The following morning he worked hard, without a word, lost in his dream, his work, and she too, silent, content, happy, carefully checked her blouses and skirts, and worked out that she would not need anything for a whole year, and that her old clothes were sufficient for their life of happiness and simplicity.
And she wrote a very short reply to her father, saying that she forgave him, felt sympathy for them all, but was not returning to The Hague. She would support herself, by writing. Italy was cheap. That was all she wrote. She did not mention Duco. She took leave of her family, in her mind and in life. She had not found any sympathy among any of them during her sad marriage, or during the agony of her divorce, and now she in turn felt no warmth. And her happiness made her one-sided and selfish. She wanted nothing but Duco, nothing but their togetherness and harmony. He worked and smiled at her now and then as she lay on the sofa and reflected. She looked at the women marching to battle; she too would not be able to remain lying on the sofa, she too would have to fight. She had a presentiment that she would have to fight: for him. He was now working in the art business, but if that, after a positive result, after a personal and public success, were to slacken off — for a moment — it would be normal and logical and she would have to fight. He was all that was noble in both their lives, his art could not support her. His fortune amounted to almost nothing. She would like to work and earn money for both of them, so that he could hold fast to the pure principles of his art. But how, how was one to fight, work, work for their lives and for a living? What could she do? Write? It paid so little. What else? A slight melancholy enveloped her, because there was so little she could do. She had some minor talents and skills: she had a good style, she sang, played the piano, she could make a blouse and she knew a little about cooking She would cook herself now and then and sew her own clothes. But all of that was so petty, so little. Fight, work? How? Well, she would do what she could. And suddenly she picked up a Baedeker, leafed through it and sat down at Duco’s desk, at which she also wrote. And she thought for a moment and began an article. A travel letter for a magazine on the area around Naples: that was easier than starting immediately on Rome. And in the studio, filled with the slight heat of a stove, as it was north-facing and chilly, it became absolutely stilclass="underline" only her pen scratched occasionally, or he rummaged among his crayons and pencils. She wrote a few pages but could not find an ending … Then she got up and he turned and smiled at her: his smile of affectionate happiness …
And she read out what she had written to him. It was not the style of her pamphlet. It was not invective: it was a sweet travel letter …
He quite liked it, but did not think it anything special … But it didn’t have to be, she said defensively. And he hugged her, for her hard work and courage. It rained that day and they did not go out for their lunch; she had some eggs and tomatoes and made an omelette on a paraffin stove. They drank only water and ate lots of bread with it. And while the rain lashed the large, uncurtained studio window, they enjoyed their meal, like two birds huddling close together to avoid getting wet.
XXVIII
IT WAS A COUPLE OF MONTHS after Easter: the spring days of May. The flood of tourists had subsided immediately after the great church festivals and Rome was already very hot and became very quiet. One morning, as Cornélie was crossing Piazza di Spagna, where the sunshine flowed along the creamy yellow facade of Trinità de’ Monti, down the monumental staircase, where only a few beggars and a last flower boy sat dreamily blinking in a corner, she saw the prince coming towards her. He greeted her with a happy smile and hastened toward her.
“I am so happy to meet you. I’m in Rome for a few days and I have to go to San Stefano to see my father on business. Such a nuisance, business, especially at this time. Urania is in Nice. But it’s hot, we’re going away. We’ve just returned from a trip through the Mediterranean. Four weeks on a friend’s yacht. It was wonderful! Why haven’t you come to see us in Nice, as Urania asked you in her letters?”
“I really couldn’t come …”
“I called on you at Via dei Serpenti yesterday. But I was told you had moved …”
He looked at her with a mocking laugh in his small, sparkling eyes. She said nothing.
“I did not wish to be indiscreet,” he concluded meaningfully …“Where are you going?”
“I have to go to the post office.”
“I have nothing to do. May I walk with you? Don’t you find it too hot to walk?”
“Oh no, I like the heat. Of course you may. How is Urania?”
“Fine, excellent. She’s excellent. She’s marvellous, simply marvellous. I would never have thought it. I would never have dared hope it. She cuts a brilliant figure. As far as that is concerned, I have no regrets about my marriage. But apart from that, what a disappointment, what deception. Gesù mio!”
“Why?”
“You guessed, didn’t you — how I still have no idea — the price tag I carried? Not five, but ten million. Oh, signora mia, the deceit! You saw my father-in-law at our wedding. What a Yankee, what a stocking-salesman and what a businessman! We can’t cope with that. Not I, not my father, and not the marchesa. First promises, contracts, oh yes. But then haggling about this, haggling about that. We don’t know how to do that. I couldn’t. Nor could papa. Only auntie knew how to haggle. But she was no match for the stocking-salesman. She hadn’t learned how in all those years of running a pensione. Ten million? Five million? Not even three million! But anyway we’ve received about that much, plus lots of promises, for our children’s children, when everyone’s dead. Oh, signora, signora, I was richer before I was married! It’s true I had debts then, and now I don’t. But Urania is so thrifty, so practical. I would never have thought it … It’s been a blow to everyone, papa, auntie, the monsignori. You should see them together. They could scratch each other’s eyes out … Papa almost had a stroke; auntie came to blows with the monsignori. Oh, signora, signora, I don’t like such things. I’m a victim. For whole winters they fished with me as bait. But I didn’t want to cooperate, I resisted: I didn’t let the fish bite. And now it has finally happened. Less than three million. Lire, not dollars. I was so stupid that at first I thought it would be dollars. And Urania is so thrifty. She gives me my pocket money. She manages everything, she does everything. She knows exactly how much I lose at the club. No, you’re laughing, but it’s sad. You see, sometimes I could just cry! And then she has the oddest ideas. For example, we have our apartment in Nice now and we’re keeping on my rooms in Palazzo Ruspoli, as a pied-à-terre in Rome. It’s enough: we don’t go to Rome much anyway, because we are ‘black’ and Urania finds that boring. In the summers we had planned to go somewhere or other, to a seaside resort. Exactly, that had been firmly agreed. But now Urania suddenly takes it into her head that she wants San Stefano as a summer residence! San Stefano!!! I ask you. I can’t stand it there. It’s true it’s high up, and cooclass="underline" the climate is pleasant — fresh mountain air. But I need more to live than mountain air. I need more than that. Oh, you wouldn’t recognise Urania. She’s so stubborn sometimes. It’s now been irrevocably decided: San Stefano in the summers. And the worst thing is that by doing this she’s stolen papa’s heart. So I’ve lost out. It’s two against one. And the worst thing of all is … that we must be very economical so that we can do up San Stefano. It’s a famous historic site but very run down. What do you expect; we’ve never had much luck. Since a Forte-Braccio was once pope … our star waned and we were never lucky again. San Stefano is a model of grandeur in decline. You should see it. Being economical to do up San Stefano! That’s now Urania’s ambition. She is determined to do justice to our ancestral home. Anyway, she has won over my father and he has recovered from his stroke. But do you understand now why il povero Gilio is poorer than before he had shares in a stocking factory in Chicago?”