“No one can see my calves,” he whispered to his sister.
“Sh!” said Urania.
Giuseppe, reviving now that he had been restored to his former dignity, filled the plates ceremoniously with soup at an old dresser. He was obviously back in his element here; he was visibly grateful to Urania; he had an expression of deep contentment and in his tailcoat looked like an old diplomat. He amused Cornélie, who thought back to Belloni, when he became impatient when guests did not arrive, when he exploded at the green young waiters, whom the marchesa employed because of their cheapness. When two lackeys had brought round the soup, the chaplain stood up and said the benedicite. Still not a word was said. The soup was eaten in silence, while the three servants stood motionless. The spoons tapped against the plates and the marchesa smacked her lips. The candelabra occasionally trembled and the shadow fell more oppressively from the ceiling, like an evaporation of velvet. Then the prince turned to the marchesa. And he addressed everyone in turn, with a friendly, condescending dignity, in French, in Italian. The conversation became slightly more general, but the prince continued to take the lead. And he was very friendly towards Urania, Cornélie noticed … But Cornélie remembered Gilio’s words: papa almost had a stroke because Hope Senior haggled about Urania’s dowry. Ten million? Five million? Less than three million! Dollars? Lire!! And the old prince suddenly appeared to her as the grizzled, selfish embodiment of San Stefano’s glory and aristocratic pride, seemed to her the living ghost of that shadowy past, that she had felt that afternoon, gazing with Urania into the deep, blue lake: the demanding ghost; the ghost that demanded millions, the ghost that demanded new viability; a spectral parasite, who had sold his depreciated symbols to the vanity of a new commercial company, but for all his distinction could not cope with the cunning of a businessman. Their princess’s and duchess’s title for less than three million lire! Papa had almost had a stroke … Gilio had said. And Cornélie, in the measured, affable stiffness of the conversation led by Prince Ercole, looked from the old prince-duke — of seventy — to the young, fresh-faced Westerner — of eighteen — and looked from him to Prince Gilio: the hope of the old family, their only hope. Here in the gloom of this dining-room, where he was bored, and in addition still out of humour, she saw him as small, insignificant, insubstantial, a scrawny, distinguished bon viveur, his carbuncle eyes, which could twinkle merrily with perverse wit, were focused beneath the drooping eyelids on his plate, at which he picked listlessly.
She felt sorry for him, and she thought of the gold bridal chamber … She despised him a little. She did not regard him as a man, he could not achieve what he wanted: she regarded him more as a naughty boy. And he must be jealous of Robert, she thought: of his fresh blood that tingled in his cheeks, of his broad shoulders and broad chest. But he still amused her. He could be charming, jolly and witty, quick-witted and sharp, when in a bright mood: quick-tongued and quick-witted. She liked him well enough. And he was good-hearted. The bracelet and particularly the thousand lire. She still thought of them with affection; how moved she had been, during that walk, back and forth past the post office; moved by his letter and his generous help. There was no substance in him, to her he was not a man: but he was witty and he had a very good heart. She liked him, as a friend and a pleasant companion. How dejected and out of humour he was. But then why did he venture on those crazy assaults …?
She spoke to him now and then, but she was unable to cheer him up. For that matter the conversation dragged on, stiffly and affably, still led by Prince Ercole. Dinner was coming to an end and Prince Ercole rose up. He received his cap from the hands of Giuseppe, all of them said goodbye to him, the doors were opened, and on the chaplain’s arm Prince Ercole withdrew. Gilio disappeared angrily. The marchesa, still shuddering at the thought of Cornélie, disappeared and under her dress pointed the gettatura at her. And Urania took Cornélie and Robert back to her drawing-room. All three breathed more easily. They spoke freely, in English now: the young man said despairingly that he was not eating enough, that he did not dare eat until his hunger was assuaged, and Cornélie laughed, finding his healthy appetite appealing, while Urania hunted for rusks for him and a piece of cake, left from tea, and promised him bread and meat before they went to bed. And they relaxed their minds after the solemn dinner. Urania said that they never saw the old prince except at dinner, but she always visited him in the mornings, stayed and talked to him for an hour or so or played chess with him. Otherwise he played chess with the chaplain. She had a busy life, Urania. The reorganisation of the household, formerly left to a poor blood relation, now living in a pensione in Rome, took up a lot of her time: in the mornings she discussed the details with Prince Ercole, who despite his seclusion, was completely au courant. Then she had the consultations with her Roman architect on the restoration of the castle: these sometimes took place in the old prince’s study. Then she was commissioning the building of a large institution in the town, an albergo dei poveri, a home for elderly men and women, for which Hope Senior was giving her separate funds: when she first came to San Stefano, she had been struck by the run-down, collapsing houses and cottages in the poor districts, leprous and scrofulous with dirt, eaten up by their own destitution, where a whole population vegetated like mushrooms. She was now having a home built for the elderly, and on the estate she provided work for the young and able-bodied, she concerned herself with neglected children and had founded a new school. She talked about all this quite simply, cutting the cake for her brother Robert, who was tucking in with relish after the etiquette of dinner. She invited Cornélie to accompany her the following day to see the work on the albergo, the new school, run by two clergymen from Rome, recommended to her by the monsignori.
Through the pointed arch windows one could see the dim shape of the town below, and in the sultry summer night, strewn with stars, the silhouette of the cathedral rose up. And Cornélie thought: it is not only for ghosts and shadows that she has come here, the rich American girl, who was so mad about the aristocracy—“so nice”—the child, who collected samples of the queen’s ball gowns — an album that she now kept hidden as a ‘black’ princess, the girl who tripped across the Forum in her light linen tailored jacket, and understood neither ancient Rome nor the new future that was dawning …
And now that Cornélie was returning to her own room through the silent brooding night of the castle of San Stefano, she thought: I write, but she does things. I dream and think, but she teaches the children, even though it is with a priest: she feeds and houses old men and women.
Then, in her room, looking out over the lake in the summer night sprinkled with stars, she reflected that she would like to be rich too and to have a wide scope of action. Because as it was she had no scope, no money and … she longed only for Duco, and he must not leave her alone for too long, in this castle, amid all this gloomy grandeur, which oppressed her with the weight of centuries.