A Favourite of the Gods and a Compass Error

by Sybille Bedford

“It is not possible,” said the prince.

  Rossi continued. “The man is neither more nor less trustworthy than you would expect. But he gave me an extract from the hotel register with the principessa’s name and the man’s name. He described her and when I showed him some photographs he picked out hers without hesitation.”

  “She would hardly have put her own name,” said Carla.

  “Her name and address, and the date; the destination given was Vienna.”

  “Vienna?” said the prince. “Three years ago? But that was the time she had that fright and came home. Mena never said they stopped over at Cortina, though I daresay they did. It must all be a mistake,” he shook his head. “Mena was with her all that time, there’s nothing in it.”

  “Could we have Mena?”

  Mena came, directed her words only to the prince, and swore there was nothing in it. They had stayed at Cortina, the gentleman had been there, but there was nothing in it, nothing at all. “Could you tell us what did happen?” Rossi said.

  Mena looked at the floor.

  Rossi knew better than to insist. He only asked if she could swear to what she had told them in a court of law.

  Mena said she could swear. Then she said scornfully, “Eccellenza: there was a commotion in the corridor—the Signora Principessa had to ring for help—many people heard!”

  When she was gone, Rossi said, “I saw that you believed her.”

  Of course, they said, they believed her. They knew her and they knew Anna.

  “Oh, knowing Anna . . .” said Carla.

  “I told you it was no use,” said the prince.

  “The appearances are very damaging,” said Rossi, “not to say scandalous. It could be put to use.”

  “Not so long ago a wife would have been locked up in a convent for a good deal less,” said Carla. “Of course we can use it.”

  “This business won’t help her,” said Maria’s husband, “once it gets out.”

  “Anna is a strange creature,” said the prince.

  “Does that waiter want money?”

  “Let’s give him some to shut up again,” said the prince. “Getting herself mixed up in hotel corridors with that nincompoop. . . . Poor woman—she’s no idea what appearances are. Of course we can’t use it. E che figura fa? She’s made me look silly enough as it is, we’ve got to think of Giulia.”

  There were protests, but Rossi finally backed up the prince. Given the maid’s testimony, it was risky, he said; better not touch it when all was said and done, it might boomerang.

  Very well, what then?

  “You will stay for colazione, Rossi?” said the prince.

  It was a wretched luncheon. They were mostly weeping in the kitchen and the pasta was badly drained and stuck together, and the fish was poorly chosen. It was only after Socrate had told them of the face they were losing before the avvocato that they pulled themselves together and sent out for fresh salad greens and decent fruit. There was very little talk at table. At one point they all heard a great bumping noise outside.

  “Another trunk,” said Socrate.

  Rossi, who was normally a cheerful man and used to better things, felt depressed.

  It was only when at last they left the dining-room that he felt buoyant enough again to take an initiative.

  “The principina is expected tonight?”

  They all turned to him. “She is.”

  “And her mother has the railway tickets.”

  “We were told so.” “They say that your daughter is a girl with a will of her own? Now tell me, if she were told the whole truth, if she were told that her mother was leaving her father for good and was taking her away to a foreign country where she would not see her father or her home again for many years, what would she do?”

  “She’d say we’d all gone out of our minds.”

  “Would she refuse to go?”

  “Could she refuse to go?” “She could make it very awkward for her mother. She might make it impossible. And if the daughter will not go, the mother cannot go—imagine it, leaving both her children and after that Cortina story. It’s in the girl’s hands. All she has to do is to tell her own mind to her mother and put her foot down, quite literally put her foot down. If they have to drag her to the carriage, into the station, on to the train, they won’t.”

  “It sounds like those suffragettes.”

  “It will require a great deal of resolution from a girl her age. But it need hardly come to that. One moment of initial firmness may turn the tide: Telling the mother that she will not go. Do you think she is capable of doing this?”

  “Yes!” they said.

  “Would she choose to do it?”

  “She might,” said the prince. “It depends on how she sees it. Yes—she would choose not to go.”

  “Già,” said the others.

  “It is not something I would like to have to tell my own daughter, but there it is. If you want to keep either of them, this is your only chance.”

  Rossi allowed it to sink in.

  “And once the principessa has been faced with this defeat,” he went on, “we follow it up with a peace offensive. First you do exactly what she is asking you to do, you move out of the house, then you send an offer of reconciliation, promise anything, ask for her conditions, say you’re ready to turn over a new leaf—say yes to anything she may propose.”

  “Rossi’s right,” said Carla’s husband. “Match her against Constanza. It’s brilliant. Checkmate to Anna.”

  “We use her own pawn.”

  The prince said, “Constanza is very much attached to her mother.”

  “If you were asking her to stay, would there be much doubt as to her choice?”

  “None,” said Carla.

  “You needn’t even do that, Rico,” said her husband. “All you have to do is make it clear to her that by not going she will keep the family together.”

  “Remember: it is your one chance.”

  Carla said, “Rico, I could talk to her.”

  “Or I,” said Rossi, “if you prefer that. It is quite true: it’s simply a matter of keeping the family together.”

  The prince said he would think it over. To their consternation he got up and left them. They were unused to any of them wishing to be by himself.

  •

  The prince’s answer was no. Just no. You could not do this thing to the bambina, you could not mix her up in it, you could not put it on her. Imagine putting her before this choice, in this position against her own mother. She was too young. And too old to be handled like a child. Whatever the bambina might do now, how would she feel about it in a few years’ time? No. Simply no.

  There was an uproar. They implored him. But the prince would not be budged.

  One more thing, he said, he might as well move out. He had been told that Anna was made frantic by his presence, she was as unreasonable as a shying horse. He might as well go with them now, Socrate would send on a few things.

  Poor Rossi cried, “That was the move that was to have been saved for after the defeat!”

  “There’s enough defeat,” said the prince. Together, in a straggle, they left the palazzo.

  •

  The rest was swift.

  •

  Constanza arrived that evening. When she entered the main drawing-room she found her father there. “Papa! They told me you were gone. They told me you had left the house.”

  “And here I am, figlia,” he said comfortably. “You mustn’t believe all you hear.” He was lying. He had let himself in by the back-door not five minutes ago.

  “I’ve heard plenty. Darling papa—now that I see you’re not gone, it can’t be half as bad? What’s up?”

  He laughed at her. “Everything, tesoro. Your mother is furious with me. Let her tell you about it. She is going on a journey to change her ideas, and she is going to take you with her.”

  “I know,” said Constanza. “Like the time she went round the world. Will it be a long journey?”

/>   “We don’t know,” said the prince lightly. “You know the way she talks. You must calm her and see that you’re all back soon.”

  Constanza said, “I’ve just been with her. I don’t like it.”

  “What did she say?”

  “If I loved her not to ask her any questions now—we are going away tomorrow—she would explain as much as she could later on.”

  “She is very very upset.”

  “I am upset, too,” said Constanza. “Papa, where are we going? Are we going to America?”

  “Your mother has taken tickets as far as London.”

  “Hmmm. Papa—she said something else, she said she needed me.”

  “Be good to her,” said the prince. “Go with her, and talk to her. Don’t stay away too long—or I’ll come to fetch you. Meanwhile enjoy yourself, it’s your first real journey.”

  “Giorgio is not going?” she said.

  “He’s not going.”

  “He’s too little to be of use to mama.”

  “Much too little,” said the prince.

  “Papa, I love you.”

  “Don’t cry,” he said.

  “But papa, we always cry before journeys, we always cry when mama leaves.”

  “This time is different,” said the prince.

  “We don’t cry.”

  “We don’t cry.”

  “Good.”

  “Ciao, figlia—mind you enjoy yourself—and if you need anything let me know.” He was gone.

  •

  The coachman, as had always been their custom, made the detour before heading for the station. Before Anna realized it, they had stopped in the Piazza Trevi. Mena and Constanza leapt down to fling into the fountain their bits of money, the tribute that is said to grant the traveller’s return. Anna did not move.

  “Mama, you must.”

  “Signora Principessa!”

  “Can we not drive on?” said Anna.

  Quickly the two took matters into their own hands. It could be done, they knew, for those who were unable. Constanza had a piece of gold; this, together, they gave up to the waters, thinking Anna’s name. Their unspoken incantations mingled; but Anna’s face was turned away.

  PART TWO

  In Another Country

  1

  THEY ARRIVED at Victoria Station the next day, late in the afternoon. In the streets the gas-lights were on and it was drizzling.

  “Look,” Constanza said, “look—all the tall hats. Oh, it is like Sherlock Holmes. And so many people have raincoats, how convenient for them, and walking so fast, where can they all be going? And look, do look!” This time it was a hansom cab.

  Mena, who had seen it many times before, nodded smugly. “And here is the King’s Palazzo.”

  Constanza craned. “The guardsmen—so it is true. And is that Hyde Park?”

  Mena exhibited superior knowledge.

  Anna, silent in the back of the closed carriage ordered for her by Brown’s Hotel, emanated aloof benevolence. She was capable of her own disciplines, and with her the claims of servants and the young stood very high. They felt free to chatter.

  “You will find things here quite nicely done,” Mena said. “Once you get used to the food. And the wine is exquisite.”

  “No vines have been grown in the British Isles for three hundred years,” Constanza said, fresh with her school-room knowledge.

  “Proprio squisito,” said Mena.

  At the hotel Anna retired at once into a suite. In her room, Constanza found a live fire burning in the grate.

  “And what did I tell you?” Mena said, “carpets everywhere.”

  Immediately they wheeled in an exotic and delicious tea. Constanza tried the Gentleman’s Relish and all the jams and devoured half a dozen thin brown bread-and-butter sandwiches and four scones. Next came a knock followed by a mass of flowers. One of the baskets bore the card of the management. “It must be the charming man in the frock-coat who saw us upstairs,” said Constanza. “How sweet of him.” She examined the other flowers. From the Italian Ambassador. “How extraordinary.”

  “We always have flowers on arrival,” said Mena.

  “How do they know?”

  “It is like that when you travel with the Signora Principessa.”

  •

  Later on they both set out for a stroll in Piccadilly.

  •

  Constanza slept, and she slept late. She had hardly been confronted by more tea, when a message came saying she was wanted on the telephone. Much intrigued (of course they did not have a telephone at home), she complied.

  “Dear Constanza, what splendid news!”

  It was one of her tutors, now a fellow of his college.

  “You must come down to see us, I am arranging a luncheon. Everybody wants to see you.”

  Constanza said she would love to be shown it all.

  “Let’s settle it now, shall we, before you’re all booked up. Good. Have I beaten Balliol?”

  A few minutes later there was another summons.

  “Connie!”

  “Kit!”

  He was a boy whose parents had been en poste some years ago. He and Constanza had ridden together in the Campagna and he used to be one of her staunchest A.D.C.’s in the rout of governesses.

  “What fun you’ve come at last. It’s a rotten time of year, though, we’re just down from Scotland. Tell you what—we can go racing. What about this afternoon? Tomorrow?”

  “How on earth did you know?”

  “I heard father getting up a do for your mama—and he wants to fix it up for you to go to the House of Commons. How long are you going to stay?”

  “I don’t know myself. We had rather a rumpus.”

  “Does it mean a long visit? Will you be here for Christmas?”

  “We may.”

  “Oh, good. We’ll get some hunting. You will hunt, won’t you?”

  “And how not?” said Constanza.

  All morning people came leaving cards on her mother and messages for her. At noon a string of girls appeared, playmates from the Borghese Gardens, to bear her off to a parent’s house for luncheon. But Constanza was already engaged with Mr. James, another apparition from her school-days and her favourite; he had come to call on the principessa, who was at home to no-one, and had stayed. He took her out and gave her oysters; she tasted her first glass of stout, and he teased her about what he called her pragmatic view of metaphysics. Mr. James was a bachelor, fairly elderly, who came originally from Massachusetts and had elected to make London his home. She asked him what it was like to know H. G. Wells and Arnold Bennett in the flesh. He told her about his namesake—Henry—abysmally underrated to his mind, and about some young ones, Forster, one or two Irish chaps and a magic girl, Virginia Stephen.

  Of the stout, she said, “Not half bad, after you get used to it. But can it be Mena’s exquisite wine?”

  Mr. James was delighted. So the wine had been a success? he said. He must tell her the whole story some day, it was wonderfully typical of her mama.

  Just as Constanza was trying to make up her mind whether she should talk to him about it, Mr. James approached the subject.

  “And now tell me what you’re up to?”

  “I?”

  “What are you doing here all of a sudden? You know your mother’s ideas, she’s often told me how she planned to take you to London for the season when you are nineteen. Now here you are, sixteen, if memory serves, and the date is the third of October.”

  To her own surprise, Constanza’s answer was evasive.

  “You aren’t under any cloud?”

  “I?”

  “You haven’t by any chance decided that you want to go to school?”

  “Good heavens,” said Constanza. “Isn’t it much too late for that?”

  “That is what I should have thought,” he said. “Though I’m told the schools are full of girls of sixteen. You know you could get into Oxford tomorrow and standing on your head.”

  “Mr. Jam
es!”

  “Cambridge, if you prefer.”

  “A woman’s college?”

  “Dear child, it might do them a world of good. But you haven’t told me yet what you are doing?”

  Constanza felt sure now that it was not possible to talk until she had heard her mother. “Oh, I think mama just thought she might get lonely here without me.”

  Mr. James did not appear to find this plausible, but he forbore to probe. They parted on his promising to take Constanza to meet writers.

  “Which ones?” she said, “the old ones, or your new?”

  “Which do you want to see the most?”

  “Oh, the real ones.”

  “They will be the most easy,” he said.

  •

  That afternoon Anna braced herself for talking to her daughter. Unable herself to cope well with suspense, she felt she must not leave the girl in it much longer. The task was not made easier by her not knowing what she had to say. She had planned thus far, but no further. She had got away, had made an end, arrived. Now it was the end: there was nothing. She had not felt such desolation, had not been so unhappy in all her life, not when she was in the grip of that queer panic before Giorgio’s birth, not when Rico’s first perfidy had been discovered; not when her father died. She did not know why she had come to England. The familiar comforts of London to her were stale, unbearable. She had got through twenty-four hours by saying No. No to callers, invitations, No to friends. Her own attitudes, her views of the situation, which were to be so very determined in the future, had not yet crystallized. Some of them took an early shape in the course of her talk with Constanza, the first of many.

  Constanza had hardly seen her mother in broad daylight, unhatted or alone since the time she had been snatched away from Castelfonte. Now she found her neither aged nor ill, only rigid; so very rigid. It struck into Constanza’s heart.

  “Does Eccellenza require me?”

  “Oh Mena. Perhaps you had better go, Mena,” Anna said gently. Constanza was still unused to the trammelling effects of embarrassment. She came forward with a movement of affection. “Mama, cara, you look quite miserable. And now you must tell me all about it!”

  Anna was surprised, then faintly pleased. “My darling child,” she began. “You are all I have now.” Then she told her: “I have left your father.” She told about the Legal Separation; about the finality of everything.