“Cornélie …!” he cried, guessing what she had in mind.
“Your angel by Lippo Memmi: I’m buying it for you, sh …”
His eyes filled with tears; they went in.
“Ask how much he wants for it.”
He was so moved that he could not speak and Cornélie had to ask and haggle. She did not bargain for long; she bought the panel for a hundred and twenty lire … She carried it out to the victoria herself. They drove to his studio. They carried the angel upstairs together, smiling, as if they were carrying pure happiness into his home. In his study they put the angel on a chair. Noble, with slightly mongoloid features, the eyes long and almond-shaped, the angel was kneeling in the last flourish of his flight, and the golden sash of his gold-purple robe fluttered up, while his long wings, tall and straight, trembled. Duco gazed at his Memmi, full of a double emotion; at the Angel itself and at her … And quite naturally he opened his arms wide.
“Can I thank you, Cornélie?”
He took her in his arms and she returned his kiss.
XXI
WHEN SHE GOT HOME she found a card from the prince. It was simply a polite gesture after the night before — her impromptu visit to Palazzo Ruspoli — and she gave it no further thought. She was in a pleasant mood, pleasantly content; pleased that her work — at first as an article — had been accepted by The Rights of Women; later she would publish it as a pamphlet; pleased that she had given Duco pleasure with the Memmi. She changed into her peignoir and sat down by the fire in a reflective attitude and thought about how she could put her grand plans into effect … Who should she turn to? An International Women’s Conference was taking place in London and The Rights of Women had sent her a programme. She leafed through it. Various women leaders were to speak; numerous social questions were to be dealt with: the psychology of the child; the responsibility of parents, the impact on domestic life of the admission of women to all professions; women in art, in medicine; women in fashion, women in the home, on the stage; legislation on marriage and divorce …
Potted biographies of the speakers, with portraits, were attached. There were American and Russian, English, Swedish and Danish women; almost every nationality was represented. There were old and young women; some beautiful, some plain; some masculine, some feminine; some hard and energetic with highly sexual boyish faces; the occasional one elegant, with a plunging neckline and permed. They could not be divided into groups. What had been the impulse in their lives to join the fight for women’s rights? For some it had certainly been inclination, nature; for a few a vocation; for others jumping on the bandwagon … And in herself, what had been the impulse …? She dropped the programme into her lap, stared into the fire and reflected … Before her appeared her drawing-room education, her marriage, her divorce … Where was the impulse …? Where was the trigger …? She had gradually begun travelling to widen her horizons; to reflect, to get to know art, the modern life of women … She had gradually slid along the line of her life, without wanting much, without fighting much, even without thinking or feeling much … She looked into herself, as if she were reading a modern novel, the psychology of a woman … Sometimes she seemed to have the will, to want to fight, like now, with her great plans … Sometimes she sat, as she had often in the last few days, by her cosy fire. Sometimes she felt, as she did for Duco now … But mostly her life had been a gradual process, gliding along the line she had to follow, gently impelled by the finger of fate … For an instant she saw clearly. There was a great deal of sincerity in her: she was not play-acting, neither for herself, nor for others. There were contradictions in her, but she admitted them all to herself, to the extent that she saw them. But the openness of her soul became clear at this moment. She saw the complexity of her being briefly sparkling with its many facets … She had written, with élan and intuition, but was what she had written any good? A doubt rose in her. The Dutch statute book lay on the table, a remnant from the time of her divorce … but had she understood the law? Her article had been accepted, but were the editors of The Rights of Women capable of judging it? Again scanning the women’s portraits, their biographies, the seriousness and harshness of some of them, she was frightened that her work would not be good — too superficial — and that her thinking was not guided by study and knowledge … But she could also picture her own portrait in that programme with her name below it and the short note: author of ‘The Social Situation of the Divorced Woman’, published in The Rights of Women; with dates, etc. And she smiled: how very convincing it sounded! But how difficult it was to study, to do things and to know and act and negotiate the modern movement of life! Now she was in Rome: she would have liked to be in London. But the journey was not convenient at this moment. She had felt rich when she bought Duco’s Memmi, thinking of her fee: and now she felt poor. She would have liked to go to London … But she would have missed Duco; and the conference only lasted a week. She had now settled in here somewhat, she was coming to love Rome, her rooms, the Colosseum over there like a dark arch, like the dark wings of a theatre at the end of the city, and beyond the vague blue mountains … Then she thought of the prince for a moment, and for the first time she thought of yesterday, she recalled the evening, an evening of badinage and champagne: Duco sat silent and sulky, Urania crushed, and the prince, small, vivacious, slim, aroused from the dull routine of being a distinguished man of the world, with his carbuncle-like eyes narrowed. She liked him, she occasionally liked that coquettish, flirting tone, and the prince had understood her. She had saved Urania, she was sure of that: she felt the satisfaction of her good deed …
She was too lazy to get dressed and go to the restaurant. She was not very hungry and just had a light supper made with what she had in the cupboard: a few eggs, bread, some fruit. But she thought of Duco, who was bound to be waiting at their table and wrote him a note that she had delivered by the concierge’s little son …
Duco was just coming downstairs on his way out to the restaurant when he bumped into the lad on the stairs. He read the note, and was bitterly disappointed. He felt little, sad as a child. And he went back to his studio, lit a few lamps, threw himself down on a wide sofa, and in the twilight lay peering at Memmi’s angel, which, still on the chair, glowed faintly gold in the centre of the room, as a sweet solace, with a gesture of annunciation, as if wanting to announce all the mysterious things that were to happen …
XXII
A FEW DAYS LATER Cornélie was waiting for the visit of the prince, who had asked to see her. She sat at her desk correcting the proofs of her article. A lamp on the desk lit her softly through a yellow silk shade; and she wore a white silk crêpe peignoir, with a corsage of violets. Another, standing, lamp gave a second source of illumination from a corner of the room; and the room was duskily cosy and intimate in the third glow of a wood fire — with watercolours by Duco, sketches and photographs, white anemones in vases, violets everywhere, and the occasional large palm. Her desk was strewn with the books and printed sheets that bore witness to her work.
There was a knock and she called out for the visitor to enter, and when the prince came in, she remained seated for a moment, then put down her pen and rose. She approached him with a smile and proffered her hand, which he kissed. He was dressed very smartly in his morning coat, top hat and light-grey gloves; a pearl tie-pin. They sat down by the fire and he paid her a succession of compliments, on her decor, on her outfit and on her eyes. She joined in the repartee and he asked if he was disturbing her.