They were very economical; they had a little money; and all through the
scorching Roman summer the months passed as in a dream. They went on
living their lonely, happy life, without seeing any one except Urania,
who came to Rome now and again, looked them up, lunched with them at
the studio and went back again in the evening. Then Urania wrote to
them that Gilio could stand it no longer at San Stefano and that they
were going abroad, first to Switzerland and then to Ostend. She came
once more to say good-bye; and after that they saw nobody.
In the old days Duco had known an artist here and there, a
fellow-countryman painting in Rome; now he knew nobody, saw nobody.
And their life in the cool studio was like life in a lonely oasis amid
the torrid desert of Rome in August. For economy's sake, they did not
go into the mountains, to a cooler spot. They spent no more than was
absolutely necessary; and none the less this bohemian poverty, in its
coloured setting of triptych and chasuble, spelt happiness.
Money, however, remained scarce. Duco sold a water-colour once in
a way, but at times they had to resort to the sale of a curio. And
it always went to Duco's heart to part with anything that he had
collected. They had few needs, but the time would come when the rent of
the studio fell due. Cornélie sometimes wrote an article or a sketch
and bought out of the proceeds what she needed for her wardrobe. She
possessed a certain knack of putting on her clothes, a talent for
looking smart in an old, worn blouse. She was fastidious about her
hair, her skin, her teeth, her nails. With a new veil she would wear
an old hat, with an old walking dress a pair of fresh gloves; and she
wore everything with a certain air of smartness. At home, in her pink
tea-gown, which had lost its colour, the lines of her figure were so
charming that Duco was constantly sketching her. They hardly ever went
to a restaurant now. Cornélie cooked something at home, invented easy
recipes, fetched a _fiasco_ of wine from the nearest _olio e vino_,
where the cab-drivers sat drinking at little tables; and they dined
better and more cheaply than at the _osteria_. And Duco, now that he
no longer bought things from the dealer in antiques on the Tiber,
spent nothing at all. But money remained scarce. Once, when they had
sold a silver crucifix for far less than it was worth, Cornélie was so
dejected that she sobbed on Duco's breast. He consoled her, caressed
her and declared that he didn't care much about the crucifix. But she
knew that the crucifix was a very fine piece of work by an unknown
sixteenth-century artist and that he was very unhappy at losing it.
And she said to him seriously that it could not go on like this, that
she could not be a burden to him and that they had better part; that
she would look about for something to do, that she would go back
to Holland. He was alarmed by her despair and said that it was not
necessary, that he was well able to look after her as his wife, but
that unfortunately he was such an unpractical fellow, who could do
nothing but splash about a bit with water-colours and even that not
well enough to live on. But she said that he must not talk like that;
he was a great artist. It was just that he did not possess a facile,
money-making fertility, but he ranked higher on that account. She said
that she would not live on his money, that she wanted to keep herself.
And she collected the scattered remnants of her feminist ideas. Once
again he begged her to consent to their marriage; they would become
reconciled with his mother; and Mrs. Van der Staal would give him what
she used to give him when he used to live with her at Belloni's. But
she refused to hear either of marriage or of an allowance from his
mother, even as he refused to take money from Urania. How often had
Urania not offered to help them! He had never consented; he was even
angry when Urania had given Cornélie a blouse which Cornélie accepted
with a kiss.
No, it couldn't go on like this: they had better part: she must go back
to Holland and seek employment. It was easier in Holland than abroad.
But he was so desperate, because of their happiness, which tottered
before his eyes, that he held her tightly pressed to his breast; and
she sobbed, with her arms round his neck. Why should they part, he
asked. They would be stronger together. He could no longer do without
her; his life, if she left him, would be no life. He used to live in
his dreams; he now lived in the reality of their happiness.
And things remained as they were: they _could_ not alter anything;
they lived as thriftily as possible, in order to keep together, He
finished his landscapes and always sold them at once, much too cheaply,
so as not to have to wait for the money. But then poverty threatened
once more; and she thought of writing to Holland. As it happened,
however, she received a letter from her mother, followed by one from
one of her sisters. And they asked her in those letters if it was
true, what people were saying at the Hague, that she was living with
Van der Staal. She had always looked upon herself as so far from the
Hague and from Hague people that it had never occurred to her that her
way of life might become known. She met nobody, she knew nobody with
Dutch connections. Anyhow, her independent attitude was now known.
And she answered the letters in a feminist tone, declared her dislike
of marriage and admitted that she was living with Van der Staal. She
wrote coldly and succinctly, so as to give those people at the Hague
the impression that she was a free and independent woman. They knew
her pamphlet there, of course. But she understood that she could now
no longer think of Holland. She gave up her family as hopeless. Still
it tore something in her, the unconscious family-tie. But that tie
was already greatly loosened, through lack of sympathy, especially
at the time of her divorce. And she felt all alone: she had only her
happiness, her lover, Duco. Oh, it was enough, it was enough for all
her life! If only she could make a little money! But how? She went
to the Dutch Consul, asked his advice; the visit led to nothing. She
was not suited for a nurse: she wanted to earn money at once and had
no time for training. She could serve in a shop, of course. And she
applied, without saying anything to Duco; but, notwithstanding her
worn cloak, they thought her too much of a lady wherever she went and
she thought the salary too small for a whole day's work. And, when she
felt that she hadn't it in her blood to work for her bread, despite all
her ideas and all her logic, despite her pamphlet and her independent
womanhood, she felt hopeless to the point of despair and, as she went
home, weary, exhausted by climbing stairs and by useless conversations
and appeals, the old plaint rose to her lips:
"O God, tell me what to do!"