by Ann Bridge
‘Printed in about seventy papers. It’s such a story!— the Press will eat it up.’
She considered all this for a little while in silence; her first look of surprise changed then to one of mild and lightly charitable disdain.
‘You mean, tell newspaper men, or write for newspapers, what I have told you?’
‘Yes—exactly that.’
‘No,’ Hetta said—and the single syllable again had a ring. ‘I told you because you have been kind, and saw that I was tired and hungry. But I will not make this “story”, as you call it, for journalists and the radio. What business is it of theirs?’
‘I’ve just told you’—and again he tried to hammer home the importance of publicity and propaganda. But Hetta would have none of it.
‘I feel all this to be quite false. If such things must be done, they should be done by people who know a great deal, and have importance. I am quite unimportant, and know nothing but what I have seen.’
‘That’s the point—you have seen; you can tell the world.’ But Hetta would not give way; he was surprised both by her toughness, and at her reasons.
‘If the world is to be told, it must be told by those who can speak with authority. The recollections of an ignorant girl are mere gossips.’
The phrase made him laugh, but when he tried to press her further she quietly shut him up, saying—‘If I could help my country in any proper way, I would; but this— please forgive me—is to my mind foolish, and almost indecent.’
‘Then you won’t see them?’
‘Of course I will see them—have I not said so?—because my mother wishes it. And I will describe my journey, and speak of small things. But I will not do what you suggest, and make “a story”.’
‘You’re making a great mistake,’ the American observed, gloomily.
‘Possibly. But I shall make it,’ Hetta said.
Chapter 3
If the meeting with the Press next morning was not exactly a failure it was mainly owing to the Countess, who herself did a good deal of the talking, and compèred her daughter as far as she could, leading her on to describe the expedition to buy those dismal clothes, and so on—it was perhaps just as well really, she reflected, that Hetta hadn’t felt up to going to M. Alfred the previous evening, for her shock-headed-Peter aspect fitted in very well with her ill-fitting ugly dress. Hetta, caught between her desire not to vex her mother, and her distaste for the whole idea as Townsend Waller had revealed it to her, did her best within her self-imposed limits, confining herself as far as possible to dates and generalities. ‘Looks to me as if she’d been brain-washed before she came out, so she’d give nothing away,’ one correspondent muttered to a colleague, going down in the lift.
‘Maybe she’s just born dumb, though she doesn’t altogether look it,’ the colleague responded. ‘Anyway those clothes are a story in themselves!’ They both laughed.
Townsend lunched that day with Atherley in the latter’s small house up in the Lapa quarter of Lisbon, not far from the British Embassy. Richard Atherley disliked flats, and had been delighted to get hold of the little house: it was thoroughly Portuguese, with azulejos (coloured tiles) running in a bright cold 3-foot dado round the walls of the narrow hall and the small rooms, and rather sketchy plumbing; the furniture was distinctly sketchy too, except for a big sofa and some comfortable armchairs which the young Englishman, who was by no means poor, had brought out from home. But the house was perched on the lip of what was practically a ravine—although its broad bed was floored with small one-storey houses, their backyards full of rabbits and washing, set in cramped little gardens equally full of onions, fig-trees, and vines trained over trellises, under which the owners cleaned their shoes, ironed their clothes, and ate their meals—and commanded a spectacular view across that end of Lisbon, white-walled and pink-roofed, to the great stretch of the Tagus and the green hills of the Outra Banda, the southern shore. It was very up-and-down, really like a small house in Chelsea except for the tiles and the view—and the food; unless the hostess cooks it, very few houses in Chelsea enjoy food like that which Atherley’s elderly Portuguese servant habitually produced.
‘Well, how did the arrival go?’ Atherley asked at once, over drinks in the little upstairs drawing-room—and Townsend described the scene, and Hetta’s instant and spontaneous refusal to talk. ‘But I went to see her yesterday evening—I knew Dorothée would be at the Belgians.’
‘You never! What did you get out of her? Anything?’
Townsend’s account of what he had got out of Hetta lasted through most of the meal—towards the end he recounted her unaccountable attitude towards propaganda and publicity. ‘Does that make sense to you?’ he asked.
‘What happened this morning? Did she meet them, or not?’
‘Oh yes, she met them all right; but Perce says you’d have thought it was Dorothée who’d been in Hungary all this time!—she did most of the talking. I think they just got by. But can you understand why the girl won’t tell a story like that?’
‘Yes, I think I can,’ said Richard thoughtfully. ‘But she sounds interesting. I must meet her.’
‘Oh, you’ll meet her all right! I’m sure Dorothée still means to cash in on her—though hoping for the best, poor woman, I expect after this morning!’ said Townsend, with a rueful grin.
But in fact it was well over a week before Hetta Páloczy next appeared in public, and Atherley had the chance of meeting her. The interval was filled with endless visits to M. Lilas, the French-trained tailor, to Mme Azevedo, who produced blouses fine as cobwebs covered with what the French call travail, most delicate openwork and embroidery; to ‘Hélène’ in the Chiado, one of the best shoe-shops in the world, for elegant confections in lizard- and alligator-skin, and to Le Petit Paris, also in the Chiado, for simple becoming frocks. The Chiado (whose real name is the Rua Garrett) must be the steepest shopping street in the world; one pants going up, and is apt to slip going down on the tiny polished cobbles of the pavement—the shops are minute, yet produce superb craftsmanship. It is all very Portuguese; they are the most unobtrusive of races, preferring performance to advertisement. All this amused Hetta; and as she was dutifully anxious to please her mother she tried also to be interested in her new clothes— she ended, quite naturally and girlishly, in enjoying her pretty outfits.
She eventually made her début at a cocktail-party at the hotel, for which her mother had sent out the invitations on the same day that Hetta met the journalists. In theory it was a purely social affair; in fact the Countess had invited Mr. Nixon, some of the better-known correspondents, and a pretty clever girl representing Radio Free Europe, hoping that on a less formal occasion they might contrive to ‘draw’ her daughter. She therefore responded favourably when Mr. Atherley rang up in the morning to ask if she would perhaps allow him to bring a young Englishwoman who had just arrived in Lisbon to ‘cover’ the royal wedding for an English newspaper.
‘Of course I shall be delighted to see her, Mr. Atherley. What is her name?’
‘Miss Julia Probyn, Countess. That’s very good of you.’
‘Where is she staying? I might get a card to her.’
‘Oh please don’t bother—I’ll bring her. She’s staying with some Portuguese friends.’ Atherley astutely refrained from mentioning that these friends were the Ericeiras; he knew that they were among the members of the sociedad of Portugal whose acquaintance Countess Páloczy had long sought in vain. Julia Probyn had spent some months teaching English to the Duke of Ericeira’s only child, Luzia, and had become intimate with the family, and slightly acquainted with Atherley himself.
Hetta was about as inexperienced in social matters as a European young woman of twenty-two could possibly be, but perhaps just because of this she had the sharpened perceptions of a child or a clever dog. As she stood beside her mother, in a pretty and highly becoming cherry-red frock which exactly matched her new lipstick, and accentuated her clear pallor and the darkness both of her eyes and of her now beautifully-arran
ged hair, she registered with considerable acuity which people her parent considered important, and to which she, Hetta, was supposed presently to talk. The young lady from Radio Free Europe began asking questions at once; Hetta was wise enough to leave her mother to indicate to the girl that she should do this later on—‘When the receiving is over, my daughter will enjoy talking to you.’
There were some other very concrete indications which Hetta did not miss. A short, brisk, cheerful Portuguese lady, greeted by the Countess as Mme de Fonte Negra, said as she shook hands, rather late—‘Well, my dear friend, so this is the daughter! You must send her to lunch with me one day; I should like to talk to her.’ She glanced round the rooms. ‘I see the Regent is not here.’
‘No. They go out so little, as you know’—but Hetta recognised from long ago a sign of annoyance in the slight fluttering of her mother’s eyelids. Later another guest said —‘I’ve not seen the Archduke; are they here?’
‘Oh poor dears, she is so lame, and it is such a long way for them to come, with no car,’ the Countess replied, again with that rapid fluttering—and Hetta at once seized on the situation. Oh, poor Mama! If the Archduke would have come, her mother’s car would undoubtedly have been sent for him, however far away he lived. There was a lot of talk about the impending royal wedding, too, both while she stood beside her mother, and later when, as directed, she moved about among the guests: who was going and who was not was clearly the burning question at the moment, and she overheard enough of the jockeying for position, the intrigues for invitations suggested or boasted of, to cause her a rather painful astonishment. So much effort, so much emotion merely about being at any wedding struck her as unworthy, unreal. But she kept her ideas to herself. All through the innumerable introductions and the stereotyped questions she was actively recording in her mind—this was now to be her world, and however little she might like it, she must get to know it. In one way Hetta was rather well equipped for this particular task, since she had already had to come to terms with a world quite strange to her when she emerged from her convent school into a Communist Hungary, and she quickly marked down a few people as likeable and trustworthy among so many whom she found distasteful.
In particular she was delighted by a little old crook-backed Hungarian, an émigré journalist, who spoke to her in perfect idiomatic English. Instead of the stock questions he surprised her by saying at once—‘Are they bothering you to talk, and write? If so, don’t do it—tell them all to go to Hell!’
‘I have, more or less,’ Hetta replied, laughing. She had just been firm with the pretty girl from Radio Free Europe and with Mr. Carrow, whose name in American journalism, Perce Nixon had told her, stood ‘right at the top’.
‘Well, go on. They will tell you it’s for Hungary, or for freedom and democracy—but in fact as to fifty per cent at least, it’s either to line their own pockets or boost their own egos, or to gratify a vulgar curiosity which has no moral or political importance whatever. Of the readers or listeners on whose behalf they are pestering you, how many would lift a hand, give a penny, or even cast a vote for Hungary or for freedom? Perhaps one per cent!’
The old journalist spoke the last words loudly and emphatically; they were overheard by Mme de Fonte Negra, who laughed, tapped his arm, and protested—‘Monsieur de Kállay, do I hear you traducing the public of the free world?’
‘No, Madame,’ he replied quickly, kissing the hand that tapped him—‘for really it is hardly susceptible of being traduced! I am telling this young lady, who as yet knows nothing of our western monstrousness, the truth—which you really know as well as I.’
‘I hope we are a little better in Portugal—but, enfin, I am afraid I must agree with you on the whole.’ She turned her strongly-marked elderly aristocratic face to Hetta.
‘I should like it very much if you would lunch with me one day. I promise you that no-one but I will ask you questions, if you come! Your mother and I know each other well.’
Hetta had taken to this frank lady, and accepted with pleasure.
‘Very well—next Sunday, at 1.30. Your mother usually has people to luncheon on Sundays, so she can easily spare the car to bring you in to me.’
As Mme de Fonte Negra moved away Richard came up.
‘Good afternoon, Monsieur de Kállay. I hope I see you well?’
‘My dear Richard, you know perfectly that nobody ever sees me well. As Maurice Baring once said—“I’m always worse, and never better!” However, thank you for the little phrase.’
Atherley laughed.
‘Moreover, your intention in greeting me is not in the least single-minded,’ the Hungarian went on. ‘You simply wish to be introduced to Countess Hetta Páloczy. Very well—Countess Hetta, allow me to introduce Mr. Richard Atherley, First Secretary at the British Embassy, who in spite of this lamentable exhibition of double-talk is really my very good friend.’
Hetta, laughing, held out her hand. Richard Atherley was very good-looking in a rather neutral English way: that is to say, that although he was very tall he had hazel, not blue eyes, and mouse-coloured hair, and his skin, though clear and healthy, was by no means pink. But his face was intelligent and expressive, something one noticed long before the excellent modelling of the features and the brilliance of the hazel eyes; he looked gay and amusing and pleasant. He was all three. He bowed over Hetta’s hand and kissed it, surprising her.
‘Tiens! We are going all Hungarian, are we?’ said M. de Kállay. ‘Well je m’absente—which in American means “I’ll leave you to it”.’ He, too, kissed Hetta’s hand, and hobbled away.
‘What a very nice man this is,’ Hetta said, looking after him. When coaching her daughter for her first appearance in society Countess Páloczy’s main injunction had been ‘Talk!’—she was now endeavouring to carry it out.
‘Yes, he’s an absolute darling, and as clever as paint, too.’
To his immense surprise Hetta said—
‘Would you repeat that?’
‘Repeat what?’
‘This that you said about his being clever.’
‘I said he was as clever as paint, didn’t I?’
‘Yes. Would you tell me what this means?’
‘Oh, just that he’s very clever—it’s an expression one uses. But why did you want it repeated?’
‘Mr. Waller told me I should say “Would you repeat that?” when I have not understood, instead of saying “Please?” It seems that “Please” has a disagreeable sound in English.’
Atherley gave his big laugh.
‘Oh, Townsend! What a man! You go on saying “Please?” as much as you like. Do you know, I believe I went to your house in Hungary once?’ he went on.
‘Did you really? When? Mr. Waller said you knew Hungary.’
‘It was in 1939—I was staying with the Talmassys at Bula, and they took me over to lunch at Detvan.’
‘1939—oh, then I was only six, so I could not have seen you! Did you like it?’
‘Yes, I thought it a most charming place—dignified and yet so homely, with that great courtyard, and the farm buildings. And full of sun.’
‘Was it not? Oh, you have completely seen it!—this is evident.’
‘I liked the new chapel your father had just built, too. Of course it wasn’t as perfect as the little old rococo one, but like that it was a part of the house, as well as being big enough for all the peasants to come to Mass in on Sundays, instead of trailing over to Bula.’
‘Oh, yes; that meant so much to them. Did you see the telegram?’ the girl asked eagerly.
‘You mean the one from Cardinal Pacelli that hangs up in the porch, framed, giving the building his blessing? Yes, of course I did—your father showed me that at once. It seems they were friends.’
‘Indeed yes—he was often at Detvan; they were close friends. And now one is the Holy Father, and the other is dead,’ Hetta said, on an elegiac fall of voice which struck Atherley with curious force.
‘I’d forgotten�
��of course Pacelli is Pope now,’ he said, conscious of a certain lameness in his words after hers. What a strange being she was!—that smart hair-do and pretty frock, and the eyes and voice of a priestess at some Delphic shrine. Feeling his own inadequacy in a way most unusual with him, Mr. Atherley decided to call up his reserves.
‘There’s someone I want you to meet,’ he said. ‘May I bring her over? I think you might like her.’
‘But please do.’ Hetta was prepared to like any friend of the man who had been to Detvan and noticed how that long low house with its wide courtyard used to be full of sun—it was one of her own most vivid memories. She was still thinking how clever it was of him to have noticed the sun-filled quality of her home when Mr. Atherley returned with Julia Probyn, and introduced them.
Young women have mental antennae longer than lobsters’, and as delicately fine as those of butterflies. Hetta’s and Julia’s antennae reached out and did whatever the lobster-butterfly equivalent of clicking is—in human terms, they took to one another immediately. There was a moment’s check when Julia mentioned that she was a journalist, but Hetta’s sudden expression of dismay was so obvious that it made the others laugh.
‘Don’t worry—Miss Probyn won’t bother you. She’s only concerned with the royalties,’ Atherley said.
‘Oh, this wedding.’ Hetta’s distaste for the whole subject of the wedding was so audible in her voice that Julia laughed again; as Hetta listened to that long slow gurgle a happy reassured expression came into her face.
‘You, too, think it funny that people should care so much, whether they go or not?’ she asked.
‘Oh no—perfectly normal. There’s surely more social snobbery in the Century of the Common Man than ever before in the world’s history,’ Julia said. ‘I have to go—it’s my bread-and-butter.’
The party was thinning, and Atherley murmured to Julia that they ought to leave. He turned to Hetta.
‘Will you lunch with me on Thursday? So that we can talk about Detvan?’
