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 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 all the
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; but he 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 helpless to the point of despair and, as she went home, weary,
exhausted by climbing many stairs and by useless conversations and
appeals, the old plaint rose to her lips:
"O God, tell me what to do!"