces once occupied by pictures that had once -and even lately been sold for fortunes. Cornelie remembered something -about a lawsuit some years ago, an attempt to send some Raphaels -across the frontier, in defiance of the law, and to sell them in -Berlin.... And Gilio led her hurriedly through the spectral halls, -gay as a boy, light-hearted as a child, glad to have his diversion, -mentioning without affection or interest names which he had heard in -his childhood, but making mistakes and correcting himself and at last -confessing that he had forgotten: - -"And here is the _camera degli sposi_...." - -He fumbled at the bunch of keys, read the brass labels till he found -the right one and opened the door, which grated on its hinges; and they -went in. - -And suddenly there was something like an intense and exquisite -stateliness of intimacy: a huge bedroom, all gold, with the dim gold -of tenderly faded golden tissues. On the walls were gold-coloured -tapestries: Venus rising from the gilt foam of a golden ocean, Venus -and Mars, Venus and Cupid, Venus and Adonis. The pale-pink nudity of -these mythological beings stood forth very faintly against the sheer -gold of sky and atmosphere, in golden woodlands, amid golden flowers, -with golden cupids and swans and doves and wild boars; golden peacocks -drank from golden fountains; water and clouds were of elemental gold; -and all this had tenderly faded into a languorous sunset of expiring -radiance. The state bed was gold, under a canopy of gold brocade, on -which the armorial bearings of the family were embroidered in heavy -relief; the bedspread was gold; but all this gold was lifeless, had -lapsed into the melancholy of all but grey lustre: it was effaced, -erased, obliterated, as though the dusty ages had cast a shadow over -it, had woven a web across it. - -"How beautiful!" said Cornelie. - -"Our famous bridal chamber," said the prince, laughing. "It was a -strange idea of those old people, to spend the first night in such a -peculiar apartment. When they married, in our family, they slept here -on the bridal night. It was a sort of superstition. The young wife -remained faithful only provided it was here that she spent the first -night with her husband. Poor Urania! We did not sleep here, _signora -mia_, among all these indecent goddesses of love. We no longer respect -the family tradition. Urania is therefore doomed by fate to be -unfaithful to me. Unless I take that doom on my own shoulders...." - -"I suppose the fidelity of the husbands is not mentioned in this family -tradition?" - -"No, we attached very little importance to that ... nor do we -nowadays...." - -"It's glorious," Cornelie repeated, looking around her. "Duco will -think it perfectly glorious. Oh, prince, I never saw such a room Look -at Venus over there, with the wounded Adonis, his head in her lap, the -nymphs lamenting! It is a fairy-tale." - -"There's too much gold for my taste." - -"It may have been so before, too much gold...." - -"Masses of gold denoted wealth and abundant love. The wealth is -gone...." - -"But the gold is softened now, so beautifully toned down...." - -"The abundant love has remained: the San Stefanos have always loved -much." - -He went on jesting, called attention to the wantonness of the design -and risked an allusion. - -She pretended not to hear. She looked at the tapestries. In the -intervals between the panels golden peacocks drank from golden -fountains and cupids played with doves. - -"I am so fond of you!" he whispered in her ear, putting his arm round -her waist. "Angel! Angel!" - -She pushed him away: - -"Prince...." - -"Call me Gilio!" - -"Why can't we be just good friends?" - -"Because I want something more than friendship." - -She now released herself entirely: - -"And I don't!" she answered, coldly. - -"Do you only love one then? - -"Yes." - -"That's not possible." - -"Why not?" - -"Because, if so, you would marry him. If you loved nobody but Van der -Staal, you would marry him." - -"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 the _atrio_: - -"Thanks for showing me round," she said, a little mockingly. "The -_camera 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 our _camera 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. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXIV - - -Urania asked Cornelie 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 Cornelie very well. - -"I can understand that," said Cornelie, smiling acidly. "You see -different boarders at your _pension_ every 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 -summer _villeggiatura_ here. 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, the _monsignori_ whom 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 Cornelie, 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 Cornelie's -original opposition, of her former advice to Urania and she was certain -that Cornelie 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," Cornelie 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 marry _il 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 your -_pension_ and--who knows?--perhaps I too shall become a Catholic. -You might give Rudyard another chance, with me; and, if that didn't -succeed, the two _monsignori_. 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 two _monsignori_." - -"What do you know about it? What are you thinking of?" - -"I? Nothing!" Cornelie 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 know _anything_ of her transactions with the old -prince and the _monsignori_? 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 the _mal'occhio_? -And the marchesa made the sign of the _jettatura_ with 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 of _Abundance_: 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 Cornelie 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 Cornelie 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 Cornelie as somewhat out of place amid -the faded glories of San Stefano. Cornelie 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 Cornelie'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 Cornelie she had lost all her absurdity -as an American _parvenue_ and, 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 Cornelie 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 Cornelie and promised -herself to be on her guard. A major-domo came and announced to the -princess that dinner was served. And Cornelie 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 Cornelie, while they all rose and Urania -gently reproached her brother, as she would a spoiled boy, for coming -down to dinner in his knickerbockers. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXV - - -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 Cornelie. -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 Cornelie 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 Cornelie and Urania; Gilio next to Cornelie; 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 Cornelie, 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 -Cornelie 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 Cornelie, 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 little _viveur_; 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 Cornelie, also -disappeared, making the _jettatura_ at her in the folds of her dress. -And Urania took Cornelie 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 Cornelie 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 a _pension_ in 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, an _albergo -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 Cornelie to come with her one morning to see -how the _albergo_ was progressing, to see the new school, run by two -priests who had been recommended to her by the _monsignori_. - -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 Cornelie 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 Cornelie 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. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXVI - - -Next morning Urania's maid was showing Cornelie 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," Cornelie 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's _got_ to 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 Cornelie, 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 Cornelie, delightedly. - -Breakfast was a sunny and cheerful meal, after yesterday's dark and -gloomy dinner. Urania talked vivaciously about her _albergo_, which -she was going to visit presently with Cornelie, 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 finished _albergo_. 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 Cornelie'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 Cornelie 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 her _admirabile_ and whispered as -much to Cornelie. 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 Cornelie 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 Cornelie 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. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXVII - - -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 Cornelie and Duco went outside, was like a dream. -The castle was already wrapped in heavy repose; but Cornelie 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 Cornelie -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 the _atrio_, -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 about _The 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 the _osteria_. 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. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXVIII - - -Gilio hated the _villeggiatura_ at 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 Cornelie, 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 his _rendez-vous_ with Urania. And in the _camera degli -sposi_ she 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? _he_ knew 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 that _villeggiatura_, 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 Cornelie, 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 Cornelie'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 a _liaison_ with 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 Cornelie, about Duco and about the adventure in -the _camera degli sposi_ and asked his cousin whether _she_ understood. -No, the Contessa di Rosavilla did not understand it any too well -either. Temperament? Oh, yes, perhaps _she--questa Cornelia--preferred_ -fair men to dark: there _were_ women who had a preference! And Gilio -laughed. It was so simple, _l'amore_; there wasn't very much to be said -about it. - -Cornelie 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 Cornelie. 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. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXIX - - -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 Cornelie'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 the _camera 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 Cornelie, 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...." - -Cornelie 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? _His_ temperament 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 Cornelie's -entreaties, they struck each other with their fists, they grappled with -arms and legs, breast to breast. Then Cornelie 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. _She_ -protects 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 Cornelie. - -"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 Cornelie 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. - - - - -CHAPTER XL - - -Urania sobbed nervously in Cornelie'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. - -Cornelie 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, there _are_ family-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 Cornelie. - -"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." - -"Cornelie...." - -"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. - - - - -CHAPTER XLI - - -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. - -"Cornelie," 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 the _camera 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 Banners_ is 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. - -"Cornelie," 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, Cornelie, 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, Cornelie, 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 at -_The 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, Cornelie," - -"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 in _The 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 his _Banners_. 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 Cornelie 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. - - - - -CHAPTER XLII - - -They were very economical; they had a little money; and all through the -scorching Roman summer the months passed as in a dream. They went on -living their lonely, happy life, without seeing any one except Urania, -who came to Rome now and again, looked them up, lunched with them at -the studio and went back again in the evening. Then Urania wrote to -them that Gilio could stand it no longer at San Stefano and that they -were going abroad, first to Switzerland and then to Ostend. She came -once more to say good-bye; and after that they saw nobody. - -In the old days Duco had known an artist here and there, a -fellow-countryman painting in Rome; now he knew nobody, saw nobody. -And their life in the cool studio was like life in a lonely oasis amid -the torrid desert of Rome in August. For economy's sake, they did not -go into the mountains, to a cooler spot. They spent no more than was -absolutely necessary; and none the less this bohemian poverty, in its -coloured setting of triptych and chasuble, spelt happiness. - -Money, however, remained scarce. Duco sold a water-colour once in -a way, but at times they had to resort to the sale of a curio. And -it always went to Duco's heart to part with anything that he had -collected. They had few needs, but the time would come when the rent of -the studio fell due. Cornelie sometimes wrote an article or a sketch -and bought out of the proceeds what she needed for her wardrobe. She -possessed a certain knack of putting on her clothes, a talent for -looking smart in an old, worn blouse. She was fastidious about her -hair, her skin, her teeth, her nails. With a new veil she would wear -an old hat, with an old walking dress a pair of fresh gloves; and she -wore everything with a certain air of smartness. At home, in her pink -tea-gown, which had lost its colour, the lines of her figure were so -charming that Duco was constantly sketching her. They hardly ever went -to a restaurant now. Cornelie cooked something at home, invented easy -recipes, fetched a _fiasco_ of wine from the nearest _olio e vino_, -where the cab-drivers sat drinking at little tables; and they dined -better and more cheaply than at the _osteria_. And Duco, now that he -no longer bought things from the dealer in antiques on the Tiber, -spent nothing at all. But money remained scarce. Once, when they had -sold a silver crucifix for far less than it was worth, Cornelie was so -dejected that she sobbed on Duco's breast. He consoled her, caressed -her and declared that he didn't care much about the crucifix. But she -knew that the crucifix was a very fine piece of work by an unknown -sixteenth-century artist and that he was very unhappy at losing it. -And she said to him seriously that it could not go on like this, that -she could not be a burden to him and that they had better part; that -she would look about for something to do, that she would go back -to Holland. He was alarmed by her despair and said that it was not -necessary, that he was well able to look after her as his wife, but -that unfortunately he was such an unpractical fellow, who could do -nothing but splash about a bit with water-colours and even that not -well enough to live on. But she said that he must not talk like that; -he was a great artist. It was just that he did not possess a facile, -money-making fertility, but he ranked higher on that account. She said -that she would not live on his money, that she wanted to keep herself. -And she collected the scattered remnants of her feminist ideas. Once -again he begged her to consent to their marriage; they would become -reconciled with his mother; and Mrs. Van der Staal would give him what -she used to give him when he used to live with her at Belloni's. But -she refused to hear either of marriage or of an allowance from his -mother, even as he refused to take money from Urania. How often had -Urania not offered to help them! He had never consented; he was even -angry when Urania had given Cornelie a blouse which Cornelie accepted -with a kiss. - -No, it couldn't go on like this: they had better part: she must go back -to Holland and seek employment. It was easier in Holland than abroad. -But he was so desperate, because of their happiness, which tottered -before his eyes, that he held her tightly pressed to his breast; and -she sobbed, with her arms round his neck. Why should they part, he -asked. They would be stronger together. He could no longer do without -her; his life, if she left him, would be no life. He used to live in -his dreams; he now lived in the reality of their happiness. - -And things remained as they were: they _could_ not alter anything; -they lived as thriftily as possible, in order to keep together, He -finished his landscapes and always sold them at once, much too cheaply, -so as not to have to wait for the money. But then poverty threatened -once more; and she thought of writing to Holland. As it happened, -however, she received a letter from her mother, followed by one from -one of her sisters. And they asked her in those letters if it was -true, what people were saying at the Hague, that she was living with -Van der Staal. She had always looked upon herself as so far from the -Hague and from Hague people that it had never occurred to her that her -way of life might become known. She met nobody, she knew nobody with -Dutch connections. Anyhow, her independent attitude was now known. -And she answered the letters in a feminist tone, declared her dislike -of marriage and admitted that she was living with Van der Staal. She -wrote coldly and succinctly, so as to give those people at the Hague -the impression that she was a free and independent woman. They knew -her pamphlet there, of course. But she understood that she could now -no longer think of Holland. She gave up her family as hopeless. Still -it tore something in her, the unconscious family-tie. But that tie -was already greatly loosened, through lack of sympathy, especially -at the time of her divorce. And she felt all alone: she had only her -happiness, her lover, Duco. Oh, it was enough, it was enough for all -her life! If only she could make a little money! But how? She went -to the Dutch Consul, asked his advice; the visit led to nothing. She -was not suited for a nurse: she wanted to earn money at once and had -no time for training. She could serve in a shop, of course. And she -applied, without saying anything to Duco; but, notwithstanding her -worn cloak, they thought her too much of a lady wherever she went and -she thought the salary too small for a whole day's work. And, when she -felt that she hadn't it in her blood to work for her bread, despite all -her ideas and all her logic, despite her pamphlet and her independent -womanhood, she felt hopeless to the point of despair and, as she went -home, weary, exhausted by climbing stairs and by useless conversations -and appeals, the old plaint rose to her lips: - -"O God, tell me what to do!" - - - - -CHAPTER XLIII - - -She wrote regularly to Urania, in Switzerland, at Ostend; and Urania -always wrote back very kindly and offered her assistance. But Cornelie -always declined, afraid of hurting Duco. She, for herself, felt no -such scruples, especially now that it was being borne in upon her that -she would not be able to work. But she understood those scruples in -Duco and respected them. For her own part, however, she would have -accepted help, now that her pride was wavering, now that her ideas -were falling to pieces, too weak to withstand the steady pressure of -life's hardships. It was like a great finger that just passed along -a house of cards: though built up with care and pride, everything -fell flat at the least touch. The only things that stood firm and -unshakable amid the ruins were her love and her happiness. Oh, how she -loved him, how simple was their happiness! How dear he was to her for -his gentleness, his calmness, his lack of irritability, as though his -nerves were strung only to the finer sensibilities of the artist. She -felt so deliciously that it was all imperturbable, that it was all -settled for good. Without that happiness they could never have dragged -their difficult life along from day to day. Now she did not feel that -burden every day, as though they were dragging the load along from -one day to the next. She now felt it only sometimes, when the future -was quite dark and they did not know whither they were dragging the -burden of their lives, in the dusk of that future. But they always -triumphed again: they loved each other too well to sink under the load. -They always found a little more courage; smiling, they supported each -other's strength. - -September came and October; and Urania wrote that they were coming back -to San Stefano, to spend a couple of months there before going for the -winter to Nice. And one morning Urania arrived unexpectedly in the -studio. She found Cornelie alone: Duco had gone to an art-dealer's. -They exchanged affectionate greetings: - -"I am so glad to see you again!" Urania prattled, gaily. "I am glad to -be back in Italy and to put in a little more time at San Stefano. And -is everything as it used to be, in your cosy studio? Are you happy? Oh, -I need not ask!" - -And she hugged and kissed Cornelie, like a child, still lacking the -strength of mind to condemn her friend's too free existence, especially -now, after her own summer at Ostend. They sat beside each other on -the couch, Cornelie in her old tea-gown, which she wore with her own -peculiar grace, and the young princess in her pale-grey tailor-made, -which clung to her figure in a very up-to-date manner and rustled with -heavy silk lining, and a hat with black feathers and silver spangles. -Her jewelled fingers toyed with a very long watch-chain which she wore -round her neck: the latest freak of fashion. Cornelie was able to -admire without feeling envious and made Urania stand up and turn round -in front of her, approved of the cut of her skirt, said that the hat -looked sweet on her and examined the watch-chain attentively. And she -plunged into these matters of _chiffons_: Urania described the dresses -at Ostend; Urania admired Cornelie's old tea-gown; Cornelie smiled: - -"Especially after Ostend, eh?" she laughed, merrily. - -But Urania meant it seriously: Cornelie wore it with such _chic_! And, -changing the topic, she said that she wanted to speak very seriously, -that perhaps she knew of something for Cornelie, now that Cornelie -would never accept her, Urania's, assistance. At Ostend she had made -the acquaintance of an old American lady, Mrs. Uxeley, a regular type. -She was ninety years of age and lived at Nice in the winter. She was -fabulously rich: an oil-queen's fortune. She was ninety, but still -behaved as if she were forty-five. She dined out, went into society, -flirted. People laughed at her but accepted her because of her money -and her splendid entertainments. All the cosmopolitan colony visited -her at Nice. Urania produced an Ostend casino-paper and read out a -journalistic account of a ball at Ostend, in which Mrs. Uxeley was -called _la femme la plus elegante d'Ostende_. The journalist had been -paid so much for it; everybody laughed and was amused by it. Mrs. -Uxeley was a caricature, but with enough tact to get herself taken -seriously. Well, Mrs. Uxeley was looking for somebody. She always -had a lady companion with her, a girl, a young woman; and already -numberless ladies had succeeded one another in her employ. She had had -cousins living with her, distant cousins, very distant cousins and -total strangers. She was tiresome, capricious, impossible; everybody -knew that. Would Cornelie care to try it? Urania had already discussed -it with Mrs. Uxeley and recommended her friend. Cornelie did not feel -greatly attracted, but thought it worth thinking over. Mrs. Uxeley's -companion was staying till November, when the old thing was returning -through Paris to Nice. And at Nice they would see so much of each -other, Cornelie and Urania. But Cornelie thought it terrible to leave -Duco. She did not think that it would ever work. They were so greatly -attached to each other, so much used to each other. From the money -point of view it would be excellent--an easy life which attracted her, -after that blow to her moral pride--but she could not think of leaving -Duco. And what would Duco do at Nice! No, she couldn't, she simply -couldn't: she must stay with him.... - -She felt a reluctance to go, like a hand that withheld her. She told -Urania to put the old lady off, to let her look out for somebody -else. She could not do it. What use to her was such a life--socially -dependent, though financially independent--without Duco? - -And, when Urania was gone--she was going on to San Stefano--Cornelie -was glad that she had at once declined that stupid, easy life of -dependence as companion to a rich old dotard. She glanced round the -studio. She loved it with its precious colours, its noble antiques -and, behind that curtain, her bed, behind that screen, her oil-stove, -making the space look like a little kitchen; with the bohemianism of -its precious _bibelots_ and very primitive comforts, it had become -indispensable to her, had become her home. And, when Duco came in, she -kissed him and told him about Urania and Mrs. Uxeley. She was glad to -be able to nestle in his arms. He had sold a couple of water-colours. -There was no reason whatever to leave him. He didn't wish it either, -he never would wish it. And they held each other tightly embraced, as -though they were conscious of something that would be able to part -them, an ineluctable necessity, as if hands hovered around them, -pushing them, guiding them, opposing and inhibiting them, a contest of -hands, like a cloud around them both: hands that strove by main force -to sunder their radiant path of life, their coalescent line of life, as -if it were too narrow for the feet of the two of them and the hands -were trying to wrench it asunder, in order to let the broad track -wind apart in two curves. They said nothing: clasped in each other's -arms, they gazed at life, shuddered at the hands, felt the approaching -constraint which already was clouding more closely around them. But -they felt warm in each other's company; they locked up their little -happiness tightly in their embrace and hid it between them, so that the -hands might not point to it, touch it and thrust it aside.... - -And under their fixed gaze life softly receded, the cloud dispersed, -the hands faded away and disappeared and their breasts heaved a sigh of -relief, while she still remained lying against him and closed her eyes, -as though in sleep.... - - - - -CHAPTER XLIV - - -But the life of constraint returned, the hovering hands reappeared, -like a gentle mysterious force. Cornelie wept bitterly and admitted to -herself and admitted to Duco: it could not go on any longer. At one -moment they had not enough to pay the rent of the studio and had to -apply to Urania. Gaps showed in the studio, colours vanished, owing to -the sale of things which Duco had collected with love and sacrifice. -But Lippo Memmi's angel, whom he refused to sell, still shone as of -old, still holding forth the lily, in his gown of gold brocade. Around -him on every side yawned melancholy spaces, with bare nails showing -in the walls. At first they tried to hang other things in the place -of those which had gone but they soon lost the inclination. And, as -they sat side by side, in each other's arms, conscious of their little -happiness but also of the constraint of life with its pushing hands, -they closed their eyes, that they might no longer see the studio which -seemed to be crumbling about them, while in the first cooler days -a sunless chill descended shivering from the ceiling, which seemed -higher and farther away. The easel stood waiting, empty. And they both -closed their eyes and thus remained, feeling that, despite the strength -of their happiness and love, they were being gradually conquered by -life, which persisted in its tyranny and day by day took something -from them. Once, while they were sitting thus, their arms relaxed and -their embrace fell away, as though hands were drawing them apart. -They remained sitting for a long time, side by side, without touching -each other. Then she sobbed aloud and flung herself with her face on -his knees. There was no more to be done life was too strong for them, -speechless life, the life of the soft, persistent constraint, which -surrounded them with so many hands. Their little happiness seemed to be -escaping them, like an angelic child that was dying and sinking out of -their embrace. - -She said that she would write to Urania: the Forte-Braccios were at -Nice. He listlessly assented. And, as soon as she received a reply, she -mechanically packed her trunk, packed up her old clothes. For Urania -wrote and told her to come, said that Mrs. Uxeley wanted to see her. -Mrs. Uxeley sent her the money for her journey. She was in a desperate -state of constant nervous sobbing and she felt as if she were being -torn from him, torn from that home which was dear to her and which -was crumbling about her, all through her fault. When she received the -registered letter with the money, she had a nervous attack, complaining -to him like a child that she couldn't leave him, that she wouldn't -leave him, that she could not live without him, that she loved him -for ever, for ever, that she would die, so far away from him. She lay -on the sofa, her arms stiff, her legs stiff, crying out with a mouth -distorted as though by physical pain. He took her in his arms and -soothed her, bathed her forehead, gave her ether to drink, comforted -her, said that everything would be all right again later.... Later? -She looked at him vacantly. She was half mad with grief. She tossed -everything out of the trunk again, all about the room--underclothing, -blouses--and laughed and laughed. He conjured her to control herself. -When she saw his frightened face, when he too began to sob on her -breast, she drew him tightly to her, kissed him and comforted him in -her turn. And everything in her became dulness and lethargy. Together -they packed the trunk again. Then she looked round and, in a gust of -energy, arranged the studio for him, had her bed taken away, pinned -his own sketches to the walls, tried to build up something of what had -gone to pieces around them, rearranged everything, did her best. She -cooked their last meal; she made up the fire. But a desperate threat -of loneliness and desertion reigned over everything. It was all wrong, -it was all wrong.... Sobbing, they fell asleep, in each other's arms, -close against each other. - -Next morning he took her to the station. And, when she had stepped into -her compartment, they both of them lost all their self-control. They -embraced each other sobbing, while the guard was waiting to lock the -door. And she saw Duco run away like a madman, pushing his way through -the crowd; and, broken with misery, she threw herself back in her seat. -She was so ill and distressed, so near to fainting, that a lady beside -her came to her aid and bathed her face in eau-de-Cologne.... - -She thanked the lady, apologized for the trouble she had given and, -seeing the other passengers staring at her with compassionate eyes, -she mastered herself, sat huddled in her corner and gazed vacantly -through the window. She went on, stopping nowhere, only alighting to -change trains. Though hungry, she had not the energy to order food at -the stations. She ate nothing and drank nothing. She travelled a day -and a night and arrived at Nice late the following evening. Urania was -at the station and was startled to see Cornelie look grey and sallow, -dead-tired, with hollow eyes. And she was most charming: she took -Cornelie home with her, looked after her for some days, made her stay -in bed and went herself to tell Mrs. Uxeley that her friend was too -unwell to report herself. Gilio came for a moment to pay Cornelie his -respects; and she could not do other than thank him for these days -of hospitality and care under his roof. And the young princess was -like a sister, was like a mother and fed Cornelie up with milk and -eggs and strengthening medicines. Cornelie let her do as she liked, -remained limp and indifferent and ate to please Urania. After a few -days, Urania said that Mrs. Uxeley was coming to call that afternoon, -being anxious to see her new companion. Mrs. Uxeley was alone now, -but could wait until Cornelie's recovery. Cornelie dressed herself as -well as she could and with Urania awaited the old lady's arrival. She -entered gushingly, with a torrent of words; and, in the dim light of -Urania's drawing-room, Cornelie was unable to realize that she was -ninety years old. Urania winked at Cornelie, who only smiled faintly -in return: she was afraid of this first interview. But Mrs. Uxeley, no -doubt because Cornelie was a friend of the Princess of Forte-Braccio, -was very easy-mannered, very pleasant and free of all condescension -towards her future companion; she enquired after Cornelie's health in -a wearisome profusion of little exclamations and sentences and bits of -advice. Cornelie, in the twilight of the lace-shaded standard-lamps, -took her in with a glance and saw a woman of fifty, with the little -wrinkles carefully powdered over, in a mauve-velvet gown embroidered -with dull gold and spangles and beads. On the brown, waved chignon was -a hat with a white aigrette. Her jewels kept on sparkling, because she -was very fussy, very restless in her movements. She now took Cornelie's -hands and began to talk more confidentially. So Cornelie would come the -day after to-morrow. Very well. She was accustomed to pay a hundred -dollars a month or five hundred francs, never less, but also never -more. But she could understand that Cornelie would want something now, -for new clothes: would she order what she wanted at this address and -have it put down to Mrs. Uxeley's account? A couple of ball-dresses, -two or three less dressy evening-frocks: in short, everything. The -Princess Urania would tell her all about it and would go with her. And -she rose, affecting the young woman, simpering through her long-handled -lorgnette, but meanwhile leaning hard on her sunshade, working herself -with a muscular effort along the stick of her sunshade, with a sudden -twitch of rheumatism which uncovered all sorts of wrinkles. Urania saw -her to the hall and came back shrieking with laughter; and Cornelie -also laughed, but only listlessly. She really didn't care: she was -more amazed at Mrs. Uxeley than amused. Ninety years old! What an -energy, worthy of a better object, to remain elegant: _la femme la plus -elegante d'Ostende_! - -Ninety years old! How the woman must suffer, during the hours of her -long toilet, while she was being made up into that caricature! Urania -said that it was all false: the hair, the bust. And Cornelie felt a -loathing at having to live for the future beside this woman, as though -beside an ignominy. In the happiness of her love, a great part of her -energy had become relaxed, as though their dual happiness--Duco's and -hers--had unfitted her for any further struggle for life and diminished -her zest for life; but it had refined and purified something in her -soul and she loathed the sight of so much show for so vain and petty -an object. And it was only necessity itself--the inevitability of the -things of life, which urged and pushed her with a guiding finger along -a line of life now winding solitary before her--that gave her the -strength to hide within herself her sorrow, her longing, her nostalgia -for everything that she had left behind. She did not talk about it -to Urania. Urania was so glad to see her, looked upon her as a good -friend, in the loneliness of her stately life, in her isolation among -her aristocratic acquaintances. Urania accompanied her enthusiastically -to dressmakers' establishments and shops and helped her to choose her -new outfit. She did not care about it all. She, an elegant woman, a -woman of innate elegance, who in her outward appearance had always -fought against poverty and who, in the days of her happiness, was able, -with the aid of a fresh ribbon, to wear an old blouse gracefully, -was utterly indifferent to everything that she was now buying on -Mrs. Uxeley's account. To her it was as though these things were not -for her. She let Urania ask and choose; she approved of everything. -She allowed herself to be fitted as though she had been a doll. She -greatly disliked having to spend money at a stranger's expense. She -felt lowered and humiliated: all her haughty pride of life was gone. -She was afraid of what they would say of her in the circle of Mrs. -Uxeley's friends, afraid lest they knew of her independent ideas, of -her cohabitation with Duco, afraid of Mrs. Uxeley's opinion. For Urania -had had to be honest and tell everything. It was only on Urania's eager -recommendation that she had been taken by Mrs. Uxeley. She felt out of -place, now that she would once more dare to play her part among all -those people; and she was afraid of giving herself away. She would have -to make believe, to conceal her ideas, to pick her words; and she was -no longer accustomed to doing so. And all for that money. All because -she had not had the energy, living with Duco, to earn her own bread -and, gaily, independently, to cheer him in his work, in his art. Oh, -if she could only have managed to do that, how happy she would have -been! If only she had not allowed the wretched languor that was in -her blood to increase within her like a morbid growth: the languor of -her upbringing, her superficial, showy, drawing-room education, which -had unfitted her for everything whatsoever! By temperament she was a -creature of love as well as a woman of sensuousness and luxury, but -there was more of love in her than of luxury: she would be happy under -the simplest conditions if only she was able to love. And now life had -torn her away from him, gradually but inexorably. And now her sensuous, -luxurious nature was gratified, but in dependence; yet it no longer -satisfied her cravings, because she could not satisfy her soul. In -that lonely soul a miserable dissatisfaction sprang up like a riotous -growth. Her only happiness was his letters, letters of longing but -also letters of comfort. He wrote expressing his longing, but he also -wrote enjoining courage and hope. He wrote to her every day. He was -now at Florence, seeking his consolation in the Uffizi, in the Pitti -Palace. He had found it impossible to stay in Rome; the studio was now -locked up. At Florence he was a little nearer to her. And his letters -were to her a love-story, the only novel that she read; and it was as -though she saw his landscapes in his style, the same dim blending of -colour and emotion, the pearly white, misty, dreamy distances filled -with light, the horizon of his longing, as though his eyes were ever -gazing at the vista in which she, on the night of departure, had -vanished as in a mauve-grey sunset, a sky of the dreary Campagna. In -those letters they still lived together. But she could not write to -him in this strain. Though she wrote to him daily, she wrote briefly, -telling him ever the same things in other words: her longing, her weary -indifference. But she wrote of the happiness which she derived from his -letters, which were her daily bread. - -She was now with Mrs. Uxeley and occupied in the gigantic villa two -charming rooms overlooking the sea and the Promenade des Anglais. -Urania had helped her to arrange them. And she lived in an unreal -dream of strangeness, of non-existence alone with her soul, of unlived -actions and gestures, performed according to the will of others. In the -mornings she went to Mrs. Uxeley in her boudoir and read her the French -and American papers and sometimes a few pages of a French novel. She -humbly did her best. Mrs. Uxeley thought that she read very nicely, -only she said that Cornelie must cheer up a bit, that her melancholy -days were over now. Duco was never mentioned and Mrs. Uxeley behaved -as though she knew nothing. The great boudoir looked through the open -balcony windows over the sea, where, on the Promenade, the morning -stroll was already beginning, with the gaudy colours of the parasols -striking a shrill note against the deep-blue sea, an expensive sea, a -costly tide, waves that seemed to exact a mint of money before they -would consent to roll up prettily. The old lady, already painted, -bedizened and bewigged, with a white lace wrap over her wig against the -draught, lay in the black and white lace of her white silk tea-gown on -the piled-up cushions of her sofa. In her wrinkled hand she held the -lorgnette, with her initials in diamonds, through which it amused her -to peer at the shrill patches of the parasols outside. Now and then, -when her rheumatism gave a twinge, she suddenly distorted her face into -one great crease of wrinkles, under which the smooth enamel of her -make-up almost cracked, like crackle-china. In the daylight she seemed -hardly alive, looked like an automatic, jointed, stiff-limbed doll, -which spoke and moved mechanically. She was always a trifle tired in -the mornings, from never sleeping at night; after eleven she took a -little nap. She observed a strict _regime_; and her doctor, who called -daily, seemed to revive her a little every day, to enable her to hold -out until the evening. In the afternoon she drove out, alighted at the -Jetee, paid her visits. But in the evening she revived with a trace of -real life, dressed, put on her jewels and recovered her exuberance, her -little exclamations and simpers. Then came the dances, the parties, the -theatre. Then she was no more than fifty. - -But these were her good days. Sometimes, after a night of insufferable -pain, she remained in her bedroom, with yesterday's enamelling -untouched, her bald head wrapped in black lace, a black satin -bed-jacket hanging loosely around her like a sack; and she moaned -and cried and shrieked and seemed to be begging for release from her -torments. This lasted for a couple of days and occurred regularly every -three weeks, after which she gradually revived again. - -Her fussy conversation was limited to a constantly recurrent discussion -of all sorts of family-matters, with appropriate annotations. She -explained to Cornelie all the family-connections of her friends, -American and European, but she enlarged more particularly upon the -great European families which she numbered among her acquaintances. -Cornelie could never listen to what she was saying and forgot the -pedigrees again at once. It was sometimes unendurably tedious to have -to listen for so long; and only for this reason, as though she were -forced to it, Cornelie found the energy to talk a little herself, -to relate an anecdote, to tell a story. When she saw that the old -woman was very fond of anecdotes, riddles, and puns, she collected -as many as she could from the _Vie parisienne_ and the _Journal pour -rire_ and kept them ready to hand. And Mrs. Uxeley thought her very -entertaining. Once, as she noticed Duco's daily letter, she referred -to it; and Cornelie suddenly discovered that the old lady was devoured -with curiosity. Then she quietly told her the truth: her marriage, -her divorce, her independent ideas, her meeting and her life with -Duco. The old woman was a little disappointed because Cornelie spoke -so simply about it all. She merely advised her to live discreetly and -correctly now. What people said about former incidents did not matter -so very much. But there must be no occasion for gossip now. Cornelie -promised meekly. And Mrs. Uxeley showed her her albums, with her own -photographs, dating back to her young days, and the photographs of all -sorts of men. And she told her about this friend and that friend and, -vain-gloriously, allowed the suggestion of a very lurid past to peep -through. But she had always lived discreetly and correctly. That was -her pride. And what Cornelie had done was wrong.... - -The hour or so from eleven to half-past twelve was a relief. Then the -old woman regularly went to sleep--her only sleep in the twenty-four -hours--and Urania came to fetch Cornelie for a drive or a walk along -the Promenade or to sit in the Jardin Public. And it was the only -moment when Cornelie more or less appreciated her new-found luxury -and took pleasure in the gratification of her vanity. The passers-by -turned round to stare at the two young and pretty women in their -exquisite serge frocks, with their fashionable head-gear withdrawn -in the twilight of their sunshades, and admired the Princess of -Forte-Braccio's glossy victoria, irreproachable liveries and spanking -greys. - -Gilio maintained a reserved and respectful attitude towards Cornelie. -He was polite but kept a courteous distance when he joined the two -ladies for a moment in the gardens or on the Jetee. After the night -in the pergola, after the sudden flash of his angry knife, she was -afraid of him, afraid also because she had lost much of her courage -and haughtiness. But she could not answer him more coldly than she -did, because she was grateful to him as well as to Urania for the care -shown her during the first few days, for their tact in not at once -surrendering her to Mrs. Uxeley and in keeping her with them until she -had recovered some of her strength. - -In the freedom of those mornings, when she felt herself released from -the old woman--vain, selfish, insignificant, ridiculous--who was as -the caricature of her life, she felt that in Urania's friendship she -was finding herself again, she became conscious of being at Nice, -she contemplated the garish bustle around her with clearer eyes and -she lost the unreality of the first days. At such times it was as -though she saw herself again for the first time, in her light serge -walking-dress, sitting in the garden, her gloved fingers playing with -the tassels of her sunshade. She could hardly believe in herself, but -she saw herself. Deep down within herself, hidden even from Urania, she -concealed her longing, her home-sickness, her stifling discontent. She -sometimes felt ready to burst into sobs. But she listened to Urania and -joined in her laughter and talk and looked up with a smile at Gilio, -who stood in front of her, mincing to and fro on the tips of his shoes -and swinging his walking-stick behind his back. Sometimes, suddenly--as -a vision whirling through the crowd--she saw Duco, the studio, the -happiness of the past fading away for one brief moment. Then with her -finger-tips she felt his letter of that morning, between the strips -of gathered lace in front of her bolero, and just crushed the hard -envelope against her breast, as something belonging to him that was -caressing her. - -And it was not to be denied: she saw herself and Nice around her; she -became sensible of new life: it was not unreal, even though it was not -actual to her soul; it was a sorrowful comedy, in which she--dismally, -feebly, listlessly--played her part. - - - - -CHAPTER XLV - - -It was all severely regulated, as by rule, and there was no possibility -of the least alteration: everything was done in accordance with a fixed -law. The reading of the newspaper; her hour and a half to herself; -then lunch. After lunch, the drive, the Jetee, the visits; every day, -those visits and afternoon teas. Once in a way, a dinner-party; and -in the evening generally a dance, a reception or a theatre. She made -new acquaintances by the score and forgot them again at once and no -longer remembered, when she saw them again, whether she knew them or -not. As a rule people were fairly pleasant to her in that cosmopolitan -set, because they knew that she was an intimate friend of the Princess -Urania's. But, like Urania herself, she was sometimes conscious, -from the feminine bearers of the old Italian names and titles which -sometimes glittered in that set, of an overwhelming pride and contempt. -The men always asked to be introduced to her; but, whenever she asked -to be introduced to their ladies, her only reward was a nod of vague -surprise. She herself minded very little, but she felt sorry for -Urania. For she saw at once, at Urania's own parties, that they hardly -looked upon her as the hostess, that they surrounded and made much of -Gilio, but accorded to his wife no more than the civility which was her -due as Princess of Forte-Braccio, without ever forgetting that she was -once Miss Hope. And for Urania this contempt was more difficult to put -up with than for herself. For she accepted her _role_ as the companion. -She always kept an eye on Mrs. Uxeley, constantly joined her for a -minute in the course of the evening, fetched a fan which Mrs. Uxeley -had left in the next room or did her this or that trifling service. -Then she would sit down, against the wall, alone in the busily humming -drawing-room, and gaze indifferently before her. She sat, always very -smartly dressed, in an attitude of graceful indifference and weary -boredom, tapping her little foot or unfolding her fan. She took no -notice of anybody. Sometimes a couple of men would come up to her and -she spoke to them, or danced with one of them, indifferently, as though -conferring a favour. Once, when Gilio was talking to her, she sitting -and he standing, and the Duchess of Luca and Countess Costi both -came up to him and, standing, began to chaff him profusely, without -honouring her with a word or a glance, she first stared at the ladies -between her mocking lids, eyeing them from head to foot, and then rose -slowly, took Gilio's arm and, with a glance which darted sharp as a -needle from her narrowed eyes, said: - -"I beg your pardon, but you must excuse me if I rob you of the Prince -of Forte-Braccio, because I have to finish a private conversation." - -And with the pressure of her arm she made Gilio move on a few steps, -then at once sat down again, made him sit down beside her and began to -whisper with him very confidentially, while she left the duchess and -countess standing two yards away, open-mouthed with stupefaction at her -rudeness, and furthermore spread her train wide between herself and -the two ladies and waved her fan to and fro, as though to preserve a -distance. She could do this sort of thing so calmly, so tactfully and -haughtily, that Gilio was tickled to death and sat and giggled with -delight: - -"I wish Urania knew how to behave like that!" he said, pleased as a -child at the diversion which she had afforded him. - -"Urania is too nice to do anything so odious," she replied. - -She did not make herself liked, but people became afraid of her, afraid -of her quiet malice, and avoided offending her in future. Moreover, the -men thought her pretty and agreeable and were also attracted by her -haughty indifference. And, without really intending it, she achieved a -position, apparently by using the greatest diplomacy, but in reality -quite naturally and easily. While Mrs. Uxeley's egoism was flattered -by her little attentions--always dutifully remembered and paid with -a charming air of maternal solicitude, in contrast with which Mrs. -Uxeley thought it delightful to simper like a young girl--Cornelie -gradually gathered a court of men around her in the evenings; and -the women became insipidly civil. Urania often told her how clever -she thought her, how much tact she displayed. Cornelie shrugged her -shoulders; it all happened of itself; and really she did not care. But -still, gradually, she recovered some of her cheerfulness. When she saw -herself standing in the glass, she had to confess to herself that she -was better-looking than she had ever been, either as a girl or as a -newly-married woman. Her tall, slender figure had a languorous line -of pride that gave her a special grace; her throat was statelier, her -bosom fuller; her waist was slimmer in these new dresses; her hips had -become heavier, her arms more rounded; and, though her features no -longer wore the look of radiant happiness which they had worn in Rome, -her mocking smile and her negligent irony gave her a certain attraction -for those unknown men, something more alluring and provoking than the -greatest coquetry would have been. And Cornelie had not wished for -this; but, now that it came of itself, she accepted it. It was foreign -to her nature to refuse it. And, besides, Mrs. Uxeley was pleased with -her. Cornelie had such a pretty way of whispering to her: - -"Dear lady, you were in such pain yesterday. Don't you think you ought -to go home a little earlier to-night?" - -And then Mrs. Uxeley would simper like a girl who was being admonished -by her mother not to dance too much that evening. She loved these -little ways of Cornelie's; and Cornelie, with careless indifference, -gave her what she wanted. And those evenings amused her more than they -did at first; only, the amusement was combined with self-reproach as -soon as she thought of Duco, of their separation, of Rome, of the -studio, of the happiness of those past days, which she had lost through -her lack of fortitude. - - - - -CHAPTER XLVI - - -Two months had passed like this. It was January; and these were busy -days for Cornelie, because Mrs. Uxeley was soon to give one of her -celebrated evenings and Cornelie's free hours in the morning were now -taken up with running all sorts of errands. Urania generally drove with -her; and she came to rely upon Urania. They had to go to upholsterers, -to pastry-cooks, to florists and to jewellers, where Cornelie and -Urania selected presents for the cotillon. Mrs. Uxeley never went out -for this, but occupied herself with every trifling indoor detail; and -there were endless discussions, followed by more drives to the shops, -for the old lady was anything but easy to please, vain as she was -of her fame as a hostess and afraid of losing it through the least -omission. - -During one of these drives, as the victoria was turning into the Avenue -de la Gare, Cornelie started so violently that she clutched Urania's -arm and could not restrain an exclamation. Urania asked her what she -had seen, but she was unable to speak and Urania made her get out at a -confectioner's to drink a glass of water. She was very nearly fainting -and looked deathly pale. She was not able to continue her errands; and -they drove back to Mrs. Uxeley's villa. The old lady was displeased at -this sudden fainting-fit and grumbled so that Urania went off alone to -complete the errands. After lunch, however, Cornelie felt better, made -her apologies and accompanied Mrs. Uxeley to an afternoon tea. - -Next day, when she was sitting with Mrs. Uxeley and a couple of -friends on the Jetee, she seemed to see the same thing again. She -turned as white as a sheet, but retained her composure and laughed and -talked merrily. - -These were the days of the preparations. The date of the entertainment -drew nearer; and at last the evening arrived. Mrs. Uxeley was trembling -with nervousness like a young girl and found the necessary strength -to walk through the whole villa, which was all light and flowers. And -with a sigh of satisfaction she sat down for a moment. She was dressed. -Her face was smooth as porcelain, her hair was waved and glittered -with diamond pins. Her gown of pale-blue brocade was cut very low; and -she gleamed like a reliquary. A triple rope of priceless pearls hung -down to her waist. In her hand--she was not yet gloved--she held a -gold-knobbed cane, which was indispensable when she wanted to rise. -And it was only when she rose that she showed her age, when she worked -herself erect by muscular efforts, with that look of pain in her face, -with that twinge of rheumatism which shot through her. Cornelie, not -yet dressed, after a last glance through the villa, blazing with light, -swooning with flowers, hurried to her room and, already feeling tired, -dropped into the chair in front of her dressing-table, to have her -hair done quickly. She was just ready when the first guests arrived -and she hastened to join Mrs. Uxeley. And the carriages rolled up. -Cornelie, at the top of the monumental staircase, looked down into the -hall, where the people were streaming in, the ladies in their long -evening-wraps--almost more expensive even than their dresses--which -they carefully gave up in the crowded, buzzing cloakroom. And the -first arrivals came up the stairs, waiting so as not to be the very -first, and were beamed upon by Mrs. Uxeley. The drawing-rooms soon -filled. In addition to the reception-rooms, the hostess' own rooms were -thrown open, forming in all a suite of twelve apartments. Whereas the -corridors and stairs were adorned only with clumps of red and white and -pink camellias, in the rooms the floral decorations were contained in -hundreds of vases and bowls and dishes, which stood about on every hand -and, with the light of the shaded candles, gave an intimate charm to -the entertainment. That was the speciality of Mrs. Uxeley's decorations -on great occasions: the electric light not used; instead, on every -hand candles with little shades, on every hand glasses and bowls -full of flowers, giving the effect of a fairy garden. Though perhaps -the main outlines were broken, a most charming effect of cosiness -was gained. Small groups and couples could find a place everywhere: -behind a screen, in a loggia; you constantly found a spot for privacy; -and this perhaps explained the _vogue_ of Mrs. Uxeley's parties. The -villa, suitable for giving a court ball, was used only for giving -entertainments of a luxurious intimate character to hundreds of people -who were quite unknown to one another. Each little set chose itself a -little corner, where it made itself at home. A very tiny boudoir, all -in Japanese lacquer and Japanese silk, was aimed at generally, but was -at once captured by Gilio, the Contessa di Rosavilla, the Duchessa -di Luca and Contessa Costi. They did not even go to the music-room, -where a concert formed the first item. Paderewski was playing, Sigrid -Arnoldson was to sing. The music-room also was lighted by shaded -candles; and everybody whispered that, in this soft light, Airs. Uxeley -did not look a day over forty. During the interval she simpered to two -very young journalists who were to describe her party Urania, sitting -beside Cornelie, was addressed by a Frenchman whom she introduced to -her friend: the Chevalier de Breuil. Cornelie knew that Urania had -met him at Ostend and that his name was coupled with the Princess of -Forte-Braccio's. Urania had never mentioned De Breuil to her, but -Cornelie now saw, by her smile, her blush and the sparkle in her eyes, -that people were right. She left them to themselves, feeling sad when -she thought of Urania. She understood that the little princess was -consoling herself for her husband's neglect; and she suddenly thought -this whole life of make-believe disgusting. She longed for Rome, for -the studio, for Duco, for independence, love and happiness. She had had -it all; but it had been fated not to endure. Everything around her was -like one great lie, more brilliant than at the Hague, but even more -false, brutal and depraved. People no longer even pretended to believe -the lie: here they showed a brutal sincerity. The lie was respected, -but nobody believed in it, nobody put forward the lie as a truth; the -lie was nothing more than a form. - -Cornelie wandered through the rooms by herself, went up to Mrs. Uxeley -for a moment, in accordance with her habit, whispered to ask how she -felt, whether she wanted anything, if everything was going well, then -continued on her way through the rooms. She was standing by a vase, -rearranging some orchids, when a woman in black velvet, fair-haired, -with a full throat and bosom, spoke to her in English: - -"I am Mrs. Holt. I dare say you don't know my name, but I know yours. I -very much want to make your acquaintance. I have often been to Holland -and I read Dutch a little. I read your pamphlet on _The Social Position -of Divorced Women_ and I thought a good deal of what you wrote most -interesting." - -"You are very kind. Shall we sit down? I remember your name too. You -were one of the leaders of the Women's Congress in London, were you -not?" - -"Yes, I spoke about the training of children. Weren't you able to come -to London?" - -"No, I did think about it, but I was in Rome at the time and I couldn't -manage it." - -"That was a pity. The congress was a great step forward. If your -pamphlet had been translated then and distributed, you would have had a -great success." - -"I care very little for success of that kind." - -"Of course, I can understand that. But the success of your book is also -for the good of the great cause." - -"Do you really mean that? Is there any merit in my little book?" - -"Do you doubt it?" - -"Very often." - -"How is that possible? It is written with such a sure touch." - -"Perhaps just for that reason." - -"I don't understand you. There's a vagueness sometimes about Dutch -people which we English don't understand, something like a reflection -of your beautiful skies in your character." - -"Do you never doubt? Do you feel sure of your ideas on the training of -children?" - -"I have studied children in schools, in _creches_ and in their homes -and I have acquired very decided ideas. And I work in accordance with -these ideas for the people of the future. I will send you my pamphlet, -containing the gist of my speeches at the congress. Are you working on -another pamphlet now?" - -"No, I regret to say." - -"Why not? We must all fight shoulder to shoulder, if we are to -conquer." - -"I believe I have said all that I had to say. I wrote what I did on -impulse, from personal experience. And then...." - -"Yes?" - -"Then things changed. All women are different and I never approved of -generalizing. And do you believe that there are _many_ women who can -work for a universal object with a man's thoroughness, when they have -found a lesser object for themselves, a small happiness, such as a love -to satisfy their own _ego_, in which they can be happy? Don't you think -that every woman has slumbering inside her a selfish craving for her -own love and happiness and that, when she has found this, the outside -world and the future cease to interest her?" - -"Possibly. But so few women find it." - -"I believe there are not many. But that is another question. And I do -believe that an interest in universal questions is a _pis-aller_ with -most women." - -"You have become an apostate. You speak quite differently from what you -wrote a year ago." - -"Yes, I have become very humble, because I am more sincere. Of course -I believe in certain women, in certain choice spirits. But would the -majority not always remain feminine, just women and weak?" - -"Not with a sensible training." - -"Yes, I believe that it lies in that, in the training...." - -"Of the child, of the girl." - -"I believe that I have never been educated and that this constitutes my -weakness." - -"Our girls should be told when still very young of the struggle that -lies before them." - -"You are right. We--my friends, my sisters and I--had the 'safety' of -marriage impressed upon us at the earliest possible moment. Do you -know whom I think the most to be pitied? Our parents! They honestly -believed that they were having us taught all that was necessary. And -now, at this moment, they must see that they did not divine the future -correctly and that their training, their education, was no education at -all, because they failed to inform their children of the struggle which -was being waged right before their eyes. It is our parents that are to -be pitied. They can mend nothing now. They see us--girls, young women -of twenty to thirty--overwhelmed by life; and they have not given us -the strength for it. They kept us sheltered as long as possible under -the paternal wing; and then they began to think of our marriage, not in -order to get rid of us, but with a view to our happiness, our safety -and our future. We are indeed unfortunate, we girls and women who were -not, like our younger sisters, told of the struggle that lay just -before us; but I believe that we may still have hope in our youth and -that our parents are unhappier and more to be pitied than we, because -they have nothing more to hope for and because they _must_ secretly -confess that they went astray in their love for their children. They -were still educating us according to the past, while the future was -already so near at hand. I pity our parents and I could almost love -them better for that reason than I ever did before." - - - - -CHAPTER XLVII - - -She had suddenly turned very pale, as though under the stress of a -sudden emotion. She covered her face with her fluttering fan and her -fingers trembled violently; her whole body shuddered. - -"That is well thought on your part," said Mrs. Holt. "I am glad to have -met you. I always find a certain charm in Dutch people: that vagueness, -which we are unable to seize, and then all at once a light that flashes -out of a cloud ... I hope to see you again. I am at home on Tuesdays, -at five o'clock. Will you come one day with Mrs. Uxeley?" - -Mrs. Holt pressed her hand and disappeared among the other guests. -Cornelie had risen from her chair, while her knees seemed to give way -beneath her. She remained standing, half-turned towards the room, -looking in the glass; and her fingers played with the orchids in a -Venetian vase on the console-table. She was still rather pale, but -controlled herself, though her heart was beating loudly and her breast -heaving. And she looked in the glass. She saw first her own figure, her -beautiful slender outline, in her dress of white and black Chantilly, -with the white-lace train, foaming with flounces, the black-lace tunic -with the scalloped border and sprinkled with steel spangles and blue -stones, a spray of orchids in the sleeveless _corsage_, which left -her neck and arms and shoulders bare. Her hair was bound with three -Greek fillets of pearls; and her fan of white feathers--a present from -Urania--was like froth against her throat. She saw herself first and -then, in the mirror, she saw _him_. He was coming nearer to her. She -did not move, only her fingers played with the flowers in the vase. She -felt as though she wished to take flight, but her knees gave way and -her feet were paralysed. She stood rooted to the floor, hypnotized. -She was unable to stir. And she saw him come nearer and nearer, while -her back remained half-turned to the room. He approached; and his -appearance seemed to fling out a net in which she was caught. He was -close by her now, close behind her. Mechanically she raised her eyes -and looked in the glass and met his eyes in the mirror. She thought -that she would faint. She felt squeezed between him and the glass. In -the mirror the room went round and round, the candles whirled giddily -like a reeling firmament. He did not say anything yet. She only saw his -eyes gazing and his mouth smiling under his moustache. And he still -said nothing. Then, in that unendurable lack of space between him and -the mirror, which did not even give shelter as a wall would have done, -but which reflected him so that he held her twice imprisoned, behind -and before, she turned round slowly and looked him in the eyes. But she -did not speak either. They stared at each other without a word. - -"You never expected this: that you would see me here one day," he said, -at last. - -It was more than a year since she had heard his voice. But she felt his -voice inside her. - -"No," she answered, at last, haughtily, coldly, distantly. "Though I -saw you once or twice, in the street, on the Jetee." - -"Yes," he said. "Should I have bowed to you, do you think?" - -She shrugged her bare shoulders; and he looked at them. She felt for -the first time that she was half-naked that evening. - -"No," she replied, still coldly and distantly. "Any more than you need -have spoken to me now." - -He smiled at her. He stood before her as a wall. He stood before her as -a man. His head, his shoulders, his chest, his legs, his whole stature -rose before her as manhood incarnate. - -"Of course I needn't have done so," he said; and she felt his voice -inside her: she felt his voice sinking in her like molten bronze into a -mould. "If I had met you somewhere in Holland, I would only have taken -off my hat and not spoken to you. But we are in a foreign country...." - -"What difference does that make?" - -"I felt I should like to speak to you.... I wanted to have a talk with -you. Can't we do that as strangers?" - -"As strangers?" she echoed. - -"Oh, well, we're not strangers: we even know each other uncommonly -intimately, eh?... Come and sit down and tell me about yourself. Did -you like Rome?" - -"Yes," she said. - -He had led her as though with his will to a couch behind a half-damask, -half-glass, Louis-XV screen; and she dropped down upon it in a rosy -twilight of candles, with bunches of pink roses around her in all -sorts of Venetian glasses. He sat on an ottoman, bending towards her -slightly, with his arms on his knees and his hands folded together: - -"They've been gossiping about you finely at the Hague. First about your -pamphlet ... and then about your painter." - -Her eyes pierced him like needles. He laughed: - -"You can look just as angry as ever.... Tell me, do you ever hear from -the old people? They're in a bad way." - -"Now and then. I was able to send them some money lately." - -"That's damned good of you. They don't deserve it. They said that you -no loiter existed for them." - -"Mamma wrote that they were so pushed for money. Then I sent them a -hundred guilders. It was the most that I could do." - -"Oh, now that they find you sending them money, you'll begin to exist -for them again!" - -She shrugged her shoulders: - -"I don't mind that. I was sorry for them ... and sorry I couldn't send -more." - -"Ah, when you look so thundering smart...." - -"I don't pay for my clothes." - -"I'm only stating a fact. I'm not venturing to criticize. I think it -damned handsome of you to send them money. But you do look thundering -smart. ... Look here, let me tell you something: you've become a damned -handsome girl." - -He stared at her, with his smile, which compelled her to look at him. - -Then she replied, very calmly, waving her fan lightly in front of her -bare neck, sheltering in the foam of her fan: - -"I'm damned glad to hear it!" - -He gave a loud, throaty laugh: - -"There, I like that! You've still got your witty sense of repartee. -Always to the point. Damned clever of you!" - -She stood up strained and nervous - -"I must leave you. I must go to Mrs. Uxeley." - -He spread out his arms: - -"Stay and sit with me a little longer. It does me good to talk to you." - -"Then restrain yourself a bit and don't 'damn' quite so much. I've not -been used to it lately." - -"I'll do my best. Sit down." - -She fell back and hid herself behind her fan. - -"Let me tell you that you have positively become a very ... a very -beautiful woman. Now is _that_ like a compliment?" - -"It sounds more like one." - -"Well, it's the best I can do, you know. So you must make the most of -it. And now tell me about Rome. How were you living there?" - -"Why should I tell you about it?" - -"Because I'm interested." - -"You have no need to be interested." - -"I dare say, but I happen to be. I've never quite forgotten you. And I -should be surprised if you had me." - -"I have, quite," she said, coolly. - -He looked at her, with his smile. He said nothing, but she felt that he -knew better. She was afraid to convince him further. - -"Is it true, what they say at the Hague? About Van der Staal?" - -She looked at him haughtily. - -"Come, out with it!" - -"Yes." - -"You _are_ a cheeky baggage! Do you no longer care a straw for the -whole boiling of them?" - -"No." - -"And how do you manage here, with this old hag?" - -"What do you mean?" - -"Do they just accept you here, at Nice?" - -"I don't brag about my independence; and no one is able to comment on -my conduct here." - -"Where is Van der Staal?" - -"At Florence." - -"Why isn't he here?" - -"I'm not going to answer any more questions. You are indiscreet. It has -nothing to do with you and I won't be cross-examined." - -She was very nervous again and once more rose to her feet. He spread -out his arms. - -"Really, Rudolph, you must let me go," she entreated. "I have to go to -Mrs. Uxeley. They are to dance a pavane in the ball-room and I have to -ask for instructions and hand them on. Let me pass." - -"Then I'll take you there. Let me offer you my arm." - -"Rudolph, do go away! Don't you see how you're upsetting me? This -meeting has been so unexpected. Do let me go, or I sha'n't be able to -control myself. I'm going to cry.... Why did you speak to me, why did -you speak to me, why did you come here, where you knew that you would -meet me?" - -"Because I wanted to see one of Mrs. Uxeley's parties and because I -wanted to meet you." - -"You must understand that it upsets me to see you again. What good does -it do you? We are dead to each other. Why should you want to pester me -like this?" - -"That's just what I wanted to know, whether we are dead to each -other...." - -"Dead, dead, quite dead!" she cried, vehemently. - -He laughed: - -"Come, don't be so theatrical. You can understand that I was curious -to sec you again and talk to you. I used to see you in the street, in -your carriage, on the Jetee; and I was pleased to find you looking so -well, so smart, so happy and so handsome. You know that good-looking -women are my great hobby. You are much better-looking than you used -to be when you were my wife. If you had been then what you are now, I -should never have allowed you to divorce me.... Come, don't be a child. -No one knows here. I think it damned jolly to meet you here, to have a -good old yarn with you and to have you leaning on my arm. Take my arm. -Don't make a fuss and I'll take you where you want to go. Where shall -we find Mrs. Uxeley? Introduce me ... as a friend from Holland...." - -"Rudolph...." - -"Oh, I insist: don't bother! There's nothing in it! It amuses me and -it's no end of a lark to walk about with one's divorced wife at a ball -at Nice. A delightful town, isn't it? I go to Monte Carlo every day and -I've been damned lucky. Won three thousand francs yesterday. Will you -come with me one day?" - -"You're mad?" - -"I'm not mad at all. I want to enjoy myself. And I'm proud to have you -on my arm." - -She withdrew her arm: - -"Well, you needn't be." - -"Now don't get spiteful. That's all rot: let's enjoy ourselves. There -is the old girl: she's looking at you." - -She had passed through some of the rooms on his arm; and they saw, -near a tombola, round which people were crowding to draw presents -and surprises, Mrs. Uxeley, Gilio and the Rosavilla, Costi and Luca -ladies. They were all very gay round the pyramid of knick-knacks, -behaving like children when the number of one of them turned up on the -roulette-wheel. - -"Mrs. Uxeley," Cornelie began, in a trembling voice, "may I introduce a -fellow-countryman of mine? Baron Brox." - -Mrs. Uxeley simpered, uttered a few amiable words and asked if he -wouldn't draw a number. - -The roulette-wheel spun round and round. - -"A fellow-countryman, Cornelie?" - -"Yes, Mrs. Uxeley." - -"What do you say his name is?" - -"Baron Brox." - -"A splendid fellow! A handsome fellow! An astonishingly handsome -fellow!... What is he? What does he do?" - -"He's in the army, a first lieutenant...." - -"In which regiment?" - -"In the hussars." - -"At the Hague?" - -"Yes." - -"An amazingly good-looking fellow! I like those tall, fine men." - -"Mrs. Uxeley, is everything going as it should?" - -"Yes, darling." - -"Do you feel all right?" - -"I have a little pain, but nothing to speak about." - -"Won't it soon be time for the pavane?" - -"Yes, see that the girls go and get dressed. Has the hairdresser -brought the wigs for the young men?" - -"Yes." - -"Then go and collect them and tell them to hurry up. They must be ready -within half an hour...." - -Rudolph Brox returned from the tombola, where he had drawn a silver -match-box. He thanked Mrs. Uxeley, who simpered, and, when he saw that -Cornelie was moving away, he went after her: - -"Cornelie...." - -"Please, Rudolph, let me be. I have to collect the girls and the men -for the pavane. I have a lot to do...." - -"I'll help you...." - -She beckoned to a girl or two and sent a couple of footmen to hunt -through the room for the young men and to ask them to go to the -dressing-room. He saw that she was pale and trembling all over her body: - -"What's the matter?" - -"I'm tired." - -"Then let's go and get something to drink." - -She was numb with nervousness. The music of the invisible band -boom-boomed fiercely against her brain; and at times the innumerable -candles whirled before her eyes like a reeling firmament. The rooms -were choked with people. They crowded and laughed aloud and showed -one another their presents; the men trod on the ladies' trains. An -intoxicating, suffocating fragrance of flowers, the atmosphere peculiar -to crowded functions and the warm, perfumed odour of women's flesh -hung in the rooms like a cloud. Cornelie hunted hither and thither and -at last collected all the girls. The ballet-master came to ask her -something. A butler came to ask her something. And Brox did not budge -from her side: - -"Let's go now and get something to drink," he said. - -She mechanically took his arm; and her hand trembled on the sleeve of -his dress-coat. He pushed his way with her through the crowd; they -passed Urania and De Breuil. Urania said something which Cornelie did -not catch. The refreshment-room also was chock-full and buzzed with -loud, laughing voices. Behind the long tables stood the butler, like -a minister, supervising the whole service. There was no crowding, -no fighting for a glass of wine or a sandwich. People waited until a -footman brought it on a tray. - -"It's very well managed," said Brox. "Do you do all this?" - -"No, it's been done like this for years...." - -She dropped into a chair, looking very pale. - -"What will you have?" - -"A glass of champagne." - -"I'm hungry. I had a bad dinner at my hotel. I must have something to -eat." - -He ordered the champagne for her. He ate first a patty, then another, -then a _chateaubriant_ and peas. He drank two glasses of claret, -followed by a glass of champagne. The footman brought him everything, -dish by dish, on a silver tray. His handsome, virile face was brick-red -in colour with health and animal strength. The stiff hair on his round, -heavy skull was cropped quite close. His large grey eyes were bright -and laughing, with a straight, impudent glance. A heavy, well-tended -moustache curled over his mouth, in which the white teeth gleamed. -He stood with his legs slightly astraddle, firm and soldierly in his -dress-coat, which he wore with an easy correctness. He ate slowly and -with relish, enjoying his good glass of fine wine. - -Mechanically she now watched him, from her chair. She had drunk a glass -of champagne and asked for another; and the stimulant revived her. Her -cheeks recovered some of their colour; her eyes sparkled. - -"They do you damn well here," he said, coming up to her with his glass -in his hand. - -And he emptied his glass. - -"They are going to dance the pavane almost at once," she murmured. - -And they passed through the crowded rooms, to a big corridor outside, -which looked like an avenue of camellia-shrubs. They were alone for a -moment. - -"This is where the dancers are to meet." - -"Then let's wait for them. It's nice and cool out here." - -They sat down on a bench. - -"Are you feeling better?" he asked. "You were so queer in the -ball-room." - -"Yes, I'm better." - -"Don't you think it's fun to meet your old husband again?" - -"Rudolph, I don't understand how you can talk to me like that and -persecute me and tease me ... after everything that has happened...." - -"Oh, well, all that has happened and is done with!" - -"Do you think it's discreet on your part ... or delicate?" - -"No, neither discreet nor delicate. Those, you know, are things I've -never been: you used to fling that in my face often enough, in the -old days. But, if it's not delicate, it's amusing. Have you lost your -sense of humour? It's damn jolly humorous, our meeting here.... And now -listen to me. You and I are divorced. All right. That's so in the eyes -of the law. But a legal divorce is a matter of law and form, for the -benefit of society. As regards money affairs and so on. We've been too -much husband and wife not to feel something for each other at a later -meeting, such as this. Yes, yes, I know what you want to say. It's -simply untrue. You have been too much in love with me and I with you -for everything between us to be dead. I remember everything still. And -you must do the same. Do you remember when...?" - -He laughed, pushed nearer to her and whispered close to her ear. She -felt his breath thrilling her on her flesh like a warm breeze. She -flushed crimson with nervous distress. And she felt with her whole body -that he had been her husband and that he had entered into her very -blood. His voice ran like molten bronze along her nerves of hearing, -deep down within her. She knew him, through and through. She knew his -eyes, his mouth. She knew his broad, well-kept hands, with the large -round nails and the dark signetring, as they lay on his knees, which -showed square and powerful under the crease in his dress-trousers. And -she felt, like a sudden despair, that she knew and felt him in her -whole body. However rough he might have been to her in the old days, -however much he had ill-treated her, striking her with his clenched -fist, banging her against the wall ... she had been his wife. She, a -virgin, had become his wife, had been initiated into womanhood by him. -And she felt that he had branded her as his own, she felt it in her -blood and in the marrow of her bones. She confessed to herself that -she had never forgotten him. During the first lonely days in Rome, she -had longed for his kisses, she had thought of him, had conjured up his -virile image before her mind, had persuaded herself to believe that, by -exercising tact and patience and a little management, she could have -remained his wife.... - -Then the great happiness had come, the gentle happiness of perfect -harmony!... - -It all flashed through her like lightning. - -Oh, in that great, gentle happiness she had been able to forget -everything, she had not felt the past within her! But she now felt that -the past always remained, irrevocably and indelibly. She had been his -wife and she held him still in her blood. She felt it now with every -breath that she drew. She was indignant because he dared to whisper -about the old days, in her ear; but it had been all as he said, -irrevocably, indelibly. - -"Rudolph!" she entreated, clasping her hands together. "Spare me!" - -She almost screamed it, in a cry of fear and despair. But he laughed -and with one hand seized both hers, clasped in entreaty: - -"If you go on like that, if you look at me so beseechingly with those -beautiful eyes, I won't spare you even here and I'll kiss you until...." - -His words swept over her like a scorching wind. But laughing voices -approached; and two girls and two young men, dressed up, for the -pavane, as Henri IV and Marguerite de Valois, came running down the -stairs: - -"What's become of the others?" they cried, looking round in the -staircase. - -And they came dancing up to Cornelie. The ballet-master also -approached. She did not understand what he said: - -"Where are the others?" she repeated, mechanically, in a hoarse voice. - -"Here they come.... Now we're all there...." - -They were all talking and laughing and glittering and buzzing -about her. She summoned up all her poor strength and issued a few -instructions. The guests streamed into the great ball-room, sat down -in the front chairs, crowded together in the corners. The pavane was -danced in the middle of the room, to an old trailing melody: a long, -winding curve of graceful steps, deep bows and satin gleaming with -sudden lustre like that of porcelain ... with the occasional flutter of -a cape ... and a flash of light on a rapier. - - - - -CHAPTER XLVIII - - -"Urania, I beseech you, help me!" - -"What is it?" - -"Come with me...." - -She had seized Urania by the hand and dragged her away from De Breuil -into one of the deserted rooms. The suite of rooms was almost entirely -deserted; the dense throng of guests stood packed along the sides of -the great ball-room to watch the pavane. - -"What is it, Cornelie?" - -Cornelie was trembling in every limb and clutching Urania's arm. She -drew her to the farthest comer of the room. There was no one there. - -"Urania," she entreated, in a supreme crisis of nervousness, "help -me! What am I to do? I have met him unexpectedly. Don't you know -whom I mean? My husband. My divorced husband. I had seen him once or -twice before, in the street and on the Jetee. The time when I was so -startled, you know, when I almost fainted: that was because of him. -And he has been talking to me now, here, a moment ago. And I'm afraid -of him. He spoke quite nicely, said he wanted to talk to me. It was -so strange. Everything was finished between us. We were divorced. And -suddenly I meet him and he speaks to me and asks me what sort of time I -have had, tells me that I am looking well, that I have grown beautiful. -Tell me, Urania, what I am to do. I'm frightened. I'm ill with anxiety. -I want to get away. I should like best to go away at once, to Florence, -to Duco. I am so frightened, Urania I want to go to my room. Tell Mrs. -Uxeley that I want to go to my room." - -She hardly knew what she was saying. The words fell incoherently from -her lips, as in a fever. Men's voices approached. They were those of -Gilio, De Breuil, the Duke of Luca and the young journalists, the two -who were pushing their way into society. - -"What is the Signora de Retz doing?" asked the duke. "We are missing -her everywhere." - -And the young journalists, standing in the shadow of these eminent -noblemen, confirmed the statement: they had been missing her everywhere. - -"Fetch Mrs. Uxeley here," Urania whispered to Gilio. "Cornelie is ill, -I think. I can't leave her here alone. She wants to go to her room. -It's better that Mrs. Uxeley should know, else she might be angry." - -Cornelie was jesting nervously, in feverish gaiety, with the duke and -with De Breuil and the journalists. - -"Would you rather I took you straight to Mrs. Uxeley?" Gilio whispered. - -"I want to go to my room!" she whispered, in a voice of entreaty, -behind her fan. - -The pavane appeared to be over. The buzz of voices reached them, as -though the guests were scattering about the rooms again. - -"I see Mrs. Uxeley," said Gilio. - -He went up to her, spoke to her. She simpered at first, leaning on the -gold knob of her cane. Then her wrinkles became angrily contracted. -She crossed the room. Cornelie went on jesting with the duke; the -journalists thought every word witty. - -"Aren't you well?" whispered Mrs. Uxeley, going up to her, ruffled. -"What about the cotillon?" - -"I will see to everything, Mrs. Uxeley," said Urania. - -"Impossible, dear princess; and I shouldn't dream of letting you -either." - -"Introduce me to your friend, Cornelie," said a deep voice behind -Cornelie. - -She felt that voice like bronze inside her body. She turned round -automatically. It was he. She seemed unable to escape him. And, under -his glance, as though hypnotized, she appeared, very strangely, to -recover her strength. It seemed as though he were willing her not to be -ill. She murmured: - -"Urania, may I introduce ... a fellow-country-man?... Baron Brox ... -Principessa di Forte-Braccio...." - -Urania knew his name, knew who he was: - -"Darling," she whispered to Cornelie, "let me take you to your room. -I'll see to everything." - -"It's no longer necessary," she said. "I'm much better. I only want a -glass of champagne. I am much better, Mrs. Uxeley." - -"Why did you run away from me?" asked Rudolph - -Brox, with his smile and his eyes in Cornelie's eyes. She smiled and -said the first thing that came into her head. - -"The dancing has begun," said Mrs. Uxeley. "But who's going to lead my -cotillon presently?" - -"If I can be of any service, Mrs. Uxeley," said Brox, "I have some -little talent as a cotillon-leader." - -Mrs. Uxeley was delighted. It was arranged that De Breuil and Urania, -Gilio and Countess Costi and Brox and Cornelie should lead the figures -in turns. - -"You poor darling!" Urania said in Cornelie's ear. "Can you manage it?" - -Cornelie smiled: - -"Yes, yes, I'm all right again," she whispered. And she moved towards -the ball-room on Brox' arm. Urania stared after her in amazement. - - - - -CHAPTER XLIX - - -It was twelve o'clock when Cornelie woke that morning. The sun was -piercing the golden slit in the half-parted curtains with tiny eddying -atoms. She felt dog-tired. She remembered that Mrs. Uxeley, on the -morning after one of these parties, left her free to rest: the old lady -herself stayed in bed, although she did not sleep. And Cornelie lacked -the smallest capacity to rise. She remained lying where she was, heavy -with fatigue. Her eyes wandered through the untidy room her handsome -ball-dress, hanging listlessly, limply over a chair, at once reminded -her of yesterday. For that matter, everything in her was thinking of -yesterday, everything in her was thinking of her husband, with a tense, -hypnotized consciousness. She felt as if she were recovering from a -nightmare, a bout of drunkenness, a swoon. It was only by drinking -glass after glass of champagne that she had been able to keep going, -had been able to dance with Brox, had been able to lead the figure when -their turn came. But it was not only the champagne. His eyes also had -held her up, had prevented her from fainting, from bursting into sobs, -from screaming and waving her arms like a madwoman. When he had taken -his leave, when everybody had gone, she had collapsed in a heap and -been taken to bed. The moment she was no longer under his eyes, she -had felt her misery and her weakness; and the champagne had as it were -suddenly clouded her brain. - -Now she lay thinking of him in the dejected slackness of her -overwhelming morning fatigue. And it seemed to her as if her whole -Italian year had been an interlude, a dream. She saw herself at the -Hague again, with her pretty little face and her little flirting ways -and her phrases always to the point. She saw their first meetings and -how she had at once fallen under his influence and been unable to flirt -with him, because he laughed at her little feminine defences. He had -been too strong for her from the first. Then came their engagement. He -laid down the law and she rebelled, angrily, with violent scenes, not -wishing to be controlled, injured in her pride as a girl who had always -been spoiled and made much of. And then he subdued her as though with -the rude strength of his fist--and always with a laugh on his handsome -mouth--until they were married, until she created a scandal and ran -away. He had refused to be divorced at first, but had consented later, -because of the scandal. She had freed herself, she had fled!... - -The feminist movement, Italy, Duco.... Was it a dream? Was the great -happiness, the delightful harmony, a dream, and was she waking after -a year of dreams? Was she divorced or was she not? She had to make an -effort to remember the formalities: yes, they were legally divorced. -But _was_ she divorced, was everything over between them? And _was_ she -really no longer his wife? - -Why had he done it, why had he pursued her after seeing her once at -Nice? Oh, he had told her, during that cotillon, that endless cotillon! -He had become proud of her when he saw how beautiful she was and how -smart, how happy she looked driving in Mrs. Uxeley's or the princess' -elegant victoria; it was then that he had seen her, beautiful, smart -and happy; and he had grown jealous. She, a beautiful woman, had been -his wife! He felt that he had a right to her, notwithstanding the law. -What was the law? Had the law taught her womanhood or had he? And he -had made her feel his right, together with the irrevocable past. It was -all irrevocable and indelible.... - -She looked about her, at her wits' end what to do. And she began to -weep, to sob. Then she felt something gaining strength within her, the -instinctive rebellion that leapt up within her like a spring which -had at length recovered its resilience, now that she was resting and -no longer under his eyes. She would not. She would not. She refused -to feel him in her blood. Should she meet him once more, she would -speak to him calmly, very curtly, and order him to leave her, show -him the door, have him put out of the door.... She clenched her fists -with rage. She hated him. She thought of Duco.... And she thought -of writing to him, telling him everything. And she thought of going -back to him as quickly as possible. He was not a dream, he existed, -even though he was living so far away, at Florence. She had saved a -little money, they would find their happiness again in the studio in -Rome. She would write to him; and she wanted to get away as quickly -as possible. With Duco she would be safe. Oh, how she longed for him, -to lie so softly and quietly and blissfully in his arms, against his -breast, as in the embrace of a miraculous happiness! Was it all true, -their happiness, their love and harmony? Yes, it had existed, it was -not a dream. There was his photograph; there, on the wall, were two of -his water-colours--the sea at Sorrento and the skies over Amalfi--done -in those days which had been like poems. She would be safer with him. -When she was with Duco, she would not feel Rudolph, her husband, -in her blood. For she felt Duco in her soul; and her soul would be -the stronger! She would feel Duco in her soul, in her heart, in all -the most fervent part of her life and gather from him her uppermost -strength, like a sheaf of gleaming swordblades! Already now, when she -thought of him with such longing, she felt herself growing stronger. -She could have spoken to Brox now. Yesterday he had taken her by -surprise, had squeezed her between himself and that looking-glass, till -she had seen him double and lost her wits and been defeated. That would -never happen again. That was only due to the surprise. If she spoke to -him again now, _she_ would triumph, thanks to what she had learnt as a -woman who stood on her own feet. - -And she got up and opened the windows and put on her dressing-gown. She -looked at the blue sea, at the motley traffic on the Promenade. And she -sat down and wrote to Duco. She told him everything: her first startled -meeting, her surprise and defeat at the ball. Her pen flew over the -paper. She did not hear the knock at the door, did not hear Urania -come carefully, fearing lest she should still be asleep and anxious to -know how she felt. Excitedly she read out part of her letter and said -that she was ashamed of her weakness of yesterday. How she could have -behaved like that she herself was unable to understand. - -No, she herself could not understand it. Now that she felt somewhat -rested and was speaking to Urania, who reminded her of Rome, and -holding her long letter to Duco in her hand ... now she herself did not -understand it all and wondered which had been a dream: her Italian year -of happiness or that nightmare of yesterday.... - - - - -CHAPTER L - - -She stayed at home for a day, feeling tired and, deep down within -herself, almost unconsciously, afraid, in spite of all, of meeting him. -But Mrs. Uxeley, who would never hear of illness or fatigue, was so -much put out that Cornelie accompanied her next day to the Promenade -des Anglais. Friends came up to talk to them and gathered round -their chairs, with Rudolph Brox among them. But Cornelie avoided any -confidential conversation. - -Some days later, however, he called on Mrs. Uxeley's at-home day; and, -amid the crowd of visitors paying duty-calls after the party, he was -able to speak to her for a moment alone. He came up to her with that -laugh of his, as though his eyes were laughing, as though his moustache -were laughing. And she collected all her thoughts, so that she might be -firm with him: - -"Rudolph," she said, loftily, "it is simply ridiculous. If you don't -think it indelicate, you might at least try to think it ridiculous. It -tickles your sense of humour, but imagine what people would say about -it in Holland!... The other evening, at the party, you took me by -surprise and somehow--I really don't know how it happened--I yielded to -your strange wish to dance with me and to lead the cotillon. I frankly -confess, I was confused. I now see everything clearly and plainly and -I tell you this: I refuse to meet you again. I refuse to speak to you -again. I refuse to turn the solemn earnest of our divorce into a farce." - -"If you look back," he said, "you will recollect that you never got -anything out of me with that lofty tone and those dignified airs, -but that, on the contrary, you just stimulate me to do what you don't -want...." - -"If that is so, I shall simply tell Mrs. Uxeley in what relation I -stand to you and ask her to forbid you her house." - -He laughed. She lost her temper: - -"Do you intend to behave like a gentleman or like a cad?" - -He turned red and clenched his fists: - -"Curse you!" he hissed, in his moustache. - -"Perhaps you would like to hit me and knock me about?" she continued, -scornfully. - -He mastered himself. - -"We are in a room full of people," she sneered, defiantly. "What if we -were alone? You've already clenched your fists! You would thrash me as -you did before. You brute! You brute!" - -"And you are very brave in this room full of people!" he laughed, with -his laugh which incited her to rage, when it did not subdue her. "No, I -shouldn't thrash you," he continued. "I should kiss you." - -"This is the last time you're going to speak to me!" she hissed, -furiously. "Go away! Go away! Or I don't know what I shall do, I shall -make a scene." - -He sat down calmly: - -"As you please," he said, quietly. - -She stood trembling before him, impotent. Some one spoke to her; the -footman handed her some tea. She was now in the midst of a circle of -men; and, mastering herself, she jested, with loud, nervous gaiety, -flirted more coquettishly than ever. There was a little court around -her, with the Duke of Luca as its ringleader. Close by, Rudolph Brox -sat drinking his tea, with apparent calmness, as though waiting. But -his strong, masterful blood was boiling madly within him. He could -have murdered her and he was seeing red with jealousy. That woman -was his, despite the law. He was not going to be afraid of any more -scandal. She was beautiful, she was as he wished her to be and he -wanted her, his wife. He knew how he would win her back; and this time -he would not lose her, this time she should be his, for as long as he -wished. - -As soon as he was able to speak to her unheard, he came up to her -again. She was just going to Urania whom she saw sitting with Mrs. -Uxeley, when he said in her ear, sternly and abruptly: - -"Cornelie...." - -She turned round mechanically, but with her haughty glance. She would -rather have gone on, but could not: something held her back, a secret -strength, a secret superiority, which sounded in his voice and flowed -into her with a weight as of bronze that weakened and paralysed her -energy. - -"What is it?" she asked. - -"I want to speak to you alone." - -"No." - -"Yes. Listen to me calmly for a moment, if you can. I am calm too, as -you see. You needn't be afraid of me. I promise not to ill-treat you -or even to swear at you. But I must speak to you, alone. After our -meeting, after the ball last week, we can't part like this. You are -not even entitled to show me the door, after talking to me and dancing -with me so recently. There's no reason and no logic in it. You lost -your temper. But let us both keep our tempers now. I want to speak to -you...." - -"I can't: Mrs. Uxeley doesn't like me to leave the drawing-room when -there are people here. I am dependent on her." - -He laughed: - -"You are almost even more dependent on her than you used to be on me! -But you can give me just a second, in the next room." - -"No." - -"Yes, you can." - -"What do you want to speak to me about?" - -"I can't tell you here." - -"I can't speak to you alone." - -"I'll tell you what it is: you're afraid to." - -"No." - -"Yes, you are: you're afraid of me. With all your airs and your -dignity, you're afraid to be alone with me for a moment." - -"I'm not afraid." - -"You _are_ afraid. You're shaking in your shoes with fear. You received -me with a fine speech which you rehearsed in advance. Now that you've -delivered your speech ... it's over and you're frightened." - -"I am not frightened." - -"Then come with me, my plucky authoress of _The Social Position of the -What's-her-name_! I promise, I swear that I shall be calm and tell you -calmly what I have to say to you; and I give you my word of honour not -to hit you ... Which room shall we go to?... Do you refuse? Listen -to me: if you don't come with me, it's not finished yet. If you do, -perhaps it will be finished ... and you will never see me again." - -"What can you have to say to me?" - -"Come." - -She yielded because of his voice, not because of his words: - -"But only for three minutes." - -"Very well, three minutes." - -She took him into the passage and into an empty room: - -"Well what is it?" she asked, frightened. - -"Don't be frightened," he said, laughing under his moustache. "Don't be -frightened. I only wanted to tell you ... _that you are my wife_. Do -you understand that? Don't try to deny it. I felt it at the ball the -other night, when I had my arm round you, waltzing with you. Don't try -to deny that you pressed yourself against me for a moment. _You're my -wife_. I felt it then and I feel it now. And you feel it too, though -you would like to deny it. But that won't help you. What has been can't -be altered; and what has been ... always remains part of you. There, -you can't say that I am not speaking prettily and delicately. Not an -oath, not an improper word has escaped my lips. For I don't want to -make you angry. I only want to make you confess that what I say is -true _and that you are still my wife_. That law doesn't signify. It's -another law that rules us. It's a law that rules you especially; a -law which, without our ever suspecting it, brings us together again, -even though it does so by a very strange, roundabout path, along which -you, especially, have strayed. That law rules you especially. I am -convinced that you still love me, or at least that you are still in -love with me. I feel it, I know it as a fact: don't try to deny it. -It's _no use_, Cornelie. And I'll tell you something besides: I am in -love with you too and more so than ever. I feel it when you're flirting -with those fellows. I could wring your neck then, I could break every -bone in their bodies.... Don't be afraid: I'm not going to; I'm not -in a temper. I just wanted to talk to you calmly and make you see the -truth. Do you see it before you? It is in-con-tro-ver-tible. You see, -you have nothing to say in reply. Facts are facts.... Will you show -me the door now? Do you still propose to speak to Mrs. Uxeley? I -shouldn't, if I were you. Your friend, the princess, knows who I am: -leave it at that. Had the old woman never heard my name, or has she -forgotten it? Forgotten it, I expect. Well, then, don't trouble to -refresh her ancient memory. Leave things as they are. It's better to -say nothing. No, the position is not ridiculous and it's not humorous -either. It has become very serious: the truth is always serious. It is -strange, I admit: I should never have expected it. It's a revelation -to me as well.... And now I've said what I had to say. Less than five -minutes by my watch. They will hardly have noticed your absence in the -drawing-room. And now I'm going; but first give your husband a kiss, -for I am your husband ... and always shall be." - -She stood trembling before him. It was his voice, which fell like -molten bronze into her soul, into her body, and lamed and paralysed -her. It was his voice of persuasion, persuasive charm, the voice -which she knew of old, the voice that compelled her to do everything -that he wanted. Under the influence of that voice she became a thing, -a chattel, something that belonged to him, once he had branded her -for ever as his mate. She was powerless to cast him out of herself, -to shake him from herself, to erase from herself the stamp of his -possession and the brand which marked her as his property. She was his; -and anything that otherwise was herself had left her. There was no -longer in her brain either memory or thought.. - -She saw him come up to her and put his arm around her. He took her to -his breast slowly but so firmly that he seemed to be taking possession -of her entirely. She felt herself melting away in his arms as in a -scorching flame. On her lips she felt his mouth, his moustache, -pressing, pressing, pressing, until she closed her eyes, half-fainting. -He said something more in her ear, with that voice under which she -seemed not to count, as though she were nothing, as though she existed -only through him. When he released her, she staggered on her feet. - -"Come, pull yourself together," she heard him say, calmly, -authoritatively, omnipotently. "And accept the position. Things are as -they are. There's no altering them. Thank you for letting me speak to -you. Everything is all right between us now: I'm sure of it. And now -_au revoir. Au revoir_...." - -He kissed her again: - -"Give me a kiss too," he said, with that voice of his. She flung her -arm round his body and kissed him on the lips. - -"Au revoir," he said, once more. - -She saw him laugh under his moustache; his eyes laughed at her with -flames of gold; and he went away. She heard his feet going down the -stairs and ringing on the marble of the hall, with the strength of his -firm tread.... She remained standing as though bereft of life. In the -drawing-room, next to the room in which she was, the hum of laughing -voices sounded loudly. She saw Rome before her, saw Duco, in a short -flash of lightning.... It was gone.... And, collapsing into a chair, -she uttered a suppressed cry of despair, put her hands before her face -and sobbed, restraining her despair before all those people, dully, as -from a stifling throat. - - - - -CHAPTER LI - - -She had but one thought: to take to flight. To fly from his mastery, -to fly from the emanation of that dominion which, mysteriously but -irrevocably, wiped away with his caress all that was in her of will, -energy and self. She remembered having felt the same thing in the -old days: rebellion and anger when he became angry and coarse, but -an eclipse of self when he caressed her; an inability to think when -he merely laid his hand upon her head; a swooning away into a vast -nothingness when he took her in his arms and kissed her. She had felt -it from the first time of seeing him, when he stood before her and -looked down upon her with that light irony in the smile of his eyes -and his moustache, as though he took pleasure in her resistance--at -that time prompted by flirting and fun, soon by petulance, later by -anger and fury--as though he took pleasure in her futile feminine -attempts to escape his power. He had at once realized that he ruled -this woman. And she had found in him her master, her sole master. For -no other man pressed down upon her with that empire which was of the -blood, of the flesh. On the contrary, she was usually the superior. -She had about her a cool indifference which was always provoking -her to destructive criticism. She had a need for fun, for cheerful -conversation, for coquetry, for flirtation; and, always a mistress of -quick repartee, she invited the occasion for repartee; but, apart from -this, men meant little to her and she always saw the absurd side of -each of them, thinking this one too short, that one too tall, a third -clumsy, a fourth stupid, finding something in every one of them to -rouse her laughter, her mockery or her criticism. She would never be -a woman to give herself to many. She had met Duco and given herself -to him with her love, wholly, as one great, inseparable, golden gift; -and, after him, she would never fall in love again. But, before Duco, -she had met Rudolph Brox. Perhaps, if she had met him after Duco, his -mastery would not have swayed her. She did not know. And what was the -good of thinking about it? The thing was as it was. In her blood she -was not a woman for many; in her blood she was the wife, the spouse, -the consort. Of the man who had been her husband she was in her flesh -and in her blood the wife; but she was his wife even without love. For -she could not call this love: she gave the name of love only to that -other passion, that proud, tender and intense completion of life's -harmony, that journey along one golden line, the marriage of two -gleaming lines.... But the phantom hands had risen all about them in a -cloud, the hands had mysteriously and inevitably divided their golden -line; and hers, a winding curve, had leapt back, like a quivering -spring, crossing a darker line of former days, a sombre line of the -past, a dark track full of unconscious action and fatal bondage. Oh, -the strangeness, the most mysterious strangeness of those lines of -life! Why should they curl back, forcing her backwards to her original -starting-point? Why had it all been necessary? - -She had but one thought: to take to flight. She did not see the -inevitability of those lines and the fatality of those paths and she -did not wish to feel the pressure of the phantom hands that rose -about her. To fly, to turn up the dusky path, back to the point of -separation, back to Duco, and with him to rebraid and twist the two -lost directions into one pure movement, one line of happiness! ... - -To fly, to fly! She told Urania that she was going. She begged Urania -to forgive her, because it was she who had recommended her to the old -woman whom she was now suddenly leaving. And she told Mrs. Uxeley, -without caring for her anger, her temper or her words of abuse. She -admitted that she was ungrateful. But there was a vital necessity which -compelled her suddenly to leave Nice. She swore that it existed. She -swore that it would mean unhappiness, even ruin, were she to stay. She -explained it to Urania in a single sentence. But she did not explain -it to the old woman and left her in an impotent fury which made her -writhe with rheumatic aches and pains. She left behind her everything -that she had received from Mrs. Uxeley, all the superfluous wardrobe of -her dependence. She put on an old frock. She went to the station like a -criminal, trembling lest she should meet him. But she knew that at this -hour he was always at Monte Carlo. Nevertheless she went in a closed -cab and she took a second-class ticket for Florence. She telegraphed to -Duco. And she fled. - -She had nothing left but him. She could never again count upon Mrs. -Uxeley; and Urania had behaved coolly, not understanding that singular -flight, because she did not understand the simple truth, Rudolph -Brox' power. She thought that Cornelie was making things difficult -for herself. In the circle in which Urania lived, her sense of social -morality had wavered since her _liaison_ with the Chevalier de Breuil. -Hearing the Italian law of love whispered all around her, the law that -love is as simple as an opening rose, she did not understand Cornelie's -struggle. She no longer resented anything that Gilio did; and he in his -turn left her free. What was happening to Cornelie? Surely it was all -very simple, if she was still fond of her divorced husband! Why should -she run away to Duco and make herself ridiculous in the eyes of all -their acquaintances? And so she had parted coolly from Cornelie; but -still she missed her friend. She was the Princess of Forte-Braccio; and -lately, on her birthday, Prince Ercole had sent her a great emerald, -out of the carefully kept family-jewels, as though she were becoming -worthy of them gradually, stone by stone! But she missed Cornelie and -she felt lonely, deadly lonely, notwithstanding her emerald and her -lover.... - -Cornelie fled: she had nothing in the world but Duco. But in him she -would have everything. And, when she saw him at Florence, at the Santa -Maria Novella Station, she flung herself on his breast and clung to -him as to a cross of redemption, a saviour. He led her sobbing to a -cab; and they drove to his room. There she looked round her nervously, -done up with the overstrain of her long journey, thinking every minute -that Rudolph would come after her. She told Duco everything, opened -her heart to him entirely, as though he were her conscience, as though -he were her soul, her god. She nestled up against him, she told him -that he must help her. It was as though she were praying to him; her -anguish went up to him like a prayer. He kissed her; and she knew that -manner of comforting, she knew that tender caressing. She suddenly -fell against him, utterly relaxed; and so she continued to lie, with -closed eyes. It was as though she were sinking in a lake, in a blue -sacred lake, mystic as the Lake of San Stefano in the sleeping night, -powdered with stars. And she heard him say that he would help her; that -there was nothing in her fears; that that man had no power over her; -that he would never have any power over her, if she became his, Duco's, -wife. She looked at him and did not understand what he was saying. She -looked at him feverishly, as though he had awakened her suddenly while -she lay sleeping for a second in the blue calmness of the mystic lake. -She did not understand, but, dead-tired, she hid her face against his -arm again and fell asleep. - -She was dead-tired. She slept for two hours immovably, breathing -deeply, upon his breast. When he shifted his arm, she just moved her -head heavily, like a flower on a weary stalk, but she slept on. He -stroked her forehead, her hair; and she slept on, with her hands in -his. She slept as if she had not slept for days, for weeks. - - - - -CHAPTER LII - - -"There is nothing to be afraid of, Cornelie," he said, convincingly. -"That man has no power over you if you refuse, if you refuse with -a firm will. I do not see what he could do. You are quite free, -absolutely released from him. That you ran away so precipitately was -certainly not wise: it will look to him like a flight. Why did you not -tell him calmly that he can't claim any rights in you? Why did you not -say that you loved me? If need were, you could have said that we were -engaged. How can you have been so weak and so terrified? It's not like -you But, now that you are here, all is well. We are together now. Shall -we go back to Rome to-morrow, or shall we remain here a little first? I -have always longed to show you Florence. Look, there, in front of us, -is the Arno; there is the Ponto Vecchio; there is the Uffizi. You've -been here before, but you didn't know Italy then. You'll enjoy it more -now. Oh, it is so lovely here! Let us stay a week or two first. I have -a little money; you need have no fear. And life is cheaper here than in -Rome. Living in this room, we shall spend hardly anything. I have light -enough through this window to sketch by, now and again. Or else I go -and work in the San Marco, or in San Lorenzo, or up on San Miniato. It -is delightfully quiet in the cloisters. There are a few excursionists -at times; but I don't mind that. And you can go with me, with a book, -a book about Florence; I'll tell you what to read. You must learn to -know Donatello, Brunelleschi, Ghiberti, but, above all, Donatello. We -shall see him in the Bargello. And Lippo Memmi's _Annunciation_, the -golden _Annunciation_! You shall see how like our angel is to it, our -beautiful angel of happiness, the one you gave me! It is so rich here; -we shall not feel that we are poor. We need so little. Or have you -been spoilt by your luxury at Nice? But I know you so well: you will -forget that at once; and we shall win through together. And presently -we shall go back to Rome. But this time ... married, my darling, and -you belonging to me entirely, legally. It must be so now; you must not -refuse me again. We'll go to the consul tomorrow and ask what papers we -want from Holland and what will be the quickest way of getting married. -And meanwhile you must look upon yourself as my wife. Until now we -have been very, very happy ... but you were not my wife. Once you -_feel_ yourself to be my wife--even though we wait another fortnight -for those papers to sign--you will feel safe and peaceful. There is -nobody and nothing that has any power over you. You're not well, if you -really think there is. And then I'll bet you, when we are married, my -mother will make it up with us. Everything will come right, my darling, -my angel.... But you must not refuse: we must get married with all -possible speed." - -She was sitting beside him on a sofa and staring out of doors, where, -in the square frame of the tall window, the slender _campanile_ rose -like a marble lily between the dome-crowned harmonies of the Cathedral -and the Battisterio, while on one side the Palazzio Vecchio lay, a -massive, battlemented fortress, amid the welter of the streets and -roofs, and lifted its tower, suddenly expanding into the machicolated -summit, with Fiesole and the hills shimmering behind it in the purple -of the evening. The noble city of eternal grace gleamed a golden bronze -in the last reflection of the setting sun. - -"We _must_ get married at once?" she repeated, with a doubting -interrogation. - -"Yes, as soon as ever we can, darling." - -"But Duco, dearest Duco, it's less possible now than ever. Don't you -see that it can't be done? It's impossible, impossible. It might have -been possible before, some months ago, a year ago ... perhaps, perhaps -not even then. Perhaps it was never possible. It is so difficult to -say. But now it can.'t be done, really not...." - -"Don't you love me well enough?" - -"How can you ask me such a question? How can you ask me, darling? But -it's not that. It is ... it is ... it can't be, because I am not free." - -"Not free?" - -"I am _not_ free. I may feel free later ... or perhaps not, perhaps -never.... My dearest Duco, it is impossible. I wrote to you, you know: -that first meeting at the ball; it was so strange; I felt that...." - -"That what?" - -She took his hand and stroked it; her eyes were vague, her words were -vague: - -"You see ... he has been my husband." - -"But you're divorced from him: not merely separated, but divorced--" - -"Yes, I'm divorced; but it's not that." - -"What then, dearest?" - -She shook her head and hid her face against him: - -"I can't tell you, Duco." - -"Why not?" - -"I'm ashamed." - -"Tell me; do you still love him?" - -"No, it's not love. I love you." - -"But what then, my darling? Why are you ashamed?" - -She began to cry on his shoulder: - -"I feel...." - -"What?" - -"That I am not free, although ... although I am divorced. I feel ... -that I am his wife all the same." - -She whispered the words almost inaudibly. - -"But then you do love him and more than you love me." - -"No, no, I swear I don't!" - -"But, darling, you're not talking sense!" - -"Yes, indeed I am." - -"No, you're not. It's impossible!" - -"It isn't. It's quite possible. And he told me so ... and I felt it. - -"But the fellow's hypnotizing you!" - -"No, it's not hypnotism. It's not a delusion: it's a reality, deep, -deep down within myself. Look here, you know me: you know how I feel. I -love you and you only. That alone is love. I have never loved any one -else. I am not a woman who is susceptible to.... I'm not hysterical. -But with him.... No other man, no man whom I have ever met, rouses that -feeling in me ... that feeling that I am not myself. That I belong to -him, that I am his property, his chattel." - -She threw her arms about him, she hid herself like a child in his -breast: - -"It's so strange.... You know me, don't you? I can be plucky and I am -independent and I am never at a loss for an answer. But with him I am -no longer sure of myself, I no longer have a life of my own and I do -what he tells me to." - -"But that is hypnotism: you can escape that, if you seriously wish to. -I will help you." - -"It is not hypnotism. It is a truth, deep down inside me. It exists -inside me. I know that it is so, that it has to be so.... Duco, it is -impossible. I can't become your wife. I _mustn't_ become your wife ... -less now than ever. Perhaps...." - -"Perhaps what?" - -"Perhaps I always felt like that, without knowing it, that it must not -be. Both for you and for me ... and for him too ... Perhaps that was -what I felt, without knowing it, when I talked as I used to, about my -antipathy for marriage." - -"But that antipathy arose from your marriage with him!" - -"Yes, that's the strange part of it. I dislike him ... and yet...." - -"Yet you're in love with him!" - -"Yet I belong to him." - -"And you tell me that you love me!" - -She took his head in her two hands: - -"Try to understand. It tires me so, trying to make you understand. I -love you ... but I am his wife...." - -"Are you forgetting what you were to me in Rome?..." - -"I was everything to you: love, happiness, intense happiness.... There -was the most intense harmony between us: I shall never forget it.... -But I was not your wife." - -"Not my wife!" - -"No, I was your mistress.... I was unfaithful to him.... Oh, don't -repulse me! Pity me, pity me!" - -He had unconsciously made a gesture that frightened her. - -"Let me stay like this, leaning against you. May I? I am so tired and I -feel restful, leaning against you like this, my darling. My darling, my -darling ... things will never be as they were. What are we to do?" - -"I don't know," he said, in despair. "I want to marry you as soon as -may be. You won't consent." - -"I can't. I mustn't." - -"Then I don't know what to do or say." - -"Don't be angry. Don't leave me. Help me, do, do! I love you, I love -you, I love you!" - -She drew him into her arms, in a close, sudden embrace, as though in -perplexity and despair. He kissed her passionately in response. - -"O God, tell me what to do!" she prayed, as she lay hopelessly -perplexed in his embrace. - - - - -CHAPTER LIII - - -Next day, when Cornelie walked with Duco through Florence, when they -entered the courtyard of the Palazzo Vecchio, saw the Loggia dei Lanzi -and looked in at the Uffizi to see Memmi's _Annunciation_, she felt -something like her former sensations irresistibly unfolding within -her. They seemed to have taken their lines which had burst asunder and -with human force to have bent them together again into one path, along -which the white daisies and white lilies shot up with a tenderness of -soft, mystic recognition that was almost like a dream. And yet it was -not quite the same as before. An oppression as of a grey cloud hung -between her and the deep-blue sky, which hung outstretched like strips -of aether, like paths of lofty, quivering atmosphere, above the narrow -streets, above the domes and towers and turrets. She no longer felt the -former apprehension; there was a remembrance in her, a heavy pondering -weighed upon her brain, an anxiety for what was about to happen. She -had a presentiment as of a coming storm; and when, after their walk, -they had had something to eat and went home, she dragged herself up the -stairs to Duco's room more wearily than she had ever done in Rome. And -she at once saw a letter lying on the table, a letter addressed to her. -But how addressed! It gave her so violent a start that she began to -tremble in every limb and managed to thrust the letter away even before -Duco had followed her into the room. She took off her hat and told Duco -that she wanted to get something out of her trunk, which was standing -in the passage. He asked if he could help her; but she said no and -left the room and went into the narrow passage. Here, standing by the -little window overlooking the Arno, she took out the letter. It was the -only place where she could read for a moment undisturbed. And she read -that address again, written in his hand, which she knew so well, with -its great thick heavy characters. The name which she bore abroad was -her maiden name; she called herself Madame de Retz van Loo. But on the -envelope she read, briefly: - - "BARONNE BROX, - "37, Lung' Arno Torrigiani, - FLORENCE." - -A deep crimson flush mantled over her face. She had borne that name -for a year. Why did he call her by it now? Where was the logic in that -title which, by the law, was hers no longer? What did he mean by it, -what did he want?... And, standing by the little window, she read his -short but imperious letter. He wrote that he took her flight very much -amiss, especially after their last conversation. He wrote that, at this -last interview, she had granted him every right over her, that she had -not denied it and that, by kissing him and putting her arms around -him, she had shown that she regarded herself as his wife, just as he -regarded her as his wife. He wrote that he would not now resent her -independent life of a year in Rome, because she was then still free, -but that he was offended at her still looking upon herself as free and -that he would not accept the insult of her flight. He called upon her -to return. He said that he had no legal right to do so, but that he did -it because he nevertheless had a right, a right which she could not -dispute, which indeed she had not disputed, which on the contrary she -had acknowledged by her kiss. He had learnt her address from the porter -of the Villa Uxeley. And he ended by repeating that she was to return -to Nice, to him, at the Hotel Continental, and telling her that, if she -did not do this, he would come to Florence and she would be responsible -for the consequences of her refusal. - -Her knees shook; she was hardly able to stand upright. Should she show -Duco the letter or keep it from him? She had to make up her mind then -and there. He was calling to her from the room, asking what she was -doing so long in the passage. She went in and was too weak to refrain -from throwing herself on his breast. She showed him the letter. Leaning -against him, sobbing violently, she heard him fume and rage, saw the -veins on his temples swell, saw him clench his fists and roll the -letter into a ball and dash it to the floor. He told her not to be -frightened, said that he would protect her. He too regarded her as his -wife. It all depended upon the light in which she henceforth regarded -herself. She did not speak, merely sobbed, broken with fatigue, with -fright, with headache. She undressed and went to bed, her teeth -chattering with fever. He drew her curtains to darken the room and told -her to go to sleep. His voice sounded angry and she thought that he was -angry at her lack of resolution. She sobbed and cried herself to sleep. -But in her sleep she felt the terror within herself and again felt the -irresistible pressure. While sleeping she dreamt of what she could -reply and wrote to Brox, but it was not clear what she wrote: it was -all a vague, impotent pleading for mercy. - -When she awoke, she saw Duco beside her bed. She took his hand; she was -calmer. But she had no hope. She had no faith in the days that were -coming. She looked at him and saw him gloomy, stem and self-contained, -as she had never seen him before. Oh, their happiness was past! On that -fatal day when he had seen her to the train in Rome, they had taken -leave of their happiness. It was gone, it was gone! Gone the dear walks -through ruins and museums, the trips to Frascati, Naples, Amalfi! Gone -the dear, fond life of poverty in the big studio, among the gleaming -colours of the old brocades and chasubles, of the old bronzes and -silver! Gone the gazing together at his water-colour of _The Banners_, -she with her head on his shoulder, within his arm, living his art with -him, enjoying his work with him! Gone the ecstasy of the night in the -pergola, in the star-spangled night, with the sacred lake at their -feet! Life was not to be repeated. They had tried in vain to repeat it -here, in this room, at Florence, in the Palazzo Vecchio, tried in vain -to repeat it even in the presence of Memmi's angel emitting his beam of -light! They tried in vain to repeat their life, their happiness, their -love; it was in vain that they had forced together the lines which had -burst asunder. These had merely twined round each other for a moment, -in a despairing curve. It was gone, it was gone!... Gloomy and stern -he sat beside her bed; and she knew it, he felt that he was powerless -because she did not feel herself to be his wife. His mistress!... -Oh, she had felt that involuntary repulsion when she had uttered the -word! Had he not always wanted to marry her? But she had always felt -unconsciously that it could not be, that it must not be. Under all -the exuberance of her acrid feministic phrases, that had been the -unconscious truth. She, railing against marriage, had always, inwardly, -felt herself to be married ... not by a signature, in accordance with -the law, but according to an age-old law, a primeval right of man over -woman, a law and a right of flesh and blood and the very marrow of the -bones. Oh, above that immovable physical truth her soul had blossomed -its blossom of white daisies and lilies; and that blossom also was the -intense truth, the lofty truth of happiness and love! But the daisies -and lilies blossomed and faded: the soul blossoms for but a single -summer. The soul does not blossom for a lifetime. It blossoms perhaps -before life, it blossoms perhaps after it; but in life itself the soul -blossoms for but a single summer. It had blossomed, it was over! And -in her body, which lived, in her being, which survived, she felt the -truth in her very marrow! He was sitting beside her bed, but he had -no rights, now that the lilies had blossomed.... She was broken with -pity for him. She took his hand and kissed it fervently and sobbed over -it. He said nothing. He did not know how to say anything. It would all -have been very simple for him, if she had consented to be his wife. -As things were, he could not help her. As things were, he saw his -happiness foundering while he looked on: there was nothing to be done. -It was slowly falling to pieces, like a crumbling ruin. It was gone! It -was gone!... - -She stayed in bed these days; she slept, she dreamt, she awoke again; -and the dread waiting never left her. She had a slight temperature now -and again; and it was better for her to stay in bed. As a rule, he -remained by her side. But one day, when Duco had gone to the chemist's -for something, there was a knock at the door. She leapt out of bed, -terrified, terrified lest she should see the man of whom she was always -thinking. Half-fainting with fright, she opened the door ajar. It was -only the postman, with a registered letter ... from him! Even more -curtly than last time, he wrote that, immediately on the receipt of his -letter, she was to telegraph, stating the day when she would come. He -said that, if on such and such a day he did not receive her telegram, -he would leave for Florence and shoot her lover like a dog at her feet. -He would not take a moment to reflect He did not care what happened.... -In this short letter, his anger, his fury, raged like a red storm that -lashed her across the face. She knew him; and she knew that he would -do what he said. She saw, as in a flash, the terrible scene, with Duco -dropping, murdered, weltering in his blood. And she was no longer her -own mistress. The red fury of that letter, dispatched from afar, made -her his chattel, his thing. She had torn the letter open hastily, -before signing the postman's book. The man was waiting in the passage. -Her brain whirled, the room spun before her eyes. If she paused to -reflect, it would be too late, too late to reflect. And she asked the -postman, nervously: - -"Can you send off a telegram for me at once?" - -No, he couldn't: it wasn't on his road. - -But she implored him to do it. She said that she was ill and that she -must telegraph at once. And she found a gold ten-franc piece in her -purse and gave it to him as a tip over and above the money for the -telegram. And she wrote the telegram: - -"Leaving to-morrow express train." - -It was a vague telegram. She did not know by what express; she had not -been able to look it up. Would it be in the evening or quite early in -the morning? She had no idea. How would she be able to get away? She -had no idea. But she thought that the telegram would calm him. And -she meant to go. She had no choice. Now that she had fled in despair, -she saw it: if he wanted to have her back, back as his wife, she must -go. If he had not wanted it, she could have remained, wherever she -might be, despite her feeling that she belonged to him. But, now that -he wanted it, she must go back. But oh, how was she to tell Duco? She -was not thinking of herself, she was thinking of Duco. She saw him -lying before her in his blood. She forgot that she had no money left. -Was she to ask him for it? O God, what was she to do? She could not go -next day, notwithstanding her telegram! She could not tell Duco that -she was going.... She had meant to slip quietly to the station, when -he was out.... Or had she better tell him?... Which would be the least -painful?... Or should ... should she tell everything to Duco and ... -and run away somewhere with him, anywhere, and tell nobody where they -were going But supposing _he_ discovered they had gone! And he would -find them!... And then ... then he would murder ... Duco!... - -She was almost delirious with fear, with terror, with not knowing what -to do, how to act.... She now heard Duco's steps on the stairs.... -He came in, bringing her the pills.... And, as usual, she told him -everything, too weak, too tired, to keep anything hidden, and showed -him the letter. He blazed out, furiously, with hatred but she fell on -her knees before him and took his hands. She said that she had already -sent the answer. He suddenly became cool, as though overcome by the -inevitable. He said that he had no money to pay for her long journey. -Then, once more, he took her in his arms, kissed her, begged her to be -his wife, said that he would kill her husband, even as her husband had -threatened to kill him. But she did nothing but sob and refuse, though -she continued to cling to him convulsively. Then he yielded to the -fatal omnipotence of life's silent tyranny. He felt death in his soul. -But he wished to keep calm for her sake. He said that he forgave her. -He held her, all sobbing, in his arms, because his touch calmed her. -And he said that, if she wanted to go back--she despondently nodded -yes--it was better to telegraph to Brox again, asking for money for the -journey and for clear instructions as to the day and time. He would do -this for her. She looked at him, through her tears, in surprise. He -himself drew up the telegram and went out. - -"My darling, my darling!" she thought, as he went, as she felt the pain -in his torn soul. - -She flung herself on the bed. He found her in hysterics when he -returned. When he had tended her and tucked her up in bed, he sat down -beside her. And he said, in a dead voice: - -"My dearest, be calm now. The day after to-morrow I shall take you to -Genoa. Then we shall take leave of each other, for ever. If it can't be -otherwise, it must be like that. If you feel that it has to be, then it -must be. Be calm now, be calm now. If you feel like that, that you must -go back to your husband, then perhaps you will not be unhappy with him. -Be calm, dear, be calm." - -"Will you take me?" - -"I shall take you as far as Genoa. I have borrowed the money from a -friend. But, above all, try to be calm. Your husband wants you back; -he can't want you back only to beat you. He must feel something for -you if he wants you so. And, if it has to be... then perhaps it will -be the best thing ... for you.... Even though I can't see it in that -light!..." - -He covered his face with his hands and, no longer master of himself, -burst into sobs. She drew him to her breast. She was now calmer than -he. And, as he sobbed with his head on her beating heart, she quietly -stroked his forehead, while her eyes roamed distantly round the walls -of the room.... - - - - -CHAPTER LIV - - -She was now alone in the train. By tipping the guard lavishly, they had -travelled by themselves through the night and had been left undisturbed -in their compartment. Oh, the melancholy journey, the last silent -journey of the end! They had not spoken but had sat close together, -hand in hand, with eyes gazing into the distance before them, as though -staring at the approaching point of separation. The dreary thought -of that separation never left them, rushed onward in unison with the -rattling train. Sometimes she thought of a railway-accident and that it -would be welcome to her if she could die with him. But the lights of -Genoa had gleamed up inexorably. Then the train had stopped. And he had -flung out his arms and they had kissed for the last time. Pressed to -his breast, she had felt all his grief within him. Then he had released -her and rushed back without looking round. She followed him with her -eyes, but he did not look back and she saw him disappear in the morning -mist, pierced with little lights, that hung about the station. She had -seen him disappear among other people, swallowed up in the hovering -mist. Then the silent and despairing surrender of her life had become -so great that she was not even able to weep. Her head dropped limply, -her arms hung lax. Like an inert thing she let the train bear her -onward with its rending rattle. - -A white morning twilight had risen on the left over the brightening -sea; and the dawning daylight tinted the water blue and defined the -horizon. For hours and hours she travelled, sitting motionless, gazing -at the sea; and she felt almost painless with her impassive surrender -of life. She would now let things happen as life willed, as her -husband willed, as the train willed. As in a tired dream she thought -of the inevitability of everything and all the unconscious life within -herself, of her first rebellion against her husband's tyranny, of -the illusion of her independence, the arrogance of her pride and all -the happiness of her gentle ecstasy, all her gladness because of the -harmony which she had achieved.... Now it was past; now all self-will -was vain. The train was carrying her to where Rudolph called her; and -life hemmed her in on every side, not roughly, but with a soft pressure -of phantom hands, which pushed and led and guided.... - -And she ceased to think. The tired dream became clouded in the deeper -blue of the day; and she felt that she was approaching Nice. She -returned to the petty realities of Life. She felt that she was looking -a little travel-worn: and, thinking that it would be better if Rudolph -did not see her for the first time in so unattractive a light, she -slowly opened her bag, washed her face with her handkerchief dipped in -eau-de-Cologne, combed her hair, powdered her face, brushed herself -down, put on a transparent white veil and took out a pair of new -gloves. She bought a couple of yellow roses at a station and put them -in her waistband. She did all this unconsciously, without thinking -about it, feeling that it was best, that it was sensible to do it, -best that Rudolph should see her like that, with that bloom of a -beautiful woman about her. She felt that henceforth she must be above -all beautiful and that nothing else mattered. And when the train droned -into the station, when she recognized Nice, she was resigned, because -she had ceased to struggle and had yielded to all the stronger forces. -The door was flung open and, in the station, which at that early hour -was comparatively empty, she saw him at once: tall, robust, easy, in -his light summer suit, straw hat and brown shoes. He gave an impression -of health and strength and above all of broad-shouldered virility; -and, notwithstanding his broadness, he was still quite thoroughbred, -thoroughly well-groomed without the least touch of foppishness; and the -ironical smile beneath his moustache and the steady glance of his fine -grey eyes, the eyes of a woman-hunter, gave him an air of strength, -of the certainty of doing as he wished, of the power to subdue if he -thought fit. An ironic pride in his handsome strength, with a tinge -of contempt for the others who were less handsome and strong, less of -the healthy animal and yet the aristocrat, and above all a mocking, -supercilious sarcasm directed against all women, because he knew women -and knew how much they were really worth: all this was expressed by his -glance, his attitude, his movements. It was thus that she knew him. It -had often roused her to rebellion in the old days, but now she felt -resigned and also a little frightened. - -He had come to her; he helped her to alight. She saw that he was angry, -that he intended to receive her rudely; then, that his moustache was -curling ironically, as though in mockery because he was the stronger. -She said nothing, however, took his hand calmly and alighted. He led -her outside; and in the carriage they waited a moment for her trunk. -His eyes took her in at a glance. She was wearing an old blue serge -skirt and a little blue serge cape; but, notwithstanding her old -clothes and her weary resignation, she looked a handsome and smartly -dressed woman. - -"I am glad to see that you thought it advisable at last to carry out my -wishes," he said, in the end. - -"I thought it would be best," she answered, softly. - -Her tone struck him; and he watched her attentively, out of the comer -of his eyes. He did not understand her, but he was pleased that she had -come. She was tired now, from excitement and travelling; but he thought -that she looked most charming, even though she was not so brilliant as -on that night, at Mrs. Uxeley's ball, when he had first spoken to his -divorced wife. - -"Are you tired?" he asked. - -"I have been a bit feverish for a day or two; and, of course I had no -sleep last night," she said, as though in apology. - -The trunk was brought and they drove away, to the Hotel Continental. -She did not speak again in the carriage. They were also silent as -they entered the hotel and in the lift. He took her to his room. It -was an ordinary hotel-bedroom; but she thought it strange to see his -brushes lying on the dressing-table, his coats and trousers hanging -on the pegs: familiar things with whose outlines and folds she was -well-acquainted. She recognised his kit-bag in a corner. - -He opened the windows wide. She had sat down on a chair, in an -expectant attitude. She felt a little faint and closed her eyes, which -were blinded by the stream of sunlight. - -"You must be hungry," he said. "What shall I order for you?" - -"I should like some tea and bread-and-butter." - -Her trunk arrived; and he ordered her breakfast. Then he said: - -"Take off your hat." - -She stood up. She took off her cape. Her cotton blouse was rumpled; and -this annoyed her. She removed the pins from her hat before the glass -and quite naturally did her hair with his comb, which she saw lying -there. And she settled the silk bow around her collar. - -He had lit a cigar and was smoking quietly, standing. A waiter came in -with the breakfast. She ate a mouthful without speaking and drank a cup -of tea. - -"Have you breakfasted?" she asked. - -"Yes." - -They were silent again and she went on eating. - -"And shall we have a talk now?" he asked, still standing up, smoking. - -"Very well." - -"I won't speak about your running off as you did," he said. "My first -intention was to give you a regular flaying, for it was a damned silly -trick...." - -She said nothing. She merely looked up at him; and her beautiful eyes -were filled with a new expression, one of gentle resignation. He fell -silent again, evidently restraining himself and seeking his words. Then -he resumed: - -"As I say, I won't speak about that any more. For the moment you didn't -know what you were doing and you weren't accountable for your actions. -But there must be an end of that now, for I wish it. Of course I know -that according to the law I have not the least right over you. But -we've discussed all this; and I told it you in writing. And you have -been my wife; and, now that I am seeing you again, I feel very plainly -that, in spite of everything, I regard you as my wife and that you -are my wife. And you must have retained the same impression from our -meeting here, at Nice." - -"Yes," she said calmly. - -"You admit that?" - -"Yes," she repeated. - -"Then that's all right. It's the only thing I wanted of you. -So we won't think any more now of what happened, of our former -unpleasantness, of our divorce and of what you have done since. From -now on we will put all that behind us. I look upon you as my wife and -you shall be my wife again. According to the law we can't get married -again. But that makes no difference. Our divorce in law I regard as -an intervening formality and we will counter it as far as we can. If -we have children, we shall get them legitimatized. I will consult a -lawyer about all that; and I shall take all the necessary measures, -financial included. In this way our divorce will be nothing more -than a formality, of no meaning to us and of as little significance -as possible to the world and to the law. And then I shall leave the -service. I shouldn't in any case care to stay in it for good, so I may -as well leave it earlier than I intended. For you wouldn't find it -pleasant to live in Holland; and it doesn't appeal to me either." - -"No," she murmured. - -"Where would you like to live?" - -"I don't know...." - -"In Italy?" - -"No," she begged, in a tone of entreaty. - -"Care to stay here?" - -"I'd rather not ... to begin with." - -"I was thinking of Paris. Would you like to live in Paris?" - -"Very well." - -"That's all right then. So we will go to Paris as soon as possible and -look out for a flat and settle in. It'll soon be spring now; and that -is a good time to start life in Paris." - -"Very well." - -He flung himself into an easy-chair; it creaked under him. Then he -asked: - -"Tell me, what do you really think, inside yourself?" - -"How do you mean?" - -"I want to know what you thought of your husband. Did you think him -absurd?" - -"No." - -"Come over here and sit on my knee." - -She stood up and went to him. She did as he wished, sat down on his -knee; and he drew her to him. He laid his hand on her head, with that -gesture which prevented her thinking. She closed her eyes and laid her -head against his cheek. - -"You haven't forgotten me altogether?" - -She shook her head. - -"We ought never to have got divorced, ought we?" She shook her head -again. - -"But we used to be very bad-tempered then, both of us. You must never -be bad-tempered in future. It makes you look spiteful and ugly. As you -are now, you're much nicer and prettier." - -She smiled faintly. - -"I am glad to have you back with me," he whispered, with a long kiss on -her lips. - -She closed her eyes under his kiss, while his moustache curled against -her skin and his mouth pressed hers. - -"Are you still tired?" he asked. - -"Yes," she said. "I should like to get my things off." - -"You'd better lie down for a bit," he said. "Oh, by the way, I forgot -to tell you: your friend, the princess, is coming here this evening!" - -"Isn't Urania angry?" - -"No, I have told her everything and she knows about it all." - -She was pleased to know that Urania was not angry and that she still -had a friend left. - -"And I have seen Mrs. Uxeley also." - -"She must be angry with me, isn't she?" - -He laughed: - -"That old hag! No, not angry. She's in the dumps because she has no -one with her. She set great store by you. She likes to have pretty -people about her, she said. She can't stand an ugly companion, with no -_chic_.... There, I'll leave you and go and sit downstairs somewhere." - -They stood up. His eyes had a golden glimmer in them; his moustache was -lifted by his ironic smile. And he caught her fiercely in his arms: - -"Cornelie," he said, hoarsely, "I think it's wonderful to have you back -again. Do you belong to me, tell me, do you belong to me?" - -He pressed her to him till he almost stifled her with the pressure of -his arms: - -"Tell me, do you belong to me?" - -"Yes." - -"What used you to say to me in the old days, when you were in love with -me?" - -She hesitated. - -"What used you to say?" he insisted, holding her still more tightly. - -Pushing her hands against his shoulders, she fought to catch her breath: - -"My Rud!" she murmured. "My beautiful, glorious Rud!" - -Automatically she now wound her arms around his head. He released her -as with an effort of will: - -"Take off your things," he said, "and try to get some sleep. I'll come -back later." - -He went away. She undressed and brushed her hair with his brushes, -washed her face and dripped into the basin some of the toilet-water -which he used. She drew the curtains, behind which the noonday sun -shone; and a soft crimson twilight filled the room. And she lay down -and waited for him, trembling. There was no thought in her. There was -in her no grief and no recollection. She was filled only with a great -expectancy, a waiting for the inevitability of life. She felt herself -to be solely and wholly a bride, but not an innocent bride; and, deep -in her blood, in the marrow of her bones, she felt herself to be the -wife, the very blood and marrow, of him whom she awaited. Before her, -as she lay half-dreaming, she saw little figures of children. For, -if she was to be his wife in truth and sincerity, she wanted to be -not only his lover but also the woman who gave him his children. She -knew that, despite his roughness, he loved the softness of children; -and she herself would long for them, in her second married life, as a -sweet comfort for the days when she would be no longer beautiful and -no longer young. Before her, half-dreaming, she saw the figures of -children.... And she lay waiting for him, she listened for his step, -she longed for his coming, her flesh quivered towards him.... And, when -he entered and came to her, her arms closed round him in profound and -conscious certainty and she felt, beyond a doubt, on his breast, in -his arms, the knowledge of his virile, overmastering dominion, while -before her eyes, in a dizzy, melancholy obscurity, the dream of her -life--Rome, Duco, the studio--sank away...? - - -THE END - - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Law Inevitable, by Louis Couperus - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LAW INEVITABLE *** - -***** This file should be named 43827.txt or 43827.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/4/3/8/2/43827/ - -Produced by Marc D'Hooghe at http://www.freeliterature.org -(Images generously made available by the Bodleian Library -in Oxford) - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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