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 wash-hand-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, smiling. 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, 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 curtain-less 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.