“A week!” she whispered. “A whole week since I’ve seen you, Duco, my darling! I can’t do without you for so long. With everything I thought and did, and admired, I thought of you and of how beautiful you would find it here. You’ve been here before, as a tourist. Oh, but this is different. What makes it so nice is staying, not passing through, but staying. That lake, that cathedral, those hills! Those rooms inside. Neglected but so beautiful. The three courtyards are run-down, the fountains are crumbling … But the style of the atrium, the gloominess of the dining-room, the poetry of this pergola … Duco, isn’t this pergola like a classical ode? We’ve sometimes read Horace together, you translated those poems for me so beautifully, you improvised so wonderfully! How handsome you are, you know so much, you have such a beautiful sensibility. I love your eyes, your voice, and all of you, everything that is you … I can’t tell you, Duco. I have gradually surrendered to your every word, to your love of Rome, your love of museums, to the way you see the skies that you wash onto your watercolours. You’re so wonderfully calm, almost like this lake. Oh, don’t laugh, don’t push me away: I haven’t seen you for a week, I need to speak to you like this. Am I exaggerating? I don’t feel ordinary here, there’s something in that air, that sky, that light that makes me speak like this. It’s so beautiful that I can’t believe it’s ordinary life, ordinary reality … Do you remember in Sorrento on the terrace of that hotel, when we looked out over the sea, over the pearly sea, with Naples so white in the distance, I felt the same way then too, but did not dare put it into words: it was in the morning, there were people around us, who though we could not see them could see us and whom I was aware of around us: but now we’re alone, and now I want to say it to you, in your arms, at your breast: I’m so happy! I love you so much! I feel that my soul, everything that is best in me is you! You’re laughing, but you don’t believe me. Do you? Do you believe me?”
“Yes, I believe you, I’m not laughing at you, I’m just laughing. I’m so happy about you and about my art. You’ve taught me to work, you’ve roused me from my dreams! I’m so happy about Banners: I have letters from London, which I can let you read tomorrow. I owe everything to you. It’s scarcely believable that this is ordinary life. Life was so quiet in Rome. I didn’t see anyone, I worked a bit—but not much; and I ate alone in the osteria. The two Italians, you know, were 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 conversations in Borghese, and on the Palatine? What strangers we still were to each other, not fitting together. But I felt at once, I think, that something beautiful would grow between us …”
She said nothing, and remained against his chest. The cricket chirped again in a kind of long vibrato. But apart from that everything slept …
“Between us …” she repeated as if in a fever, and she surrendered completely.
The whole night slept, and while they breathed their lives in each other’s arms, above their heads the enchanted caryatids—fauns and nymphs—bore in their sleep the leafy canopy of the pergola, between them and the star-strewn sky.
XXXVIII
GILIO FOUND THE VACATION in San Stefano dreadful. Every morning at six o’clock he had to be ready to attend mass with Prince Ercole, Urania and the marchesa in the castle chapel. Afterwards he had too much time on his hands. He had gone cycling a few times with Robert Hope, but the young Westerner was too energetic for him, as was his sister, Urania. He flirted and argued with Cornélie a little, but secretly he was still insulted, and angry with himself and her. He remembered when she first arrived that evening at Palazzo Ruspoli; when she had interrupted his rendezvous with Urania. And in the golden camera degli sposi she had again proved too strong for him! He seethed when he thought of it, and he hated her and swore to the great gods that he would be avenged. He cursed his own indecision. He was too weak to force her with the strength of his passion and he should never have had to force her: he was used to people giving in. And he was forced to hear from her, the Dutch woman, that his temperament was not compatible with hers! What was it with that woman? What did she mean by that? He was so unused to thinking, such a thoughtless child with an easy-going Italian nature, so used to letting himself be swayed by his whim and impulse, that he scarcely understood her—although he suspected the sense of her words—scarcely understood her diffidence. Why was she like this with him, the foreign woman with her new devilish ideas, who did not bother about the world, who was not interested in marriage, who lived with a painter, as his mistress! She had no religion, and no morals—he knew all about religion and morals—she was a devil; she was demonic: didn’t she know all about the manoeuvres of Lucia Belloni, and hadn’t Aunt Lucia warned him the other day that she was dangerous, demonic, a devil? She was a witch! Why did she refuse him? Hadn’t he seen her silhouette crossing the courtyard last night in the moonlight, clearly next to the figure of Van der Staal, and hadn’t he seen them opening the door to the terrace with the pergola on it? And had he not watched sleeplessly for an hour, two hours, until he had seen them return, closing the door behind them? And why did she love only him, that painter? Oh, he hated him with all the burning hatred of his jealousy, he hated her, because of her exclusivity, her contempt, all her joking and flirting, as if he were a jester, a clown! What was he asking? The favour of her love such as she granted her lover! He was not asking for anything serious; no oaths, no lifelong bonds; he was asking for so little: the occasional hour of love. It didn’t matter: he had never attached much importance to it. And she refused him it. No, he didn’t understand her, but he did understand that she despised him, and he, he hated both her and him. And he was in love with her with all the violence of his thwarted passion. In the boredom of the vacation, which was forced upon him by his wife in her newfound love for their dilapidated eyrie, his hatred and the thought of revenge was something for his empty mind to occupy itself with. Outwardly he was his old self again, and he flirted with Cornélie, and indeed more than before, in order to tease Van der Staal. And when his cousin, the Countess di Rosavilla, his ‘white’ cousin—lady-in-waiting to the queen—came to visit them for a few days, he flirted with her too, and tried to awaken Cornélie’s jealousy, which he failed to do, and he consoled himself with the countess. She compensated him for his disappointment. She was no longer a young woman, but had the cold, sculptural, slightly stupid looks of a Juno: she had bulging Juno eyes: she was one of the leaders of fashion at the Quirinal and in the ‘white’ world, and her romantic reputation was common knowledge. She had never had a liaison with Gilio lasting more than an hour. She had simple ideas about love, fairly black and white. Her cheerful perversity amused Gilio. And as they flirted in corners, touching toes under her gown, Gilio told her about Cornélie, Duco and the adventure in the camera degli sposi, and he asked his cousin if she understood? No, the Countess di Rosavilla didn’t really understand either. Temperament? Well, perhaps she—questa Cornelia—preferred blond or brown: there were women who were choosy … And Gilio laughed. It was so simple, l’amore, there wasn’t much to talk about.
Cornélie was glad that Gilio had the countess. With Duco she took an interest in Urania’s plans; he had conversations with the architect. And Duco was indignant and advised against refurbishing in that unstylish restoration manner—it cost a fortune, and ruined everything.
Urania was taken aback, but Duco continued, rubbished the architect, advised her to restore only what was really collapsing, but to prop up, support and preserve as much as possible. And one morning Prince Ercole deigned to walk through the long rooms with Duco, Urania and Cornélie. One could do so much—argued Duco—by simply regularly maintaining and artistically arranging what was at present piled up unthinkingly. The curtains? asked Urania. Leave them, said Duco: at most new net curtains, but the old red Venetian damask … Oh, leave it, leave it: it was so beautiful: here and there, with great care, it could be repaired! And the old prince was delighted, because the restoration of San Stefano, done
in this way, would cost thousands less and be more artistic: he regarded his daughter-in-law’s money as his own and he loved it even more than he loved her. He was delighted: he took Duco with him to the library: he showed him the old missals; the old family books and documents, charters and gifts; he showed him his coins and medals. It was all a mess, neglected, disregarded at first because of lack of money and then out of indifference, but now Urania wanted to reorganise the family museum with scholars from Rome, Florence and Bologna. The old prince was in favour, now that there was money again. And the scholars came and stayed at the castle, and Duco was tied up with them for whole mornings. He was in his element. He lived in an enchantment with the past, no longer the Classical past, but the Middle Ages and the Renaissance. The days were too short. And his love for San Stefano was so great that once an archivist took him for the young prince: Prince Virgilio. At dinner Prince Ercole told the anecdote. Everyone laughed, but Gilio found the joke simply priceless, while the archivist, who was at the table, did not know how to make himself small enough to atone.
XXXIX
GILIO HAD TAKEN THE ADVICE of his cousin, the Countess di Rosavilla. Immediately after dinner he crept outside, and walked through the pergola as far as the rotunda, through which moonlight fell as if into a white dish. But there was shadow behind some caryatids and there he hid. He waited for an hour. But the night slept, the caryatids slept, standing motionless and supporting the canopy of leaves. He cursed and crept inside. He walked down the corridors on tiptoe and listened at Van der Staal’s door. There was no sound, but perhaps he was asleep …?
But Gilio crept down another corridor, and listened at Cornélie’s door. He held his breath … Yes, there was the sound of voices. They were together! Together!! He clenched his fists and went back, But why was he getting excited! He knew about their affair, didn’t he? Why should they not be together here? And he knocked at the countess’s door …
The following evening he again waited at the rotunda. But they did not come. After a few evenings, as he sat waiting, fighting down his irritation, he saw them approaching. He saw Duco closing the terrace gate behind him: the lock creaked rustily in the distance. He saw them approaching slowly in the light, then fading in the shadow and emerging again into the moonlight. She sat on a marble bench … How happy they seemed! He was jealous of their happiness; mainly jealous of him. And how soft and tender she was, she who thought him, Gilio, fit only for amusement, for flirting with: a clown; she, the demonic woman, was angelic with the man she loved! She leaned towards her lover with a smiling caress, with a curving of her arm, and an approach of her lips, with a fervently enfolding motion, with such a velvety languor of love, that he would never have suspected in her, with her cold, joking flirting with him, Gilio. Now she was leaning on Duco’s arm, on his chest, her face against his … Oh her kiss, how it set Gilio aflame and enraged him! This was no longer her icy sensual indifference to him, Gilio, in the camera degli sposi! And he could no longer contain himself: he would at least disrupt this moment of love. And trembling with nervousness, he emerged from behind the caryatid, and went towards them through the rotunda. They did not see him immediately, lost as they were in each other’s eyes … But suddenly they started, both at once; their arms dropped to their sides, and they stood up on a single movement and saw him approaching, obviously not recognising him at once. Only when he was very close did they recognise him and they looked at him silently in alarm, waiting to hear what he had to say. He made an ironic bow.
“A lovely evening, isn’t it? The view is so lovely from the pergola at night. You’re right to come and enjoy it. I hope I’m not disturbing you with my unexpected presence!”
His trembling voice was so malevolently quarrelsome that they could be in no doubt about his intense displeasure.
“Of course not, prince!” replied Cornélie, regaining her composure. “Although I’m puzzled as to what you’re doing here at this hour.”
“And what are you doing here at this hour?”
“What am I doing here? I’m sitting here with Van der Staal …”
“At this hour?”
“At this hour! What do you mean, prince, what are you getting at?”
“What am I getting at? That the pergola is closed at night.”
“Prince,” said Duco, “I don’t like your tone.”
“And I don’t like you at all …”
“If you were not my host, I’d give you a slap in the face …” Cornélie held Duco’s arm back: the prince cursed and clenched his fists.
“Prince,” she said. “It’s obvious that you want to provoke a scene with us. Why? What objection do you have to my meeting Van der Staal here at night? Firstly, our affair is no secret to you. And secondly, I consider it unworthy of you to come and spy on us here.”
“Unworthy? Unworthy?” He was incapable of controlling himself any longer. “I’m unworthy, petty, coarse, and not a real man, I don’t have the kind of temperament that suits you? His temperament suits you all right, doesn’t it? I heard the sound of your kiss. Devil! Devil! Demon! No one has ever insulted me like you. I have never put up with as much from anybody. I won’t any longer! You struck me, demon, devil! He, he threatens to hit me. My patience is at an end. I can’t bear your refusing me, in my own house, what you grant to him … He is not your husband! He is not your husband! I have just as much right as he has, and if he reckons that he has more right than I do, then I hate him! …”
And he flew at Duco in blind fury, attacking his throat. The assault was so unexpected that Duco stumbled. They wrestled together, both furious. All their suppressed antipathy exploded into rage. They did not hear Cornélie’s entreaties, they punched each other, encircled each other’s arms and legs, chest pressed against chest. Then Cornélie saw something flash. In the light she saw the prince draw a knife. But the very movement gave Duco the advantage; he seized the prince’s wrist in a grip of iron and forced him to the ground, pressed his knee firmly against Gilio’s chest and with the other hand grasped his throat.
“Let go,” screamed the prince.
“Let go of that knife!” screamed Duco.
The prince refused and hung on to it.
“Let go,” he screamed again.
“Let go of that knife …”
The knife fell from his grasp. Duco grabbed it and stood up.
“Get up!” he said. “If you want we can continue this fight tomorrow in a less primitive way. Not with a knife but with swords or pistols.”
The prince had got up. He was panting, blue in the face … He came to his senses.
“No,” he said slowly. “I don’t want to fight a duel. Unless you do. But I don’t want to. I’m beaten … There’s a demonic force in her, which would always ensure that you won, whatever game we played. We have already duelled. This fight means more to me than an ordinary duel. Only if you wish, then I have no objection. But now I know for sure that you would kill me. She is protecting you …”
“I don’t want a duel,” said Duco.
“Then let us regard this fight as a duel, and let us shake hands …”
Duco put out his hand, and Gilio shook it.
“Forgive me,” he said condescendingly to Cornélie, “I have insulted you …”
“No,” she said. “I won’t forgive you.”
“We must forgive each other. I forgive you your slap.”
“I’m not forgiving you anything. I will never forgive you this evening, not your spying, not your lack of self control, not your rights that you seem to think you can exert over me as an unmarried woman, although I concede you no rights: neither your attack, nor your knife.”
“So we are enemies for ever?”
“Yes, forever. I shall leave your house tomorrow …”
“I acted wrongly,” he admitted humbly. “Forgive me. My blood is hot.”
“Up to now I have known you as a gentleman …”
“I am also an Italian.”
“I won’t forgive y
ou.”
“I have proved to you in the past that I could be a good friend.”
“This is not the moment to remind me.”
“I’m reminding you of everything that might make you better disposed towards me.”
“That is all to no avail.”
“Enemies then?”
“Yes. Let us go in. I shall leave your house tomorrow …”
“I will perform any penance you impose on me.”
“I am not imposing anything on you. I want to end this conversation and I want to go home.”
“I shall lead the way …”
He did so. They walked through the pergola. He opened the terrace gate himself and let them through first.
They went to their rooms in silence.
The castle was asleep and in darkness. The prince lit the way with a match. Duco reached his room first.
“I shall light your way a little further,” said the prince humbly.
He accompanied Cornélie to her door with a second match. There he fell on his knees.
“Forgive me,” he whispered with a catch in his throat.
“No,” she said.
And without further ado she closed the door behind her. He stayed kneeling for a moment. Then he slowly got up. His neck was hurting. His shoulder felt as if he had dislocated it.
Inevitable Page 17
