Rosetta
Page 17
Discovering who owns the villa has not been difficult. Gaining entry is quite a different matter. Mr Koch has many faithful retainers in his employ. They protect him and his interests with zeal. Layers of security surround him, ensuring the maintenance of not only his personal safety, but his privacy. Esquire magazine says that he is ‘impossible to contact’. Mr Koch is unreachable.
This is a great disappointment to me. I become possessed with the thought of seeing Torre Clementina, this place which, arguably, represents the pinnacle of my great-grandmother’s conquest of a near-Olympian world. For me, it has an almost mythic quality. I desire to inhabit the same rooms, walk in the gardens, stand as Rosetta did when, flanked by a princess and an empress, she sipped Turkish coffee and looked out upon a foreign sea. I can read about the villa’s appearance in various accounts, and of course I have the letters, but it is not enough. I dream of being where she has been.
I sit in my garden on a sultry Sydney day and share my discouragement with a dear childhood friend who is visiting from his home in the United States. We are catching up, exchanging the details of our lives, our families. Martin is remarkable. A former Australian academic, he moved to Washington many years ago and became a US citizen. Martin’s unique skills and exceptional intellect saw him become Deputy Secretary of State and an American ambassador – the only one, as has often been remarked, with an Australian accent. Martin is on familiar terms with presidents and prime ministers and the princes who rule Middle Eastern kingdoms. Nevertheless, I am surprised when, as we sip lime juice and bite into ripe strawberries, he laughs and says, ‘Frederick Koch? I know him.’
It takes a moment or two to absorb this piece of news. Here I am in Sydney, with my old friend who lives in America, and he is telling me that I just might be able to go to this particular, impossible-to-visit French villa. I realise it is a foolish notion but, still, I cannot help believing that, once more, unseen forces may be intervening.
Martin advises me that Frederick Koch is ‘old school’. I will have to supply credentials, provide information about myself, my family. There will be an assessment. Naturally, I comply as best I can. Emails are sent. Correspondence flies across the globe. I wait impatiently.
Then Mr Koch writes back and I discover that the margins of possibility have once more been erased. Just like my great-grandmother before me, I, too, have been invited to Torre Clementina. Call it happenstance, coincidence, good fortune – it seems like alchemy.
The villa’s permanent staff keep it in a state of perfect readiness. Should its owner make one of his rare visits, he will see trees laden with tangerines and lemons. Rare pink Japanese wisteria and creamy rhododendrons will be in bloom and the bougainvillea, heavy with cerise blossoms, will be flourishing. Mr Koch will find that the pillows on the sun-beds by the swimming pool are plumped, the limestone terraces are swept, the brass taps and handrails and doorknobs gleam. The villa waits for him. Yet, as I walk through its rustic brick and stone portals, I have the distinct feeling that it also waits for me.
Here, at last, I stand in that soaring, central room, the same place in which Rosetta met Empress Eugenie, where she gossiped with Princess Charlotte and nibbled fragrant pastries alongside Baroness Stern. There is now barely a trace of Ernesta’s eccentric collection of religious artefacts. They have been replaced by Frederick’s exquisite possessions. To divulge the details of these priceless works would be to violate the trust of my absent host. It is enough to say that they are marvellous and of rare quality; I am surrounded by sculpture and furniture and paintings, an array of objets d’art that any number of museums would be eager to possess.
As I wander from one object to another, marvelling at these things, I hear an exclamation. It comes from Mark Ryan, the urbane man whom Mr Koch entrusts with the principal care of this unique property and who is accompanying me.
‘I have been here for fifteen years and I have never seen that before,’ Mark says, excitedly. I follow his gaze, look to see what, among all these treasures, could possibly have attracted his attention.
A single magnificent pheasant has alighted on the vivid green lawn outside. I leave the artfully arranged objects behind and follow Mark out onto the limestone terrace in order to observe it more closely. Beneath the Mediterranean sun the creature’s iridescent plumage shines like bronze. Its glossy head, small and elegant, is held at a slight angle; there is a faint movement, a barely palpable pulse, beating in its throat. Its long tail feathers flicker, one wing is unfurled. In this place of memories and spirits, it casts its yellow eyes on me.
THIRTY-SEVEN
LONDON, APRIL 1914
Zeno has not been his usual self of late. He is restless, highly strung. There is a certain wildness in his eyes. Rosetta thinks that, if she had to put a date on it, it would be ever since their return from Cap Martin. But the more she considers, the more she begins to believe that the changes started earlier. Rosetta reflects on the feverish excitement that consumed him on the day he discovered he would be meeting the Empress Eugenie. It was out of character for this most self-contained of men. Now there is the repeated talk of war, the blood-soaked visions that come to him at night. Perhaps it is all the time spent in his laboratory, she thinks, inhaling God knows what poisonous substances shipped in from the East.
His practice is busier than ever. Zeno is at the beck and call of a dozen famous men. And the women; it seems they cannot get enough of him, of his predictions and his medicines, his massages and special treatments. She frowns. The fact is, beneath his carefully groomed exterior, his calm facade, Zeno is a man of restless, burning appetites. As the pressures in his life begin to mount, it has become more difficult to keep his needs confined. More than ever, she worries that he is entangled with a titled woman, a viscount’s wife or, worse, a duke’s – several possible candidates come to mind – who, if disappointed by his fecklessness, will not hesitate to strike.
It is too much; it is frenetic. The work, the intimate encounters, the dinners and the entertaining and, always, the constant need to ensure that their true identities remain buried, the ever-present requirement to sustain this new, distinguished life. Zeno has reached so high and yet he seems to want to soar higher still. Like Icarus, he tempts fate. His wings may singe and burn.
Rosetta knows that if Zeno falls she will plummet with him. She must prevent this catastrophe from happening at any cost. Retribution will be swift and bitter. She does not shrink from divine judgement; the kind that humans pass is terrible enough. Rosetta is well aware that she is vulnerable. She carries with her the awful sin, desertion of her flesh and blood, hidden in her heart.
She shakes herself. The iron shutter that has allowed her to come this far is put back in its place. She will not dwell on what is over, past. Her mind turns instead to the only person in England, apart from her husband, for whom she cares deeply. Now that Helena Rubinstein is spending so much time building her cosmetic empire in other parts of the world, there is just one soul with whom Rosetta and Zeno can relax their guard, who knows both who they really are and from where they come: Lilian Pakenham. But Rosetta is troubled about her, too, her deep unhappiness. Lilian has a loveless marriage to a soldier politician from whom she dreams only of escape.
Not quite an idea, but the merest whisper of a notion begins to spin a web of possibility. Rosetta is secure. Her husband worships her. But she knows he likes … variety. Perhaps, perhaps, why not? Lilian and Zeno are already very close. He talks with her in a way he does no other woman. Strangely, despite Lilian’s blonde beauty, the rounded figure Rosetta has noticed other men admire, she has never detected in her husband the smallest sign of attraction for her friend. She supposes Zeno must have lines that even he will not cross. He knows that Lilian and Rosetta share a passionate friendship: he will not wound his wife. But if Rosetta were to give such a liaison her blessing – no, what is she thinking?
She busies herself with orders and accounts. But her attention wanders. She makes small arithmetical
mistakes. Distracted, Rosetta lets her pencil drop. She decides instead to walk in Hyde Park. The early spring has brought a haze of new green leaves to trees whose branches were bare a week ago, and jonquil buds push through fresh grass. As she walks, her light coat wrapped about her, Rosetta finds herself returning to her earlier thoughts. Somehow, the idea does not seem so very shocking now. Zeno could make Lilian happy. She knows her friend has always found her husband to be attractive; what woman does not?
Rosetta is struck by how simple, indeed, how useful a suitable arrangement between the three of them would be. Her friend would receive the attention she deserves and the risks attached to Zeno’s aristocratic dalliances might be reduced. And Lilian will keep their secrets. They will be safe with her.
While Rosetta starts her journey homeward, still pondering this unconventional strategy, Zeno, at his desk in New Bond Street, is opening yet another letter. Princess Charlotte is in near constant contact; she has one matter that dominates her thoughts. When will her father-in-law, the Grand Duke, die? It is an issue that consumes her day and night.
At seventeen, on an unusually mild Berlin day in February 1878, Charlotte married her brother’s scholarly friend, the Hereditary Prince his Highness, Bernhard, Duke of Saxe-Meiningen. Soon after, she became the leader of Berlin society, or at least that part of it regarded as smart, dissolute. Widely celebrated for her style and wit, she bought clothes only from Paris, smoked and drank, spread gossip and made outrageous comments. There were intrigues; scandalous rumours of wild promiscuity began to circulate. Although in the words of her cousin, Queen Marie of Romania, Charlotte ‘could have disarmed an ogre’, and each of her cat-like movements resembled ‘a caress’, these attributes failed to impress her brother, Kaiser Wilhelm. Instead, with Charlotte under something of a cloud, in 1892 he insisted that she and Bernhard vacate Berlin.
The couple have remained more or less in exile in the dreary German town of Breslau ever since. It is little wonder that in 1898 Charlotte built her Cannes villa, La Fôret. But life on the Riviera provides only diversion: it cannot satisfy Charlotte’s ambition.
The strained relations with her Emperor brother mean that, although as a Princess of Prussia she receives an income, it is insufficient, at least in her opinion. Until Bernhard can succeed his father, Georg II of Saxe-Meiningen, the royal couple must endure relative impoverishment and, what is worse, a status that is annoyingly inconsequential.
To Charlotte’s regret, and despite her long-felt anticipation, Georg II has declined to pass away. Exasperated, she is of the opinion that, due to her royal father-in-law’s stubborn determination to remain alive, her husband has been denied his rightful inheritance. It is, then, with a sense of some desperation, that she has turned to the only man she feels certain is able to expedite the matter, who can bring it to a rapid, ardently wished for, irrevocable conclusion.
Professor Zeno advises Charlotte to be calm. He holds her hand and says in his most soothing tone, ‘Patience, my dear Princess. I see his death. It is not far away.’
It is too distant for Charlotte. That the principality of Saxe-Meiningen is one of the smallest of the states that make up the confederation of the German Empire is unimportant. She has been a princess long enough. Now she desires a throne.
THIRTY-EIGHT
Charlotte’s letters chart her European peregrinations; she writes from half a dozen salubrious resorts and palaces. I read each one, see her hunger, and think of what it must have been like for Zeno to be the recipient of this singular woman’s innermost hopes and dreams. It is all there, captured for eternity in her peculiar, glyphic handwriting; Charlotte’s frustration and despair, her appalling longing for the ageing Duke’s demise.
Cannes,
4 April 1914
I feel sure that the Duke’s death must be close at hand for I found him so feeble, shrunk and low spirited that he cannot last much longer … It was most pathetic watching him on Thursday, his 88th birthday …
I have faith in your transmissions, therefore I hope for the best, and should the long wished death occur soon, I shall let you know of it at once.
Grand Hotel Frankfurter-Hof,
Frankfurt,
16 April
The Duke has stood his journey to Italy wonderfully well and fear!? ‘the hovering death’ can’t mean him, as I so hoped for.
Hotel Marienbad,
Munich,
26 April 1914
I am so grateful to you for sending your thoughts all the stronger for the Force and Strength you wish me to possess; in time they must be of some avail and help to undo the rejuvenating of the old gentleman … the obstinacy beyond belief!
In the midst of Charlotte’s bulletins there is another crisis. Ernesta sends an urgent telegram from Cap Martin.
PLEASE DEAR FRIEND DO TELEGRAPH TO PRINCE DANILO CETINJE MONTENEGRO GIVING HIM COURAGE PRINCESS WORSE
Charlotte, too, mentions the Princess Jutta, Duchess of Mecklenburg, in her letter of April the 26th.
I wonder what’s up with her! Is not something wrong with her inside, or has she had some mental shock?
Next there is a cable from the dashing, moustachioed Crown Prince of Montenegro himself. Despite an international reputation for profligate womanising, the playboy prince is desperately concerned about his wife.
I AM AT JENA AND THE PRINCESS HERE IN A SANATORIUM I BEG YOU TO THINK OF US KINDEST REGARDS DANILO
It is little wonder that Zeno is disturbed. In constant demand by a litter of troubled individuals upon whose heads rest so many European crowns, he feels besieged on all sides. Now he is expected to save the life of one royal personage while, at the same time, hastening another towards an untimely end.
If this were not enough cause for consternation, it is at this point Charlotte’s letters begin to delve into international matters of concern.
The wars and bloodshed in Mexico looks very bad and [I] don’t see any way out of this stupidly managed affair.
Then, after her signature, comes the intriguing line: ‘Did you see anything of the King and Queen since their French visit?’
I am not sure to which King and Queen Charlotte is referring. So many spring to mind; perhaps her brother-in-law Constantine and sister Sophie, the King and Queen of Greece, or possibly her cousins, King George and Queen Mary of Great Britain. It is not important. What strikes me most is the casual assumption this chatty postscript contains. These days, it appears that mixing in royal circles is, for Rosetta and Zeno, so unexceptional that the Emperor’s sister regards it as barely worth remarking upon.
Charlotte’s correspondence now begins to move in disconcerting, rapid fashion between the domestic drama of the ailing Duke’s battle to stave off death and a much larger stage: the tumultuous conflicts beginning to erupt among nations.
Hotel Marienbad,
Munich,
9 May 1914
The papers (of last night) brought bad news about the old Duke, and wish they were true, but my husband and self have heard nothing direct as usual, and feel he is pulling through once more. Can you see or feel anything? If so do tell me.
Charlotte emerges from her preoccupation with the Duke’s unwanted recovery to make the observation:
Politics look bad and strained, specially Albania! And feel as if serious trouble between Austria and Italy is growing!! And Russia as usual playing fool game.
Zeno responds. He counsels forbearance. What else can he do? Charlotte is the least of his worries. He sleeps little, continues to be disturbed by the dreams that fill his mind once his eyes are closed, the ghastly images that even the small grains of opium he has begun to take do little to dispel.
Meiningen,
20 May 1914
Concerning the Duke, I wish indeed you were right; he arrives here on 29th, and [I] shall try again for another spell of patience, ‘sweet patience’ as you say, and ‘it cannot be long’.
Charlotte is writing from the royal family’s estate. She complains that she is:
… surrounded by daily, never-ending worries and intrigues of all sorts and conditions. Lies I cannot clear or shake off. The enemies you felt months ago, with their tormenture and jealousy, are indeed a tidal wave, and don’t feel getting ahead of it all; and these devilish creatures are beyond my comprehension! The Chinese method of killing enemies is charming!!! Pity we can’t introduce it here.
Politics, specially Albania, Austria and Italy’s vile intrigues, look more grave than the powers seem to like to believe in; Albania is Mexico over again: bloodshed all round! And the Diplomats all more or less blind idiots.
Charlotte leaves Meiningen, its torments and intrigues, to return to the south of France.
Villa La Fôret,
Cannes,
3 June 1914
I saw the old Duke yesterday, found him feeble and aged …
Then the Princess writes:
… can’t trust those Balkan states and the Albanian case is a hopeless one, in my eyes, and my nephew won’t be lucky!
Charlotte is right. As events unfold, the future will hold little for her brother’s son, Germany’s young Crown Prince.
Grosses Palais,
Meiningen,
7 June 1914
I’ve seen the old Duke who looks very bad indeed, so small, shrunk, weak and pale, legs and feet swollen and such spasms at night, kept down by strong morphia injections. A few days ago I really thought at last the end had come: but tomorrow they drag the old gent to a watering place where a Dr. and friend of his promises to cure him! To me he looks like a dying man! What do you think? Or see and feel?