cut an excellent figure. They are mentioned in every fashion magazine and always with appreciation.”
“…very well then. I’m tired of all those fruitless winters. But no less than ten million …”
“Five …”
“No, ten …”
The prince and the
marchesa
had got up. Cornélie looked at Duco. Duco laughed.
“I couldn’t follow them very well. It’s a joke of course.” Cornélie started.
“A joke, you think, Mr Van der Staal?”
“Yes, they’re fantasising.”
“I don’t think so.”
“I do.”
“Do you understand people?”
“Oh no, not at all.”
“I’m slowing beginning to. I think Rome can be dangerous and that a
marchesa
with a hotel, a prince and a Jesuit …”
“What then?”
“Can also be dangerous, if not for your sisters, since they have no money, then for Urania Hope …”
“I don’t believe a word of it … It was all nonsense. And it doesn’t interest me. But what do you think of Praxiteles’
Eros
? Oh, I think it’s the most divine sculpture I’ve ever seen. Oh, the
Eros
, the
Eros
…! That is love, true love; the inescapability, the fatality of love that begs forgiveness for the suffering it inflicts …”
“Have you ever been in love?”
“No. I don’t understand people and I’ve never been in love. You’re always so decisive. Dreams are beautiful, statues are wonderful and poetry is everything. Eros is everything, in love. I would never be able to love in reality as beautifully as Eros the symbol of love … No, knowing people doesn’t interest me, and a dream of Praxiteles, still surviving in a torso of mutilated marble, is more noble than anything that calls itself love in the world.”
She frowned and looked sombre.
“Let’s go into the ballroom,” she said. “We’re all by ourselves here.”
X
T HE DAY AFTER THE BALL , Cornélie had a strange feeling; suddenly, as she savoured her superb Genzano, ordered by Rudyard, she realised that it was no coincidence that she was sitting with the baroness and her daughter, Urania and Miss Taylor; realised that the
marchesa
definitely had an ulterior motive with that arrangement. Rudyard, always polite, thoughtful, always attentive, always with a ticket or an introduction in his pocket that was difficult to obtain, or at least so he led them to believe, and talked the whole time, recently mainly with Miss Taylor, who went faithfully to listen to all the lovely church music and always came home in raptures. The pale, simple, skinny English lady, who was at first enthralled by museums, ruins and sunsets on the Aventine or Monte Mario, and was always tired from her wanderings through Rome, henceforth devoted herself entirely to the hundreds of churches, viewed and studied every one, and especially attended religiously all musical services and was ecstatic about the choir of the Sistine Chapel and the trembling glories of the male sopranos.
Cornélie talked to Mrs Van der Staal and Baroness Von Rothkirch about what she had caught of the conversation between the
marchesa
and her nephew through the chink in the door but neither of them, although intrigued, took the words of the
marchesa
seriously, and regardedthem as simply a frivolous ball conversation between a scatterbrained woman, who was keen to match-make, and her reluctant nephew. It struck Cornélie how unwilling people are to believe in seriousness, but the baroness was very nonchalant, said that Rudyard would not do her any harm and still always gave her tickets, and Mrs Van der Staal, who had been long in Rome and used to
pensione
intrigues, thought that Cornélie was getting too worked up about the fate of the beautiful Urania. However, Miss Taylor had suddenly disappeared from table. People thought she was ill, when it emerged that she had left the Pensione Belloni, but after a few days it was common knowledge through the whole
pensione
that Miss Taylor had converted to Catholicism and moved into a
pensione
recommended to her by Rudyard: a
“…very well then. I’m tired of all those fruitless winters. But no less than ten million …”
“Five …”
“No, ten …”
The prince and the
marchesa
had got up. Cornélie looked at Duco. Duco laughed.
“I couldn’t follow them very well. It’s a joke of course.” Cornélie started.
“A joke, you think, Mr Van der Staal?”
“Yes, they’re fantasising.”
“I don’t think so.”
“I do.”
“Do you understand people?”
“Oh no, not at all.”
“I’m slowing beginning to. I think Rome can be dangerous and that a
marchesa
with a hotel, a prince and a Jesuit …”
“What then?”
“Can also be dangerous, if not for your sisters, since they have no money, then for Urania Hope …”
“I don’t believe a word of it … It was all nonsense. And it doesn’t interest me. But what do you think of Praxiteles’
Eros
? Oh, I think it’s the most divine sculpture I’ve ever seen. Oh, the
Eros
, the
Eros
…! That is love, true love; the inescapability, the fatality of love that begs forgiveness for the suffering it inflicts …”
“Have you ever been in love?”
“No. I don’t understand people and I’ve never been in love. You’re always so decisive. Dreams are beautiful, statues are wonderful and poetry is everything. Eros is everything, in love. I would never be able to love in reality as beautifully as Eros the symbol of love … No, knowing people doesn’t interest me, and a dream of Praxiteles, still surviving in a torso of mutilated marble, is more noble than anything that calls itself love in the world.”
She frowned and looked sombre.
“Let’s go into the ballroom,” she said. “We’re all by ourselves here.”
X
T HE DAY AFTER THE BALL , Cornélie had a strange feeling; suddenly, as she savoured her superb Genzano, ordered by Rudyard, she realised that it was no coincidence that she was sitting with the baroness and her daughter, Urania and Miss Taylor; realised that the
marchesa
definitely had an ulterior motive with that arrangement. Rudyard, always polite, thoughtful, always attentive, always with a ticket or an introduction in his pocket that was difficult to obtain, or at least so he led them to believe, and talked the whole time, recently mainly with Miss Taylor, who went faithfully to listen to all the lovely church music and always came home in raptures. The pale, simple, skinny English lady, who was at first enthralled by museums, ruins and sunsets on the Aventine or Monte Mario, and was always tired from her wanderings through Rome, henceforth devoted herself entirely to the hundreds of churches, viewed and studied every one, and especially attended religiously all musical services and was ecstatic about the choir of the Sistine Chapel and the trembling glories of the male sopranos.
Cornélie talked to Mrs Van der Staal and Baroness Von Rothkirch about what she had caught of the conversation between the
marchesa
and her nephew through the chink in the door but neither of them, although intrigued, took the words of the
marchesa
seriously, and regardedthem as simply a frivolous ball conversation between a scatterbrained woman, who was keen to match-make, and her reluctant nephew. It struck Cornélie how unwilling people are to believe in seriousness, but the baroness was very nonchalant, said that Rudyard would not do her any harm and still always gave her tickets, and Mrs Van der Staal, who had been long in Rome and used to
pensione
intrigues, thought that Cornélie was getting too worked up about the fate of the beautiful Urania. However, Miss Taylor had suddenly disappeared from table. People thought she was ill, when it emerged that she had left the Pensione Belloni, but after a few days it was common knowledge through the whole
pensione
that Miss Taylor had converted to Catholicism and moved into a
pensione
recommended to her by Rudyard: a
Similar Books
