At the same time Duco developed great powers of work: so much thought
dimly took shape before him that he was constantly discovering another
motive and symbolizing it in another figure. He sketched a life-size
woman walking, with that admixture of child, woman and goddess which
characterized his figures, and she walked slowly down a descending
line towards a sombre depth, without seeing or understanding; her eyes
towards the abyss in magnetic attraction; vague hands hovered around
her like a cloud and softly pushed and guided her; on the hill-top, on
high rocks, in the bright light, other figures, holding harps, called
to her; but she went towards the depth, pushed by hands; in the abyss
blossomed strange purple orchids, like mouths of love....
When Cornélie came to his studio one morning, he had suddenly sketched
this idea. It came upon her as a surprise, for he had not mentioned
it to her: the idea had sprung up suddenly; the quick, spontaneous
execution had not taken him an hour. He was almost apologizing to her
when he saw her surprise. She certainly admired it, but shuddered at it
and preferred _The Banners_, the great water-colour, the procession of
the women marching to the battle of life.
And to please her he put the straying woman aside and worked on
solely at the striving women. But constantly a fresh thought came and
disturbed him in his work; and in her absence he would sketch some
new symbol, until the sketches accumulated and lay spread on every
side. She put them away in portfolios; she removed them from easel and
board; she saved him from wandering too far from _The Banners_; and
this was the one thing that he completed.
Thus smoothly did their life seem willing to run, along a gracious
line, in one golden direction, while his symbols blossomed like flowers
on either side, while the azure of their love seemed to form the sky
overhead; but she plucked away the superfluous flowers and only _The
Banners_ waved above their path, in the firmament of their ecstasy,
even as they waved above the militant women.
They had but one distraction, the wedding of the prince and Urania: a
dinner, a ball and the ceremony at San Carlo, attended by all the Roman
aristocracy, who however welcomed the wealthy American bride with a
certain reserve. But, when the Prince and Princess di Forte-Braccio
left for Nice, all distraction was at an end; and the days once more
glided along the same gracious golden line. And Cornélie retained only
one unpleasant recollection: her meeting during those festive days with
Mrs. Van der Staal, who cut her persistently, turned her back on her
and succeeded in conveying to her that the friendship was over. She had
accepted the position; she had realized how difficult it was--even if
Mrs. Van der Staal had been willing to speak to her--to explain to a
woman like this, rooted in her social and worldly conventions, her own
proud ideas of freedom, independence and happiness. And she had avoided
the girls also, understanding that Mrs. Van der Staal wished it. She
was not angry at all this nor hurt; she could understand it in Duco's
mother: she was only a little sad about it, because she liked Mrs.
Van der Staal and liked the two girls. But she quite understood: it
had to be so; Mrs. Van der Staal knew or suspected everything. Duco's
mother could not act differently, though the prince and Urania, for
friendship's sake, overlooked any _liaison_ between Duco and Cornélie;
though the Roman world during the wedding-festivities accepted them
simply as friends, as acquaintances, as fellow-countrymen, whatever
they might whisper, smiling, behind their fans. But now those
festivities were over, now they had passed that point of contact with
the world and people, now their golden line once more sloped gently and
evenly before them....
Then Cornélie, not thinking of the Hague at all, received a letter from
the Hague. The letter was from her father and consisted of several
sheets, which surprised her, for he never wrote. What she read startled
her greatly, but did not at first dishearten her altogether, perhaps
because she did not realize the full import of her father's news. He
implored her forgiveness. He had long been in financial difficulties.
He had lost a great deal of money. They would have to move into a
smaller house. The atmosphere at home was unpleasant: Mamma cried
all day; the sisters quarrelled; the family proffered advice; the
acquaintances were disagreeable. And he implored her forgiveness. He
had speculated and lost. And he had also lost her own little capital,
which he managed for her, her godmother's legacy. He asked her not to
think too hardly of him. Things might have turned out differently;
and then she would have been three times as well off. He admitted it,
he had done wrong; but still he was her father and he asked her, his
child, to forgive him and requested her to come home.
She was at first greatly startled, but soon recovered her calmness.
She was in too happy a mood of vital harmony to be depressed by the
news. She received the letter in bed, did not get up at once, reflected
a little, then dressed, breakfasted as usual and went to Duco. He
received her with enthusiasm and showed her three new sketches. She
reproached him gently for allowing himself to be distracted from his
main idea, said that these distractions would exhaust his activity,
his perseverance. She urged him to keep on working at _The Banners_.
And she inspected the great water-colour intently, with the ancient,
crumbling Forum-like city and the procession of the women towards the
metropolis of the future, standing high in the dawn. And suddenly it
was borne in upon her that her future also had fallen into ruins and
that its crumbling arches hung menacingly over her head. Then she
gave him her father's letter to read. He read it twice, looked at her
aghast and asked what she proposed to do. She said that she had already
thought it over, but so far decided only upon the most immediate thing
to be done: to give up her rooms and come to him in his studio. She had
just enough left to pay the rent of her rooms. But, after that, she had
no money, no money at all. She had never consented to accept alimony
from her husband. All that was still due to her was the payment for her
article.
He at once put out his hands to her, kissed her and said that this
had been also his idea at once, that she should come to him and live
with him. He had enough: a tiny patrimony; he made a little money
in addition: there would be enough for the two of them. And they
laughed and kissed and glanced round the studio. Duco slept in a small
adjoining den, a sort of long wall-cupboard. And they glanced round
to see what they could do. Cornélie knew: here, a curtain draped over
a cord, with her washhand-stand behind it. That was all she needed,
only that little corner: otherwise Duco would not have a good light.
They were very merry and thought it a jolly, a capital idea. They
went out at once, bought a little iron bedstead and a dressing-table
and themselves hung up the curtain. Then they both went to pack the
trunks in the Via di Serpenti ... and dined at the _osteria_. Cornélie
suggested that they should dine at home now and then: it was cheaper.
When they returned home, she was enchanted that her installation took
up so little room, hardly six feet by six, with that little bed behind
the curtain. They were very cheerful that evening. The bohemianism
of it all amused them. They were in Italy, the land of sunshine,
of beauty, of _lazzaroni_, of beggars who slept on the steps of a
cathedral; and they felt akin to that sunny poverty. They were happy,
they wanted for nothing. They would live on nothing, or at any rate on
very little. And they saw the future bright, shining. They were closer
together now, they would live more closely linked together. They loved
each other and were happy in a land of beauty, in an ideal of noble
symbolism and life-embracing art.
Next morning he worked zealously, without a word, absorbed in his
dream, in his work; and she, likewise, silent, contented, happy,
examined her blouses and skirts attentively and reflected that she
would need nothing more for quite another year and that her old clothes
were amply sufficient for their life of happiness and simplicity.
And she answered her father's letter very briefly, saying that she
forgave him, that she was sorry for all of them, but that she was not
coming back to the Hague. She would provide for her own maintenance, by
writing. Italy was cheap. That was all she wrote. She did not mention
Duco. She cut herself off from her family, in thought and in fact. She
had met with no sympathy from any of them during her unhappy marriage,
during the painful days of her divorce; and now, in her turn, she felt
no affection for them. And her happiness made her partial and selfish.
She wanted nothing but Duco, nothing but their harmonious life in
common. He sat working, laughing to her now and then as she lay on the
couch and reflected. She looked at the women marching to battle; she
too could not remain lying on a couch, she too would have to sally
forth and fight. She foresaw that she would have to fight ... for him.
He was at present in the first fine frenzy of his art; but, if this
slackened, momentarily, after a result of some kind, after a success
for himself and the world, that would be commonplace and logical; and
then _she_ would have to fight. He was the noble element in their
two lives; his art could never become her bread-winner. His little
fortune amounted to hardly anything. She would have liked to work and
make money for both of them, so that he need not depart from the pure
principle of his art. But how was she to strive, how to work for their
lives and their bread? What could she do? Write? It brought in so
little. What else? She was overcome by a slight melancholy, because she
could do so little. She possessed minor talents and accomplishments:
she wrote a good style, she sang, she played the piano, she could make
a blouse and she knew something about cooking. She would herself do the
cooking now and then and would make her own clothes. But that was all
so small, so little. Strive? Work? In what way? However, she would do
what she could. And suddenly she took up a Baedeker, turned over the
pages and sat down to write at Duco's writing-table. She thought for a
moment and began a casual article, a travel-picture for a newspaper,
about the environs of Naples that was easier than at once beginning
about Rome. And in the studio, filled with a faint warmth of the fire,
because the room faced north and was chilly, everything became still
and silent, save for the occasional scratching of her pen or the noise
made by him when fumbling among his chalks and paint-brushes. She wrote
a few pages but could not hit upon an ending. Then she got up; he
turned round and smiled at her, with his smile of friendly happiness.
And she read to him what she had written. It was not in the style of
her pamphlet. It contained no invective; it was a pleasant traveller's
sketch.
He thought it very nice, but nothing out of the way. But that wasn't
necessary, she said, defending herself. And he kissed her, for her
industry and her pluck. It was raining that day and they did not go out
for their lunch; there were eggs and tomatoes and she made an omelette
on an oil-stove. They drank water, ate quantities of bread. And, while
the rain outside lashed the great curtainless window of the studio,
they enjoyed their repast, sitting like two birds that huddle side by
side, against each other, so as not to get wet.