Inevitable

by Louis Couperus

  “I am glad that you are accepting it.”

  “Have you given Miss Hope something too?”

  He laughed, his triumphant laugh.

  “Samples are good enough for her, from the queen’s evening gowns. I would not dare give you samples. You I give antique Venetian lace.”

  “But you nearly ruined your career for that sample?”

  “Oh well!” he laughed.

  “What career?”

  “Oh no!” he said defensively. “Tell me, what is your advice?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Should I marry her?”

  “I’m against all marriage, between educated people …”

  Now he was certain of a liaison between her and Van der Staal, if he had had any lingering doubts.

  “And … do you regard me as educated?”

  She laughed, coquettishly, with a brief flash of contempt.

  “Listen, will you be serious.”

  “With the greatest pleasure.”

  “I don’t find either you or Miss Hope suited to free love.”

  “So I am not educated?”

  “I don’t mean you are not cultivated. I mean modern education.”

  “So I am not modern?”

  “No,” she said, a little irritated.

  “Teach me to be modern.”

  She laughed nervously.

  “Oh, don’t let’s talk like this. What do I advise you? Not to marry Urania.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because your life together would be a disaster. She is a sweet little American parvenue …”

  “I am offering her what I have; she is offering me what she has …”

  He nibbled the sweets. She shrugged her shoulders.

  “Do it then,” she said indifferently.

  “Tell me you don’t want it to happen, and I won’t do it.”

  “And your papa? 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 many millions are you selling yourself to Urania? For no less than ten million?”

  He looked at her in stupefaction.

  “But the marchesa is content with five. It’s not bad: five million … Dollars or lire?”

  He clapped his hands together.

  “You are a devil!” he exclaimed. “You are an angel and devil! How do you know? How do you know? Do you know everything??”

  She threw herself backwards and laughed.

  “Everything …”

  “But how?”

  She looked at him, shook her head, played the coquette.

  “Tell me …”

  “No. It’s my secret …”

  “And you don’t think I should sell myself?”

  “I do not dare advise you on your interests.”

  “And as far as Urania is concerned?”

  “I advise her against it.”

  “Have you already advised her against it?”

  “Now and then …”

  “So you are my enemy?” he said angrily.

  “No,” she said softly, wanting to win him back. “A friend …”

  “A friend? To what point?”

  “As far as I want to go.”

  “Not as far as I want to go …?”

  “Oh no, never!”

  “But perhaps we both want to go just as far?”

  He had stood up, his blood on fire. She sat calmly, almost languidly, with her head thrown back. She did not answer. He fell to his knees, grasped her hand and kissed it before she could push him away.

  “Oh angel, angel! Oh, demon!” he muttered as he kissed.

  She pulled her hand free, pushed him gently away and said:

  “Italians are so quick to kiss!”

  She was laughing at him. He got up.

  “Teach me what Dutch women are like, even though they are slower than we are.”

  She motioned him to a chair with an imperious gesture.

  “Sit down. I am not a specifically Dutch woman. Otherwise I would not have come to Rome. I pride myself on being cosmopolitan. But we weren’t talking about me, we’re talking about Urania. Are you seriously intending to marry her?”

  “What can I do if you are working against me? Why don’t you work with me, as a dear friend …?”

  She hesitated. Neither Urania nor he were ripe for her ideas. She despised them both. Right, let them marry then: he to become rich, she to become princess-duchess.

  “Listen!” she said, leaning towards him. “You are marrying her for her millions. But your marriage will be unhappy from the start. She is a fickle young thing; she wants glamour … and you are member of the Blacks.”

  “We can live in Nice: she can do as she likes. We’ll come to Rome now and then, and occasionally San Stefano. And unhappy …”—he pulled a tragic face—“but what do I care. I’m not happy anyway. I shall try to make Urania happy. But my heart … will be elsewhere …”

  “Where?”

  “With the Women’s Movement.”

  She laughed.

  “Now I’m supposed to be nice?”

  “Yes …”

  “And promise to help you?”

  What difference did it make to her?

  “Oh angel, demon!” he exclaimed.

  He nibbled a sweet.

  “And what does Mr Van der Staal think?” he asked roguishly.

  She raised her eyebrows.

  “He doesn’t give it any thought. He thinks only about his art.”

  “And about you.”

  She looked at him, and bowed her head, assenting like a queen.

  “And about me.”

  “You dine with him often.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why not dine with me for a change.”

  “Oh, I’d love to.”

  “Tomorrow evening? Where?”

  “Wherever you like.”

  “At the Grand-Hôtel?”

  “Invite Urania too.”

  “Why not just the two of us?”

  “I think it’s better to include your wife-to-be. I will chaperone her.”

  “You’re right. You’re quite right. And ask Mr Van der Staal if he will do me the honour …”

  “I shall.”

  “Till tomorrow then, at eight-thirty?”

  He got up to take his leave.

  “I ought to go,” he said. “Actually I’d rather stay …”

  “Well stay then … or stay some other time, if you have to go now.”

  “You are so cool.”

  “You don’t think nearly enough of Urania.”

  “I’m thinking of the Women’s Movement.”

  He sat down.

  “You really should go,” she said, with a smile in her eyes. “I have to get dressed … to dine with Mr Van der Staal.”

  He kissed her hand.

  “You are an angel and a demon. You know everything. You can do everything. You are the most interesting woman I have ever met.”

  “Because I correct proofs.”

  “Because you are who you are …”

  And very seriously, still holding her hand, he said, almost threateningly:

  “I shall never be able to forget you …”

  And he left. When she was alone she opened her windows. She was aware of being something of a coquette, but it was in her nature: she did it so naturally, with some men. Certainly not with all men. Never with Duco. Never with men she looked up to. She despised that jumped-up prince, with his flaming eyes and his kisses … But he was sufficient to amuse her …

  She changed and went out, and she arrived in the restaurant long after the appointed hour, found Duco waiting for her, with his head in his hands, and told him at once that the prince had detained her.

  XXIII

  AT FIRST Duco had been unwilling to accept the prince’
s invitation, but Cornélie told him she would enjoy it more if he came. And it had been an excellent dinner in the restaurant of the Grand-Hôtel, and Cornélie had thoroughly enjoyed herself and had looked utterly charming in an old yellow ball gown, a relic from the first days of her marriage, which she had quickly altered a little and draped with the prince’s antique lace. Urania had looked very beautiful, white, fresh, sparkling eyes, sparkling teeth, in a very modern, close-fitting outfit of blue-black sequins on black tulle, as if she were in chain mail; the prince’s verdict was: a siren with a scaly tail. And there had been much peering from other tables at their table, since everyone knew Virgilio di Forte-Braccio; everyone was aware he was to marry a rich American heiress, and everyone had thought that he was being extremely gallant towards the slim, blond woman whom no one knew … She had been married—it was thought; she was chaperoning the princess-to-be; and she was on very close terms with that young man, a Dutch painter, who was studying in Rome. People soon knew the whole story …

  Cornélie had enjoyed people looking at her and had flirted so ostentatiously with the prince that Urania had become angry. And early the next morning, while Cornélie was still in bed, no longer thinking of the previous evening but pondering a phrase in her pamphlet, there was a knock and the maid brought in her breakfast and letters and said that Miss Hope wished to speak to her. Cornélie had Urania shown in, while she remained in bed and drank her hot chocolate. And she looked up in surprise when Urania immediately bombarded her with accusations, burst into sobs, called her names, and made an emotional scene, and said that she now saw through her, admitted that the marchesa had warned her to be wary of Cornélie and called her a dangerous woman. Cornélie allowed her to let off steam and replied coolly that she was not aware of any harm having been done, and that on the contrary she had saved Urania; that on the contrary she, as a married woman, had served Urania as a chaperone, not saying that the prince had wanted to dine alone with her, Cornélie … But Urania refused to listen and went on … Cornélie looked at her and found her vulgar in her rage, speaking her American English as if she were chewing hazelnuts, and finally answered coolly:

  “Dear girl, you’re getting all worked up about nothing. But if you prefer, I shall write to the prince to ask him to stop his attentions …”

  “No, no, don’t do that: Gilio will think I’m jealous …”

  “And what are you then?”

  “Why are you monopolising Gilio? Why are you flirting with him? Why do you flaunt yourself with him, like yesterday, in a crowded restaurant?”

  “Well, if you don’t like it …I won’t flirt with Gilio any more and won’t flaunt myself with him … I don’t give two hoots about that prince of yours …”

  “All the more reason.”

  “It’s agreed, dear child.”

  Her coolness calmed Urania, who asked,

  “And we will stay good friends, won’t we?”

  “But of course, dear girl. Is there any reason for us to fall out? I can’t see any …”

  The pair of them, the prince and Urania, didn’t matter two hoots to her. True, she had preached at Urania at first, but about a general idea: later, when she realised Urania’s insignificance, she lost her interest in the girl. And if a little fun and innocent flirting upset her, well, that would be the end of it … Her mind was more on the proofs of her article that had come in the post … She got up, stretched …

  “Go into the sitting-room, Urania my dear, and let me have my bath …”

  After a while she rejoined Urania in the sitting-room, fresh and smiling. Urania was crying.

  “My dear girl, what are you getting so upset about? Your dream has almost come true. Your marriage is a virtual certainty. Are you waiting for a reply from Chicago? Are you impatient? Send a telegram. I would have telegraphed to start with. You surely don’t think your father has an objection to your becoming duchess of San Stefano?”

  “I don’t know if I do myself,” cried Urania. “I don’t know, I don’t know …”

  Cornélie shrugged her shoulders.

  “You’re cleverer than I thought …”

  “Are you really a good friend? Can I trust you? Can I trust your advice?”

  “I don’t want to give you any more advice. I gave you advice. Now you must make up your own mind.”

  Urania took her hand.

  “What do you prefer: that I take Gilio … or … not?”

  Cornélie looked her deep in the eyes.

  “You’re making yourself unhappy for nothing. You think, and the marchesa probably thinks with you, that I am trying to take Gilio away from you? No, darling, I would not want to marry Gilio, even if he were king and emperor. I have a bit of the Socialist in me: I won’t marry a title …”

  “Neither will I …”

  “Of course you won’t, darling. I would never dare maintain that you were doing it … But you’re asking me what I would like to see? Well, I give you a straight answer: I wouldn’t like to see anything. It leaves me completely cold.”

  “And you call yourself my friend …”

  “Oh, dear child, and I want to remain your friend. But don’t bombard me with so many reproaches, on an empty stomach …”

  “You’re a flirt …”

  “Naturally, sometimes. I promise I won’t be any more with Gilio.”

  “Promise?”

  “Yes, of course. What do I care? I find him amusing, but if it upsets you, I shall gladly sacrifice my amusement. It doesn’t matter that much.”

  “You like Mr Van de Staal?”

  “Very much …”

  “Are you going to marry him, Cornélie?”

  “Oh no, my child. I shan’t marry again. I know what marriage is like. Will you come for a walk with me? It’s nice weather and you’ve overwhelmed me with so many grievances that I shan’t be able to work this morning anyway. It’s wonderful weather: come on: let’s go and buy flowers in Piazza di Spagna …”

  They went, they bought the flowers, and Cornélie saw her back home to Belloni. As she walked on, on her way to the osteria for lunch, she heard someone catching her up. It was the prince.

  “I saw you from the start of Via Aurora. Urania was just going home?”

  “Prince,” she said at once, “this has got to stop.”

  “What?”

  “No more visits, no jokes, no gifts, no dinners in the Grand-Hôtel and no champagne.”

  “Why not?”

  “The princess-to-be does not want it.”

  “Is she jealous?” Cornélie told him about the scene.

  “And you can’t even walk beside me.”

  “Yes I can.”

  “No, no.”

  “I’m going to anyway.”

  “So male rights, might is right?”

  “Exactly.”

  “My vocation is to fight against them. But for today I’m being unfaithful to my vocation.”

  “You are utterly charming … as always.”

  “You mustn’t say that any more.”

  “She’s a nuisance, Urania … Tell me, what do you advise me? Should I marry her?”

  Cornélie burst out laughing.

  “You’re both asking my advice!”

  “Yes, yes, what do you think?”

  “Of course, marry her!”

  He failed to see her contempt.

  “Exchange your coat-of-arms for her purse,” she went on, amid gales of laughter.

  Now he glimpsed it.

  “You despise me, both of us perhaps.”

  “Oh no …”

  “Tell me you do not despise me.”

  “You want to know my opinion. Urania is the sweetest, nicest girl, but should not travel alone. And you …”

  “And I?”

  “You are a charming fellow. Buy those violets for me, will you …”

  “At once, at once.”

  He bought the bouquet.

  “You love violets, don’t you …”

  “Yes. This mus
t be your second … and last gift. This is the parting of the ways.”

  “No, I’ll see you home.”

  “I’m not going home.”

  “Where then?”

  “I’m going to the osteria. Mr Van der Staal is waiting for me there.”

  “Lucky man!”

  “You really think so?”

  “How could it be otherwise?”

  “I don’t know. Goodbye, your Highness.”

  “Invite me,” he begged. “Let me have lunch with you.”

  “No,” she said seriously. “Definitely not. It’s better if you don’t. I think …”

  “What …”

  “That Duco is just like Urania …”

  “Jealous? …When will I see you again then?”

  “Really, it’s better if you don’t … Goodbye, your Highness. Merci … for the violets.”

  He bent over her hand. She made her way to the osteria and saw that Duco had seen their farewell through the window.

  XXIV

  DUCO WAS SILENT and nervous at table. He played with his bread and his fingers were trembling. She felt that something was troubling him.

  “What is it?” she asked sweetly.

  “Cornélie,” he said, full of emotion. “I have to speak to you.”

  “What about?”

  “It’s not right.”

  “In what way?”

  “With the prince. You’ve seen through him, and yet … yet you go on tolerating him, you keep meeting him … Let me finish,” he said, looking around: there were only two Italians in the restaurant, at the table furthest from them, and he could speak without fear of eavesdropping. “I want to finish,” he repeated, as she was about to interrupt him. “Of course you’re free to do as you please. But I’m your friend and I want to advise you. What you’re doing isn’t right. The prince is a blackguard. Ignoble, base … How can you accept gifts and invitations from him? Why did you force me to go with you yesterday evening? That whole dinner was torture for me. You know how much I love you—why shouldn’t I admit it. You know how highly I value you. I can’t bear to see you demeaning yourself with him like that. Let me speak. Demean, I said. He’s not worthy to tie your shoelaces. And you play with him, you banter with him, you flirt … Let me speak: you flirt with him. What do you care about him, that conceited twit. What is he in your life. Let him marry Miss Hope, what do you care about either of them? What do you care about those inferior people, Cornélie? I despise them and so do you. I know. So why do you cross their path? Let them live in their vain world of tides and money, what do you care? I don’t understand you. Oh, I know: you can’t be understood, you are everything that is woman. And I love everything of you that I see: I love you in everything … It doesn’t matter if I don’t understand. Yet I feel that this isn’t right. I’m asking you not to see the prince again. Have nothing more to do with him. Cut him dead … That dinner yesterday was torture …”