Inevitable

LI

SHE HAD ONLY ONE THOUGHT: to flee. To flee from his mastery, to flee the emanation of his dominance, which mysteriously but inexorably erased every trace of will, energy, self, with his embrace. She remembered she had felt the same before: rebellion and anger when he became angry and coarse, but an annihilation of herself when he embraced her, an inability to think when he laid his hand on her head, a swooning into a single great nothingness, when he took her in his arms and kissed her. She had felt it from the first time she had seen him, that he stood in front of her and looked down at her with that hint of irony in his voice and his moustache, as if he were enjoying her resistance — then still in the form of flirtatiousness, later irritability, later passion and rage — as if he were enjoying her vain woman’s attempts to escape his domination. He had seen at once that he dominated this woman. And she had found in him her master, her sole master. No other man oppressed her like this with this majesty that stemmed from blood and flesh. On the contrary, she was usually the superior one. She had a cool indifference about her, which always prompted her to destructive criticism. She had a need for jokes, for a merry conversation, for coquettishness and flirting, and being never lost for an answer she created openings for ripostes, but apart from that she did not have a high opinion of men, and saw the ridiculous side of everyone: this one was too small, that one too tall, this one gauche, the other stupid; in everyone she found something that provoked her laughter and criticism. She would never be a woman who gave herself to many men. She had met Duco and given him her love totally and unconditionally, as a great, indivisible, golden gift, and after him she would never love again. But before Duco she had met Rudolf Brox. Perhaps if she had met him after Duco, his mastery would not have dominated her … She did not know. And what was the good of puzzling about that? It was as it was as it was. In her blood she was not a woman for many: in her blood she was all wife, spouse, mate. In her flesh, in her blood she was the wife of the man who had been her husband, she was his wife, even without love. Because she could not call this love; love was only that exalted, tender feeling, that deep perfection of harmonious existence, that progression together along a golden line, merged from two glistening lines … But as if in a cloud the hands had loomed up around them, and mysteriously, fatefully forced their golden line apart, and hers, a winding arabesque, had sprung back like a trembling coil and had crossed a dark line from her past, a gloomy path from the past, a dark avenue of unconsciousness and fateful slavery. Oh, how strange, how infinitely mysterious and strange those lifelines were: they could be curled back, forced back to their starting point! Why had it all been necessary?

She had only one thought: to flee. She did not see the gradualness of things, and the fatefulness of those paths, and she did not want to feel the force of the ghostly hands. She wanted to flee, to turn back along the dark path, back to the point of division, back to Duco, and fight with him, wrestle those two paths that had gone astray back into a single pure direction, back into a single line of happiness …

To flee, to flee. She told Urania that she was going. She begged Urania to forgive her, since Urania had recommended her to an old woman whom she was now suddenly deserting.

And she told Mrs Uxeley, without worrying about her anger, her fury and her abuse. She admitted that she appeared ungrateful. But there was a matter of life and death that obliged her to leave Nice suddenly. She swore that it was true. She swore that she feared disaster and doom if she stayed. She explained to Urania in a few words. But she did not explain it to the old woman, and left her in a state of helpless fury that contorted her body with rheumatic pains. She left behind everything that she had received from Mrs Uxeley, her sumptuous wardrobe of dependency. She put on an old dress. She made her way furtively to the station, trembling at the possibility of meeting him. But she knew that at this time of day he was always in Monte Carlo. Still, she went in a closed cab, and bought a second-class ticket to Florence. She sent a telegram to Duco. And she fled. She had nothing but him. She could no longer count on Mrs Uxeley, and Urania too had been cool, unable to understand this sudden flight, because she did not understand the simple truth: Rudolf Brox’s dominance. She thought Cornélie was making life difficult for herself. In the circles in which Urania moved, her sense of social morality had been wavering since her liaison with the Chevalier de Breuil. Surrounded by the whispered Italian law of love according to which love is as simple as a rose that opens, she could not understand Cornélie’s struggle. She no longer blamed Gilio for anything and on his side, he left her free. What was Cornélie thinking of? It was so simple, if she still loved her ex-husband! Why was she running away to Duco, and making herself ridiculous in the eyes of all their friends! And she had said goodbye coolly, but still missed her friend. She was the Princess di Forte-Braccio and recently, for her birthday, Prince Ercole had sent her a large emerald from the carefully preserved family jewels, as if she were slowly becoming worthy of them, stone by stone! But she missed Cornélie, and she felt alone, dreadfully alone, despite her emerald and her lover …

Cornélie fled: she had nothing but Duco. But in him she would have everything. And when she saw him in Florence, at Santa Maria Novella station, she threw herself into his arms, as if he were a cross of salvation, a Saviour and a sanctuary. He took her sobbing to a cab and they drove to his room. Once there she looked round nervously, exhausted with the strain after her long journey, constantly thinking that Rudolf would pursue her. She told Duco everything, she opened herself completely to him, as if he were her conscience, her soul, her god. She nestled against him like a child, she stroked him, she caressed him; she said he had to help her. It was as if she were praying to him; her fear rose up to him like a prayer. He kissed her, and she knew that way of comforting, she knew that soft caressing. She suddenly collapsed against him inertly, and stayed there and closed her eyes. It was as if she were sinking into a lake, a blue sacred lake, mystical as the lake of San Stefano at night when the world was asleep, powdered with stars. And she heard him say that he would help her. That her fear meant nothing. That the man had no power over her. That he would never have power over her if she became his, Duco’s wife. She looked at him and did not understand. She looked at him feverishly, as if he were suddenly waking her, while she was sleeping blissfully in the blue calm of the mystical lake. She did not understand, but exhausted hid in his arms and fell asleep.

She was worn out. For several hours she slept on his chest, motionless, breathing deeply. When he shifted his arm she stirred for a moment like a flower on a limp stalk, but went on sleeping, with her hand in his. She slept as she had not slept for days, weeks.