Inevitable

XXXVIII

GILIO FOUND THE VACATION in San Stefano dreadful. Every morning at six o’clock he had to be ready to attend mass with Prince Ercole, Urania and the marchesa in the castle chapel. Afterwards he had too much time on his hands. He had gone cycling a few times with Robert Hope, but the young Westerner was too energetic for him, as was his sister, Urania. He flirted and argued with Cornélie a little, but secretly he was still insulted, and angry with himself and her. He remembered when she first arrived that evening at Palazzo Ruspoli; when she had interrupted his rendezvous with Urania. And in the golden camera degli sposi she had again proved too strong for him! He seethed when he thought of it, and he hated her and swore to the great gods that he would be avenged. He cursed his own indecision. He was too weak to force her with the strength of his passion and he should never have had to force her: he was used to people giving in. And he was forced to hear from her, the Dutch woman, that his temperament was not compatible with hers! What was it with that woman? What did she mean by that? He was so unused to thinking, such a thoughtless child with an easy-going Italian nature, so used to letting himself be swayed by his whim and impulse, that he scarcely understood her — although he suspected the sense of her words — scarcely understood her diffidence. Why was she like this with him, the foreign woman with her new devilish ideas, who did not bother about the world, who was not interested in marriage, who lived with a painter, as his mistress! She had no religion, and no morals—he knew all about religion and morals — she was a devil; she was demonic: didn’t she know all about the manoeuvres of Lucia Belloni, and hadn’t Aunt Lucia warned him the other day that she was dangerous, demonic, a devil? She was a witch! Why did she refuse him? Hadn’t he seen her silhouette crossing the courtyard last night in the moonlight, clearly next to the figure of Van der Staal, and hadn’t he seen them opening the door to the terrace with the pergola on it? And had he not watched sleeplessly for an hour, two hours, until he had seen them return, closing the door behind them? And why did she love only him, that painter? Oh, he hated him with all the burning hatred of his jealousy, he hated her, because of her exclusivity, her contempt, all her joking and flirting, as if he were a jester, a clown! What was he asking? The favour of her love such as she granted her lover! He was not asking for anything serious; no oaths, no lifelong bonds; he was asking for so little: the occasional hour of love. It didn’t matter: he had never attached much importance to it. And she refused him it. No, he didn’t understand her, but he did understand that she despised him, and he, he hated both her and him. And he was in love with her with all the violence of his thwarted passion. In the boredom of the vacation, which was forced upon him by his wife in her new-found love for their dilapidated eyrie, his hatred and the thought of revenge was something for his empty mind to occupy itself with. Outwardly he was his old self again, and he flirted with Cornélie, and indeed more than before, in order to tease Van der Staal. And when his cousin, the Countess di Rosavilla, his ‘white’ cousin — lady-in-waiting to the queen — came to visit them for a few days, he flirted with her too, and tried to awaken Cornélie’s jealousy, which he failed to do, and he consoled himself with the countess. She compensated him for his disappointment. She was no longer a young woman, but had the cold, sculptural, slightly stupid looks of a Juno: she had bulging Juno eyes: she was one of the leaders of fashion at the Quirinal and in the ‘white’ world, and her romantic reputation was common knowledge. She had never had a liaison with Gilio lasting more than an hour. She had simple ideas about love, fairly black and white. Her cheerful perversity amused Gilio. And as they flirted in corners, touching toes under her gown, Gilio told her about Cornélie, Duco and the adventure in the camera degli sposi, and he asked his cousin if she understood? No, the Countess di Rosavilla didn’t really understand either. Temperament? Well, perhaps she—questa Cornelia—preferred blond or brown: there were women who were choosy … And Gilio laughed. It was so simple, l’amore, there wasn’t much to talk about.

Cornélie was glad that Gilio had the countess. With Duco she took an interest in Urania’s plans; he had conversations with the architect. And Duco was indignant and advised against refurbishing in that unstylish restoration manner — it cost a fortune, and ruined everything.

Urania was taken aback, but Duco continued, rubbished the architect, advised her to restore only what was really collapsing, but to prop up, support and preserve as much as possible. And one morning Prince Ercole deigned to walk through the long rooms with Duco, Urania and Cornélie. One could do so much — argued Duco — by simply regularly maintaining and artistically arranging what was at present piled up unthinkingly. The curtains? asked Urania. Leave them, said Duco: at most new net curtains, but the old red Venetian damask … Oh, leave it, leave it: it was so beautiful: here and there, with great care, it could be repaired! And the old prince was delighted, because the restoration of San Stefano, done in this way, would cost thousands less and be more artistic: he regarded his daughter-in-law’s money as his own and he loved it even more than he loved her. He was delighted: he took Duco with him to the library: he showed him the old missals; the old family books and documents, charters and gifts; he showed him his coins and medals. It was all a mess, neglected, disregarded at first because of lack of money and then out of indifference, but now Urania wanted to reorganise the family museum with scholars from Rome, Florence and Bologna. The old prince was in favour, now that there was money again. And the scholars came and stayed at the castle, and Duco was tied up with them for whole mornings. He was in his element. He lived in an enchantment with the past, no longer the Classical past, but the Middle Ages and the Renaissance. The days were too short. And his love for San Stefano was so great that once an archivist took him for the young prince: Prince Virgilio. At dinner Prince Ercole told the anecdote. Everyone laughed, but Gilio found the joke simply priceless, while the archivist, who was at the table, did not know how to make himself small enough to atone.