And under their fixed gaze life receded gently, the cloud dissolved, the hands disappeared and a sigh of relief rose from their chests, as she lay silently against him, and closed her eyes, as if to sleep …
XLIV
BUT THE PRESSURE of life returned, the floating hands reappeared, as a gentle, mysterious force. Cornélie wept bitterly, and admitted it to herself and to Duco: they could not go on like this. At one point they did not have enough for the rent of the studio and had to appeal to Urania. Gaps had appeared in the studio, colours had thinned, because things had been sold that Duco had collected with tenderness and sacrifice. But the angel of Lippo Memmi, which he refused to sell, with its gesture of proffering lilies, was as radiant as ever in its robe of gold brocade. Around them there were sad spaces on the walls where nails had been exposed. At first they tried rearranging things, but they lost heart. And as they sat together, in each other’s arms, feeling their little happiness, but also the pressure of life with its pushing hands, they closed their eyes, so as not to see the studio that seemed to be crumbling around them, where in the first cooler days a sunless chill descended from the ceiling that looked higher and more distant and where the easel awaited, empty. They both closed their eyes and kept them closed, feeling, despite the strength of their happiness and love, gradually defeated by life, which was remorseless in its pressure and robbed them of something every day. Once when they were sitting like this their hands fell limply apart, their embrace disengaged, as if hands were pulling them away from each other. For a long time they remained sitting there, side by side, without touching. Then she broke into a loud sob and threw herself face down on his knees. There was nothing more for it: life had proved stronger, silent life, the remorseless pressure of life that surrounded them with so many hands. And it was as if their little happiness was lost to them like an angelic child that had died and slipped from their embrace.
She said that she would write to Urania: the Forte-Braccios were in Nice. Unenthusiastically, he agreed. And as soon as she received a reply, she took out her suitcase and, like an automaton, packed her old clothes. Urania wrote telling her to come and saying that Mrs Uxeley wanted to see her. Mrs Uxeley sent her the fare. She was at her wits’ end, nervous and constantly breaking into sobs, and felt as if she were tearing herself away from him, from the home she loved that was crumbling around them, through her fault alone. When she received the registered letter containing the fare, she had a fit of hysteria, nestling against him like a child, crying plaintively that she could not do it, that she did not want to do it, that she could not live without him, that she would love him forever, that she would die so far from him. She lay on the sofa, her legs stiff, her arms stiff, and screamed with her mouth contorted as if in physical pain. He rocked her in his arms, dabbed her forehead, gave her ether to sniff, comforted her, said that it would all come right later … Later … She looked blankly at him, almost crazed with the pain. She threw everything out of her case again, across the room, underwear, blouses, and laughed and laughed … He begged her to control herself. When she saw the dismay on his face and when he too sobbed in her arms, she hugged him tightly to her, kissed him, comforted him in turn … And everything in her subsided, dull and limp … They repacked the case together. Then she looked round and in a burst of energy arranged the studio for him, got him to remove her bed, fixed his own sketches to the wall, tried to rebuild something of what had crumbled around them, rearranged everything and did her best. She cooked their final meal, banked up the fire … But a desperate threat of loneliness and desolation was all-pervading. They could not do it, they could not do it … They fell asleep sobbing, in each others’ arms, close together. The next morning he took her to the station. And once she had boarded the train and was in her compartment, both of them lost control. They embraced sobbing, as the conductor tried to close the door. She saw him walking away like a madman, barging his way through the thronging crowd, and broken with sorrow threw herself back in her seat. She was so overcome and so close to fainting that a lady next to her came to her assistance and washed her face with eau de Cologne …
She thanked the lady, apologised and, seeing the other passengers looking at her with sympathy, she controlled herself and fell into a dull stupor, staring blankly out of the window. She travelled on and on, stopping nowhere, getting out only to change trains. Though hungry, she had no energy to order anything at the stations. She ate nothing and drank nothing. She travelled for a day and a night and arrived late the next evening in Nice. Urania was at the station and was alarmed at Cornélie’s grey pallor, utter exhaustion and hollow-eyed expression. She was very sweet to her; she took Cornélie home with her, nursed her for a few days, made her stay in bed, and went personally to Mrs Uxeley to tell her that her friend was too unwell to report. Gilio briefly paid his respects to Cornélie, and she could only thank him for the days of hospitality and care under his roof. The young princess was like a sister, a mother, building up Cornélie’s strength with milk, eggs, and fortifying tonics. Obediently she submitted to Urania’s ministrations, dull and indifferent, and ate in order to please Urania. After a few days Urania said that Mrs Uxeley, curious to see her new companion, was going to visit that afternoon. Mrs Uxeley was now alone, but could wait until Cornélie was better. Dressed as smartly as she could she sat with Urania and awaited the old lady’s arrival. She made an exuberant entrance, talking non-stop, and in the dim light of Urania’s drawing-room Cornélie could not believe that she was ninety. Urania winked at her, but she could only smile feebly: she was dreading this first interview. But Mrs Uxeley, probably because Cornélie was the friend of the Princess di Forte-Braccio, was very unstuffy, very pleasant, not at all condescending towards her future lady’s companion; she inquired after Cornélie’s health in an exhaustingly expansive stream of exclamations and phrases and helpful hints. In the subdued light of the lace-shaded standard lamps, Cornélie surveyed her and saw a woman of fifty, with her wrinkles carefully powdered, in a mauve velvet outfit embroidered with old gold and sequins and beads, her brown wavy chignon topped by a hat with white feathers. She was very mobile and hectic, so that her jewels were constantly sparkling. She now took Cornélie’s hand and began talking intimately … So Cornélie would be coming the day after tomorrow? Good. She usually paid a hundred dollars a month, or five hundred francs: never less, but never more. But she realised that Cornélie needed something at once, for new outfits: so would she order what she needed from this address, on Mrs Uxeley’s account? A couple of ball gowns, a couple of less dressy evening outfits, everything in fact. Princess Urania would no doubt tell her and go with her. And she got up, doing her best to behave like a young woman, fluttering about with her lorgnette, but all the while leaning on her parasol, while a sudden twinge of rheumatism revealed all kinds of wrinkles. Urania accompanied her to the corridor and came back shrieking with laughter; Cornélie joined in very feebly. It mattered nothing to her: she was more astonished than amused by Mrs Uxeley. Ninety! Ninety!! What energy, worthy of a better goal than trying to remain elegant: ‘la femme la plus élégante d’Ostende!!’