He called outside to someone down below. After a while an old servant brought a heavy bunch of keys and handed it to the prince.
“Off you go, Egisto! I know the keys.”
The man went. The prince opened a heavy bronze door. He pointed out the reliefs to her.
“Giovanni da Bologna,” he said.
They went on, through a room with arazzi, tapestries on the walls; the prince pointed out the ceiling by Ghirlandaio: the apotheosis of the only pope in the San Stefano family. Then through a room with mirrors, painted by Mario de’ Fiori. The dusty dankness of a poorly maintained museum, shrouded in a haze of neglect and indifference, made it hard to breathe; the white silk drapes were yellow with age and fouled by flies; the red top curtains of Venetian damask were threadbare and moth-eaten; the painted mirrors were weathered and dulled; the arms of the glass Venetian chandeliers were broken. Carelessly pushed aside the most precious cabinets, inlaid with bronze, mother-of-pearl and ivory panels, mosaic tables of lapis lazuli, malachite and green, yellow, black and pink marbles, stood as if in an attic like lumber; the arazzi of Saul and David, Esther, Holofernes, Solomon, were no longer alive with the emotion of the figures, smothered as they were under the thick grey layer of dust that covered their perished fabric and neutralised all colour.
Through the immense rooms, in their curtained semi-darkness, there wafted something like a sadness, a melancholy of bitterness, hopeless, vanquished, a slow extinction of greatness and grandeur; among the masterpieces of the most famous painters there were sad gaps, pointing to an acute shortage of money, to paintings, despite everything, sold off for a fortune … Cornélie remembered an incident of a few years ago involving a court case, an attempt to send Raphaels out of the country illegally and sell them in Berlin … And Gilio guided her through the spectral rooms, as cheerful as a young boy, light-hearted as a child, happy to have a diversion, mentioning names to her hurriedly, without love or interest, which he had heard in his childhood, but still making mistakes, correcting himself, and finally admitting with a laugh that he had forgotten.
“And here is the camera degli sposi …”
He searched through the bunch of keys, reading the copper tags, and when he had opened the creaking door, they went inside.
There was a suddenly intense, exquisite, glorious feeling of intimacy: a large bedroom, all in gold, all matt gold, tarnished and perished and softened gold thread; on the walls gold-coloured arazzi: the birth of Venus from the golden foam of a golden ocean, Venus with Mars, Venus with Adonis, Venus with Cupid: the pale pink nakedness of mythology flowering for a moment in nothing but a golden atmosphere and ambience, in gold bunches among gold flowers; and cupids and swans and wild boar in gold; gold peacocks at gold fountains; water and clouds of elemental gold, and all the gold with a patina and perished and softened into a single languorous sunset of dying rays: the four-poster bed, gold under a canopy of gold brocade on which the family coats-of-arms were embroidered in heavy relief: the gold bedspread, but all the gold lifeless, all the gold reduced to a melancholy of an almost greying glimmer, erased, swept away, jaded, as if the dusty centuries had cast a shadow, spread a cobweb over it.
“How beautiful!” said Cornélie.
“Our famous bridal chamber,” laughed the prince. “Strange idea those ancestors of ours had, to sleep in such a remarkable room on their first night. If they married into our family, they slept here on their first night. It was a kind of superstition. The young woman would only stay faithful if she had spent the first night here with her husband. Poor Urania! We did not sleep here, signora mia, among all those indecent goddesses of love. We no longer observe the family tradition. Urania is destined by fate to be unfaithful to me. Unless I take that fate upon myself …”
“I expect no mention was made in the family tradition of the faithfulness of the men?”
“No, not much importance was attached to it—then or now.”
“It is wonderful,” repeated Cornélie, looking round. “How marvellous Duco will find this. Oh prince, I have never seen a room like this! Look at Venus there with the wounded Adonis, his head in her lap, the nymphs lamenting … It’s a fairy tale …”
“There’s too much gold for me …”
“Perhaps that’s what it used to be like, too much gold …”
“Lots of gold stood for riches and the power of love. The riches have gone now …”
“But the gold has softened now, become so grey …”
“The power of love has remained: the San Stefanos have always been great lovers.”
He went on joking and pointed to the lewdness of the scenes and ventured an allusion.
She pretended not to hear, and looked at the arazzi. In the side panels golden peacocks drank from golden fountains and cupids played with doves.
“I love you so much!” he whispered in her ear and put his arms round her waist. “Angel, angel!”
She warded him off.
“Prince …”
“Call me Gilio …!”
“Why can’t we be just good friends …”
“Because I want more than friendship.”
She now freed herself completely.
“I don’t,” she replied coolly.
“So you have only one love?”
“Yes …”
“That’s impossible.”
“Why …”
“Because in that case you would marry him. If you loved no one but him, Van der Staal, you would marry him.”
“I am against marriage.”
“Hot air. You’re not marrying him, in order to be free. And if you want to be free, I also have a right to ask, for my moment of love.”
She looked at him strangely and he could feel her contempt.
“You don’t … understand me at all,” she said slowly and pityingly.
“You understand me though.”
“Oh yes. You are so very simple.”
“Why don’t you want to?”
“Because I don’t want to.”
“Why not?”
“Because I have no feelings for you.”
“Why not!?” he persisted, and his hands clenched.
“Why not?” she repeated. “Because I find you jolly and charming to play around with, but apart from that your temperament and mine are not compatible.”
“What do you know about my temperament?”
“I see you.”
“You’re not a doctor.”
“I’m a woman.”
“And I am a man.”
“But not for me.”
Furiously and with a curse he embraced her with trembling arms. Before she could stop him he had kissed her wildly. She struggled free and struck him straight in the face. He cursed again, grabbed wildly at her, but she drew herself up higher.
“Prince!” she said, bursting out laughing. “Surely you don’t think you can force me?”
“Of course I do.”
She laughed mockingly.
“You can’t,” she said loudly. “Because I don’t want to and I won’t be forced.”
This was a red rag to a bull: he was furious. He had never been defied and resisted like this, he had always been triumphant. She saw him charging toward her, but calmly threw open the door of the room.
The long galleries and rooms stretched into the distance, apparently endlessly. There was something about that perspective of ancestral space that restrained him. He was more beside himself than a calculating violator. She walked on very slowly looking intently left and right.
He joined her and walked beside her.
“You struck me,” he panted, furious. “I shall never forgive you for that. Never!”
“I ask your forgiveness,” she said with her sweetest voice and smile. “But I had to defend myself, didn’t I?”
“Why?”
“Prince,” she said persuasively. “Why all that anger and passion and violence. You can be so sweet; a little while ago in Rome you were so charming. We were
such good friends. I loved your conversation and your wit and kind heart. Now everything’s spoiled.”
“No,” he begged her.
“Oh yes. You refuse to understand me. Your temperament and mine are not compatible. Can’t you understand that? You force me to put things crudely by being crude yourself.”
“I …?”
“Yes; you do not believe in the integrity of my independence.”
“No!”
“Is that a courteous way to behave to a woman?”
“I am only courteous up to a certain point.”
“We’ve passed that point. So please be courteous again as you were.”
“You’re playing with me. I shan’t forget. I’ll have my revenge.”
“So, a life and death battle?”
“No, a victory, for me.”
They had almost reached the atrium.
“Thank you for the guided tour,” she said, a little mockingly. “The camera degli sposi in particular was magnificent. Don’t let us be so angry any more.”
She proffered her hand.
“No,” he said. “You struck me in the face, here. My cheek is still glowing. I won’t take your hand.”
“Poor cheek,” she teased. “Poor prince! Did I hit you hard?”
“Yes …”
“How can I cool your glowing cheek?”
He looked at her, still panting, angry and red, with his eyes like sparkling carbuncles.
“You are more of a flirt than any Italian woman I know.”
She laughed.
“With a kiss?” she asked.
“Demon!” he hissed through his teeth.
“With a kiss?” she repeated.
“Yes,” he said. “There, in our camera degli sposi.”
“No, here.”
“Demon!” he said, more softly and with more of a hiss.
She give him a fleeting kiss. Then she offered him her hand.
“And now this is over. The incident is closed.”
“Angel, devil,” he hissed after her.
She looked over the balustrade at the lake. Night had fallen and the lake was shrouded in mist. She was no longer thinking of him, although he was still standing behind her. She thought of him as a young boy, who sometimes amused her and now had misbehaved. She thought no more of him; she thought of Duco.
“How beautiful he will find it here,” she thought. “Oh, I miss him so! …”
From behind them came the rustle of women’s clothes. It was Urania and the Marchesa Belloni.
XXXIV
URANIA ASKED CORNÉLIE to come in, as it was not healthy outside, with the mist rising from the lake after sunset. The marchesa’s greeting was cool, stiff and she narrowed her eyes as if she could not quite remember Cornélie.
“I can quite imagine that,” said Cornélie, with an acerbic smile. “You see lodgers in your pensione every day, and I stayed for a much shorter time than you’d counted on. I hope that my rooms were quickly relet and that you did not suffer any loss as a result of my departure, marchesa?”
The marchesa looked at her dumbfounded. Here, at San Stefano, she was in her element as a marchioness; she, the sister-in-law of the old prince, never spoke about her pensione for foreigners here; she never met guests from Rome, who only visited the castle occasionally as tourists at certain times, while she, the marchioness spent several weeks here for her summer vacation. Here she had left behind her dexterity in extolling chilly rooms, her business acumen in charging as much for them as she dared. Here she carried her coiffeured mane with great dignity and though she still wore her glass jewellery in her ears, a shiny new spencer covered her ample bosom. She could not help it if she, born a countess, she the Marchesa Belloni—the marquess had been a brother of the late princess—lacked distinction, in spite of all the quarters on her coat-of-arms, she still felt what she was, an aristocrat. Her acquaintances, the monsignori, whom she sometimes met at San Stefano, glossed over the Pensione Belloni, and called it Palazzo Belloni.
“Oh yes,” she said finally, with a distinguished blinking of the eyes, very coolly. “Now I remember you … although I have forgotten your name … A friend of Princess Urania’s, are you not? Pleased to meet you again … very pleased.”
“And what do you say to your friend’s marriage?” she asked as she walked up the stairs side by side with Cornélie for a moment, between the marble candelabras of Mino de Fiesole. Gilio, still angry and flushed, and not calmed by the kiss, had withdrawn and Urania had quickly gone on ahead.
The marchesa knew of Cornélie’s initial opposition, of her previous advice to Urania, and she was certain that Cornélie had acted in this way because she had fancied Gilio for herself. There was irony and triumph in her question.
“That it was made in heaven,” replied Cornélie, equally ironically. “I believe this marriage is truly blessed.”
“By His Holiness,” said the marchesa naively, not understanding.
“Of course; the blessing of His Holiness … and the blessing of Heaven …”
“I did not think you were religious?”
“Sometimes … When I think of their marriage, I become religious again. What a comfort for the soul of Princess Urania that she should have become a Catholic. What a joy in her life that she should have married caro Gilio. There is still happiness and peace in life.”
The marchesa had a vague inkling of her mockery, and thought her a dangerous woman.
“And you, does our religion have no attraction for you?”
“A great deal! I have a great feeling for beautiful churches and paintings. But that is an artistic view. You probably won’t understand that, because I don’t believe you are artistic, are you, marchesa? And marriage too has an attraction for me, a marriage like Urania’s. Couldn’t you help me, marchesa? I could stay a whole winter at your pensione, and who knows, I might become a Catholic myself … You could try Rudyard for me, or if that fails, the two monsignori … Then I would be bound to convert … And it would certainly be profitable.”
The marchesa looked at her haughtily, white with rage.
“Profitable …”
“If you arrange an Italian title for me, with money that is, it would definitely be profitable.”
“How do you mean?”
“Just ask the old prince and the monsignori, marchesa …”
“What do you know? What are you thinking?”
“I? Nothing!” replied Cornélie coolly. “But I have second sight. Sometimes I suddenly see things … So stay on the good side of me, and don’t pretend to forget your old lodgers any more … Is this Princess Urania’s room? After you, marchesa …”
The marchesa went in shivering: witchcraft crossed her mind. How did that woman know anything about her negotiations with the old prince and the monsignori? How did she suspect that Urania’s marriage and her conversion had brought her some tens of thousands of lire?
She had not only been taught a lesson: she was trembling, she was afraid. Was the woman the devil then? Did she have the evil eye? And in the folds of her dress the marchesa made the sign of the gettatura with her little finger and index finger, and murmured, “Get thee behind me, Satan …”
Urania poured tea in her own drawing-room. The room looked out through three-pointed arch windows on the town and the ancient cathedral, which in an orange reflection of the last rays of sunlight emerged for a moment from its grey dust of ages with the indistinct swirl of its saints, prophets and angels. The room, hung with beautiful arazzi, an allegory of abundance—nymphs with gushing cornucopias—was half antique, half modern, not in uniformly good taste or pure in tone, with some ghastly banal modern ornaments, a few jarring examples of modern convenience, but still comfortable, lived-in, and Urania’s home. A young man rose from his chair and Urania introduced him as her brother. Young Hope was a sturdy, fresh-faced young man of eighteen; he was still wearing his cycling suit: she would let him, said his sister, just to have a cup of tea. She stroked his short-haired round
head, and with the permission of the ladies gave him his cup first: then he would go and change. He looked so odd sitting there, so new, and so healthy, with his fresh pink complexion, his broad chest, his strong hands and firm calves, the youthfulness of a young Yankee farmer who, despite the millions of Hope Senior, was working on his farm way out West, to make his own fortune; he looked so odd there in old San Stefano, with a view of that severely symbolic cathedral, against that background of antique arazzi, and suddenly Cornélie found the new young princess even stranger … Her name, her American name of Urania, sounded good: Princess Urania suddenly acquired a very nice ring … But the young woman, a little pale, a little melancholy, with her Yankee English between her teeth, suddenly did not look so at home amid this tarnished glory of the San Stefanos … Cornélie kept forgetting that she was the Princess di Forte-Braccio: she still saw her as Miss Hope. And yet Urania had tact, ease of manner and the ability to assimilate; a very considerable ability. Gilio had come in, and the few words that she addressed to her husband, natural, dignified almost, and yet to Cornélie’s ear with a tone of resigned disillusion, made her pity the princess. From the outset she had felt a vague sympathy for Urania. Gilio was cool with her in an offhand way, the marchesa condescending and protective. And then the terrible loneliness around her of all that dilapidated grandeur. She stroked her young brother’s head. She spoiled him, asked if the tea were nice and stuffed him full of sandwiches, as he was hungry after his cycle trip. In him she had something of home, something of Chicago: she almost clung to him … But apart from that she was surrounded by the oppressive melancholy of the huge castle, the neglected glory of its classical artistic splendour, the superciliousness of aristocratic pride, which had no need of her, though it did need her millions. And for Cornélie she lost all her ridiculousness as an American parvenue; and on the contrary acquired something tragic as a youthful victim. How strange they looked sitting there, she, the young princess and her brother, with his muscular calves!
Urania showed them her portfolio of pictures and drawings: ideas of a young architect from Rome for the restoration of the castle. And Urania became excited, colour came into her cheeks when Cornélie asked whether so much restoration would be aesthetically pleasing. She defended her architect. Gilio smoked cigarettes without showing any interest and was out of humour. The marchesa sat there like an idol, with her lion’s mane, in which the crystal earrings glittered. She was afraid of Cornélie and resolved to be on her guard. A steward came to tell the princess that dinner was ready. And Cornélie recognised him as old Giuseppe from Pensione Belloni, the old archducal steward, who had dropped a spoon, as Rudyard had told her. She looked at Urania with a smile and Urania blushed.
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