“You don’t even know what things cost,” said Anna.
“I don’t know what they cost, but I have them. If that is not a definition of riches.”
“I don’t want you to pinch and scrape. You can help in another way. When I die the trust is dissolved, it goes absolutely to my heirs.”
“Capital and all?”
“Yes,” said Anna happily. “All yours, in the bank to draw on. Well, I thought as you are twenty-one and my chief heir and gave your consent to our using a little capital now and then, it might help with those stubborn men. If not, there’s always my overdraft, people here are so very nice to me about it.”
“Darling mama, naturally I shall sign anything you say.”
•
At that time, the English in Italy were coming home for the duration. One evening in September Constanza was asked to a party to meet a young man arrived from Rome the day before. Constanza was much involved with a Greek poet at that moment, and as often she was late. She entered a crowded room where things were in full swing. She strolled up to a group of people who were clustered round a fair, tall, lanky young man who was holding forth. He had a rather ugly, rather charming face, a little like Boswell and a little like a pug. He was sitting on the floor, rocking to and fro, nursing his knees and enjoying what he said. Constanza thought she heard a name she knew and stopped.
“A beauty—a Veneto-Roman beauty—nothing like those Bronzino-faced Bolognese—not in her first youth mind you: autumnal; but the way she moved, and of course so like their paintings, Tintoretto, Giorgione, it was all there—so I gave good Professor Pestalozzi the slip whenever I had the chance and nipped down to Rome. In vain! Don’t let anyone tell you Rome is the New Babylon. The morals and domestic customs of those people are too touching to be believed. The fidelity! The sentiment!
“Well then, there she was stuck with this beau of hers, it must have been going on for a quarter of a century. Sweet old boy, actually—he tried to carry me off on a shoot—lives in one of those vast barns off the Piazza Farnese and puzzles over the Risorgimento. Well, one fine day his wife—one of those straight-laced American ladies—found out about it and upped and left him, favourite daughter and all. Since then my autumnal beauty has been tied to him for keeps. There isn’t a dry eye in Rome when they tell you this story—poor Giulia, they say, so devoted, so loyal—and he’s heart-broken and spends morning, noon and night moping in her drawing-room. The poor marchese, that’s her husband, is driven to his club and if old Rico didn’t go duck shooting once in a while he wouldn’t have palazzo to set foot in.”
Nothing would have made Constanza sneeze or slip away, she only longed to turn into a mouse. But at this point came a stir, people had become aware of her presence. Someone quietly named her. The young man looked at her, she at him; there was a fraction of the expected silence.
“Strike me pink!” said the young man.
Constanza laughed out loud. “That was the best thing you could have said.”
“So that’s you,” said the young man.
“The favourite daughter.”
“It’s not fair. I somehow got the impression that you were a child.”
“The bambina,” said Constanza.
“Già” said the young man. He was a perfect mimic.
“You know, I could tell you one or two things about the Risorgimento that would puzzle you. What were you doing at Bologna?”
“Cramming for the F.O. Polishing up my Italian.”
“Is there a Professor Pestalozzi?”
“No. I made him up. Plenty like him. You know, I ought to have known you anywhere, you do look like the marchesa.” He appraised Constanza seriously. “What is called a generic likeness. But you are not all Venetian School, for one thing you are too tall, then you have more lightness—there’s a good bit of Gainsborough in you. Of course there’s English blood.”
“My straight-laced American mama.”
“Quite,” said the young man. “I’ve seen it so often, the fining down of the Titian/Veronese type, it shows in the hair, too. It’s very interesting.”
One of their friends said, “I say, Simon, you are the most impudent man of your age I know.”
“I shouldn’t give it that limitation,” said Constanza. “How old are you?”
“Twenty-one,” said the young man.
“A fatal number. If I were you I should be careful about everything you do for the rest of the year.”
The young man made a mock sign against the evil eye.
“Don’t,” said Constanza. “Were you by any chance brought up in Italy?”
“Two years as a boy with an Aunt and Uncle near Genoa. The uncle was a parson, I had had pneumonia, paziènza.”
Before they drifted apart, he said, “As a matter of fact I’ve got something for you, your father gave me a present to take over. He said, ‘Tell her it’s a birthday present, I meant to give it to her myself, but with the war now we don’t know when she’ll be able to come.’ I was going to send it to you.”
“How like papa,” she said, “how like us. It would never occur to us to send anything by post if we can help it. I don’t think I ever put spit to stamp before I came to live in England.”
“Well you know, the marchesa did hint it was something pretty valuable, ‘For the love of Heaven, don’t lose it, caro!’ Post indeed: There’s a war on. I had a nightmare of a journey myself.”
“So it is possible to get to and fro?”
“Not to. And I shouldn’t advise it.”
“Have you got it with you?”
“Your father’s present? It’s locked up at home.”
So Constanza had to name a day for him to come to tea at Regent’s Park.
•
Constanza’s Greek poet had enlisted, and she knew better than to interfere. People, even people whom she loved, were separate entities to her and she left them to their own convictions and decisions. But she was going through an anxious time. It was only when she came in late one afternoon and saw him sitting with her mother eating nectarines and drinking Sauternes that she remembered having asked the young man from Rome.
“I am most frightfully sorry,” she said.
“Constanza,” said her mother, “Mr. Herbert has been waiting for you for an hour.”
“In delightful company,” he said.
“I hope you will forgive me, I was seeing a great friend off to his Depot.”
“Catch me!” he said.
“I shall light a candle for him tomorrow, dearest,” said Anna who in partibus adhered strictly to Catholic observance.
“Yes, do, mama.”
“Mr. Herbert has been telling me all about himself, he is going to read for the Bar. And do help yourself.”
The young man filled his glass. “It’s so clever of your mother to know about Château Suduiraut. Most people in this country have never heard of anything beside Yquem, and as they can’t afford that or are too stingy, you seldom get a decent drop of Sauternes in England. I love it at this hour, don’t you?”
Slightly huffed, the principessa said, “Oh, we do have some Yquem. One or two of my friends like it.”
“May I call myself that?” said Simon.
“You certainly may have some Yquem,” said Anna.
“I’ll take you up on that,” he said. “And here it is,” he turned to Constanza and produced a small sealed packet.
She took it, her mother’s eyes following her. “Thank you, that was most kind.” She put the package in her bag. Simon, too, had watched her. “And why the Bar?” she said.
“Oh, I never meant to go into the Foreign Office, I only said yes because it meant snatching a couple of years abroad. That’s all up now and I have to present some sort of plan to my people. The Bar is the quickest, and the least expensive. My people don’t hold with their children drinking premier crus.”
“That’s always such a mistake,” said Anna seriously.
“Princess, you are a parent after my ow
n heart.”
“Can you see yourself at the Bar?” said Constanza.
“Darling, what a question.”
“It’s the way I ask myself about things.”
“Just: Addressing a British Jury. I might enjoy it. Standing up to the judge. What I shan’t like is being thrown in entirely with men. But there is room for all kinds at the Bar, it isn’t all stuffy. What I’m most interested in is painting. But I can’t paint and don’t want to, I want to look at it.”
“Then you want to write about it,” said Anna.
“Not too much; not for a living. There isn’t much you can write about anything without it becoming a racket.”
“So you’d rather stick to the Bar?”
“Oh, stick. I haven’t started, you know. I shall next week.”
“Are you an only child?” said Anna.
“No such luck. Two big brothers, great hulking philistines, one of them already in France, and a very dull sister.”
“But you don’t live with them?” said Constanza.
“God forbid,” he said. “No nice cosy family life, Signorina, no nice warm cosy Italian family life. The famiglia live in Northumberland; for me it’s been boarding school, college, Professor Pestalozzi; now it’s rooms, or rather looking for rooms. La mamma is Ulster, connected—not remotely—with trade. It comes in very useful to keep up the fences as il babbo has got a big hulking brother too, but she’s had to live it down, poor woman, ever since she came. Now she’s more like the rest than the rest. They loathe me, but wouldn’t admit it. When I ran away from Eton——”
“You ran away?” said Constanza.
“I didn’t have a bad time—if you are débrouillard you can get away with it—one day I just had enough. But I didn’t run home, I made straight for an aunt. My mother’s sister who married a man who turned Liberal. That was never forgiven either. Darkest England—innocent ladies in London can have no idea.”
When he said good-bye, he said, “Don’t forget the Yquem.”
“I shall not,” said Anna. “Do come again, I’m always at home,” and she named the evening of her conversazione and two other days.
When he was gone, she said: “Poor boy.”
“Poor boy nothing,” said Constanza.
Later, alone in her room Constanza undid the package from Rome. When she opened it, she saw her father’s Indian ruby set extravagantly in a ring. It gave her a shock which she did not forget; and of course she cried.
4
CONSTANZA tried to see all she could of her Greek poet, and besides there was her war work. Anna (the courted representative of two neutral powers) was active on a number of committees; this helped, but it took more to keep her occupied and reasonably cheerful. So when her poet was up on embarkation leave, Constanza was very pleased to find that the young man from Rome, as she still called him in her mind, was practically living in the house.
Running up the stairs, with half an hour not to spare to have a bath, she would catch glimpses of them, him and her mother, bent anxiously over an ailing potted plant, or sitting over a tome of Anna’s excellent collection of art books.
“No. That’s the other Giovanni.”
“Who was he? Have I heard of him?”
“You needn’t,” said Anna. “He was Cosimo’s son, not the Cosimo’s, the nephew’s.”
“I know. The one they called Giovannetto to keep him apart from Lorenzo the Younger’s second——”
“That was another one again. Oh good evening, Constanza, do sit down if you have a moment, but I expect you don’t. Il Giovannetto was killed at San Gimignano three years before the Cavalcade.”
What they were dissecting was a reproduction of Benozzo Gozzoli.
“Your mother is telling me all about the Medici cousins, she knows every one of them.”
“And he’s telling me that the Donor on the mule looks like poor dear Humphrey-Kerr.”
At other times Constanza, passing, would find them teaching each other a new patience game or reading Tennyson, or Simon carving a pineapple, Simon opening a bottle. Every time he would say something agreeable about the principessa.
“Guess what we just had ? A clam chowder. Your mama had it cooked for me specially.”
“You silly boy,” said Anna, “it was only an oyster chowder; I can’t get clams.”
“Any rate it was delicious, and I do like the way you say Oyster. Say ‘Oyster’.” Anna did. “Now you.” Constanza did not. “Spoil sport. Well, you needn’t. I bet you say it English. It’s a great test word, that and Squirrel. That’s something I’m fascinated by, voices, and why. Your mother’s has remained so very New England, and yours is English English. Not a trace of Italian; not a trace of American, oh yes: sometimes. An inflection, a turn of phrase—but then I have a very good ear.”
“Part of your private zoo?” said Constanza.
“I love the Zoo,” Simon said, “I’m going to take you some day.”
When he first saw her ring, he said: “What a stone! Mind if I have a look at it?”
“That’s what came in your pocket.”
“She insists on wearing it,” said Anna.
Another day she was greeted with, “I wonder if you have any idea how good your mother’s food is? But then Italians have no palate.”
Constanza could not let this pass. “No palate? I can tell if two leaves out of a dish of spinach have been picked the day before yesterday.”
“That’s about the extent of it. Poverina; and how do you manage to get your fresh blade of grass in London?”
“Mama.”
“Ecco.”
Or it was: “Your mother really does know every column in Rome.”
“And how do you know?”
“I know enough columns to know that she knows more.”
“You aren’t half conceited,” she said, “are you?”
The first time she caught him alone, Constanza told him: “Don’t think I minded what you said at the party that night, it’s what we all say about people we don’t know very well; I didn’t hold it against you, but I’d like to ask you something now. Is it true what you were saying? about my father? That he was heart-broken when mama left him?”
“It was about you they said he minded most.”
“Is it true that he is so very sad?”
“You know how they talk.”
“But how did you find him?”
“He seemed quiet.”
“Gay?”
“Not very gay.”
“But you liked him? He’s rather a dear.”
“He was frightfully nice to me, he put me up once or twice. I seem to make a hit with your parents.”
“You stayed at our house?” she said. “You actually stayed there?”
“Only for a night or two when I was supposed to be at Bologna. What’s the matter? You look queer?”
“Have you told her? Have you told my mother?”
“What about?”
“That you stayed at the palazzo?”
“I did not mention it.”
“Much better not.”
“I thought so.”
“Of course you know the story. Does mama talk to you about it?”
“Oh yes. She told me she’s been through a tragedy of betrayal. She thinks that you don’t know.”
“The real reason for her leaving my father?”
“That’s what she said. But you do know. I didn’t tell you anything new that night.”
“Is that what they’re really saying in Rome—mama found out about that old love and went away and took me with her, and that was the reason she went?”
“That’s what I heard.”
“Nothing else?”
“Oh yes, you know. Chorus girls . . . other women.”
“Nothing else?”
“Not in Rome.”
“Can you believe it?” she said. “As a child I was almost sure she knew; that was just an impression I had. Can you believe my mother doing that?”
; “Easily. The women in my family would; if they dared treat their men like that and weren’t so afraid of scandal. Your mother is someone used to having her own way.”
Constanza said, “Do you think I could get to Rome before winter?”
“You know how uncertain it is about civilian travel. I daresay if you pulled strings and if there’s no offensive. Then there’d be the question of getting back. Nobody knows which way Italy’s going to jump.”
“Did you hear I was supposed to go this summer?”
“Yes, and how cut up they were when you didn’t appear. Scarlet fever or something. But I shouldn’t dream of trying to go now, it would drive your father out of his mind. He said as much. He has very odd ideas about travel. Not that he hasn’t got something now. I should wait; the whole show can’t last long.”
•
The Greek poet was shipped off to the front. Constanza was sick with fear for him. Every time a glass broke or a bird came to the window she saw it as an omen; she was not certain yet about the ruby; some stones do not take to change. As it was a thing with her not to talk about her lovers while they were her lovers, she had no-one to share her anxiety; besides she felt the times were miserable enough. So she only tried to console Angelina who was in the same position, and accepted her mother’s concern for all young life and for her friends, whom she chose to call Constanza’s protégés. When Anna asked her to come to mass with her one Sunday, she said simply yes and went. She looked back a little ruefully on her proud and bracing atheistic days. She would have called herself an agnostic now, a sceptic, sad and mild, with a sharp aversion to the Church of Rome and hardly any feeling about the Reformed. Her own conviction that this life was all there is to it, a single chance, now seemed to be occasion for mourning, humility and tolerant good sense in living it, rather than for crowing. So she drove with her mother to the Oratory and lit a candle for her poet. She prayed. She made a kind of vow. Hardly in words: a mere line. Let him keep his life; never mind about me. Let him stay alive, I shall ask nothing for myself.
•
Simon had moved into Regent’s Park. “So much more convenient for him,” said the principessa. “I’m arranging the morning-room for him to use as a study.” Constanza found it rather a comfort to have him about. He was always ready to walk with her, often late at night; he was gay like an Italian but with fewer reversals of mood, and his range of interests was not exactly limited.
A Favourite of the Gods and a Compass Error Page 15
