A Favourite of the Gods and a Compass Error

by Sybille Bedford

  “I suppose you’ll be glad to be rid of me.”

  “Simon.”

  “Well, how do I know? How do I know I can trust you an inch?”

  “Simon, this is folly! Dynamite. Never say that to anyone. Don’t say it twice to me.”

  “All right, cara, all right,” he gave her a crooked smile and lay back in his chair. “Though I can’t even figure out if we’re supposed to be a mariage de raison or d’amour?”

  “Idiot,” she said. “Bit of both, don’t you think?”

  But her answer failed to soothe him. And soon after they had again what can only be called a jealous row.

  •

  Simon did not go to Washington. Before the end of the year Constanza started having an affair with someone, and within the same fortnight, prompted by some obscure sense of fitness, she did what she had never done before, she started a second one. This instantly made her feel more lighthearted. It also complicated the time-table of her life and made her tell so many circumstantial stories, where before she had hardly deigned reply, that Simon’s suspicions slackened and things between them became a good deal easier for a time.

  •

  They had reached the third winter of the war. Asquith had resigned, Lloyd George was Prime Minister. It was the winter after Ypres, the Meuse, the Somme, the winter of the U.S. Peace Note and Unrestricted Naval Warfare. None of the news was good. “And if it stopped this instant,” Simon said, “nothing would be the same again. A shrunken England. . . .”

  “They must be saying that in France.”

  “And in Germany.”

  “It will not stop this instant.”

  “No miracle.”

  “America must come in,” said Anna.

  “Then they can say it there.” “I’m ready to accept anything that will help to end it,” said Constanza.

  From Italy it was the same kind of news. Carla’s eldest killed, one of Giulia’s missing; only one of the Simonetti boys had caught double pneumonia, pulled through and was now invalided out. “How cold they must be,” Constanza said. The winter on the Austrian front below those mountain passes had become one of her obsessions.

  “I think I’ll stay in tonight.”

  “No, you won’t,” said Simon, “I want to show you off to my dark horse. We’re meeting him at the Eiffel Tower.” The dark horse, he told Anna, was also a bit of a rough diamond, a bloke he had come across in a dug-out in France. “Ware, Captain Ware, that’s the name he goes by. Nobody’s got the least idea where he’s sprung from. Hard to describe him. Well: shaggy.”

  “A bohemian?” said Anna.

  “Not the opposite. But he’s got grit. And bright, frightfully bright: knows everything, has read everything; I’ve never met a man with less prejudices. Makes me feel like Little Lord F.”

  “An intellectual?” said Constanza.

  “Self-made. Writes. On pictures. That’s where I came in. Though he seems to be doing other things as well.”

  “A gentleman?” said Anna.

  “Technically, no. Just thirty and he’s made a packet—and lost it again—buying and selling, guess what?”

  “Scrap iron?”

  “Rare books?”

  “You’re warm. Impressionists. Picked them up when he was the age of a school-boy. Now he’s on to some starving Spanish chap who does cubes, Juan Something. Well come on, Constanza, pick up your rings, off we go. He’s got five days’ leave and we’re only half an hour late.”

  Constanza put on the rings she had slipped off and scattered on the table in front of her; said oh very well, kissed her mother and went. Anna, punctual to the minute, drove off to a bazaar.

  The war had not been unkind to Anna. The general ban on travel had done much to ease the private anguish of her exile. She was busy, she was sought after, she had scope for her emotions. Many young people were fond of her. She had reverted to her life-long habit of having a few men of her own generation dance attendance, but since the episode with Sir Charles their attentions had been merely formal and implicit. The chief meaning of her present life was Simon, and making a home for Simon’s family, and he never failed her in courtesy and affection. The child, too, she was beginning to enjoy. It had begun to speak, its hair showed signs of staying fair and the likeness to herself was striking. Constanza she often found rebellious, harsh and lacking; but she had never liked to think too much about her daughter. Simon was a safer field. If Anna’s views of it were not conformist, she was yet too much of her age not to love success: and though it had looked anything but a brilliant marriage people were beginning to tell her that Simon would go far.

  •

  Before that spring Constanza had cut loose from her second young man and changed the first. And when that one, who was a science man who had joined the Navy, was posted to a laboratory in the North and their opportunities for meeting became rare, she let it end itself and refused replacements. Her heart was not in it. There goes another resource, she would have liked to say but there was no-one she could say it to. She and Simon had some difficult times together and some good ones.

  America was in the war, the Czar of the Russias had abdicated, the second battle of the Aisne had started. Together they read the anti-war poems that were coming out in little magazines.

  “I shall leave Europe the day it’s over,” Simon said. “Central America: Savage architecture and no present history.”

  “Quite a lot of local history.”

  “One can cope with that. And no utopia or group business for me either—just off.”

  Like everybody else they talked about the revolution in Russia. Constanza, with reservations, put her hopes on Kerensky.

  “A liberal ideal,” Simon told her, “he will fail. People are not liberal, they are beasts. In England: smug beasts.”

  “People who make constitutional revolutions are not beasts,” said Constanza.

  “That’s why they fail.”

  “They didn’t fail in England or America.” “They didn’t have to cope with vast masses then. Nous avons changé tout cela.”

  When the Bolsheviks took over and they had to face that news, Constanza was appalled. “What a way of forcing the brotherhood of men down each other’s throats. Like the Church at her worst.”

  “What could you expect?” said Simon.

  “It would seem that in history it’s never a tooth for a tooth, but a thousand, a hundred thousand for one.” She asked Mr. James if it would end by affecting the whole world like the French Revolution?

  Mr. James thought there could be no comparison. Russia was an undeveloped, semi-barbarous country, as good as outside Europe.

  “I always believed socialism would begin in the United States,” Constanza said. “Certainly not in a backward agricultural country without political institutions. Karl Marx must be turning in his grave. Well, so far they are at the easiest stage: smashing and murdering.”

  “According to our press,” said Simon.

  “It’ll run itself out,” said Mr. James.

  Only Simon was not sure. “That’s been said of every new movement one dislikes and fears. And it’ll need very very careful handling on our part, by which I mean the Allied Governments. And of course they’ll bungle it. Now if I were——”

  Simon often talked this way these days and Constanza liked it least in front of Mr. James. She interrupted him with an impatient gesture.

  “I didn’t mean Number 10, darling, I shall never want that. I only meant the Foreign Office.”

  •

  Not long afterwards, Constanza was able to say to Mr. James: “Miss Mouse has entered our lives. I must hasten to add that she’s Miss Mouse in tiger-skin—quite a beauty. Very dark; flashing. Her mother was a Greek or something, the looks, Simon’s kind of looks, are taken care of. But she’s being Miss Mouse all right with Simon, she dotes on him and shows it. Everything he does is perfect.”

  “My dear child. And your husband?” said Mr. James.

  “Purrs. What else?
Except for her devotion to him, she’s perfectly lively and easy-going; and she’s most presentable, in fact rather a big catch: rolling rich. So of course he’s delighted.”

  “Who is this paragon?” said Mr. James.

  “She has a war job as somebody’s secretary in Simon’s Department. Her name is Mary——” Constanza supplied the surname. “You know, old Thingummy’s daughter. Newspapers.”

  “A Newspaper Empire.”

  “Già.”

  “My dear child,” Mr. James said in a shaken tone, for he loved Constanza.

  “Yes?”

  “Isn’t this rather . . . perilous?”

  “These things often are. If you mean, will Simon up and leave me for this heiress? I think not. Everything is possible. But Simon isn’t interested in oceans of money, all he wants is to be comfortable and perhaps buy a picture or two. And he is comfortable with us. As long as mama doesn’t manage to spend all our money.”

  “And what does Mary. . . Miss Mouse want?”

  “Oh, Simon. Tooth and claw. That’s not admitted yet. For the moment they’re having a rather jolly affair.”

  “Are you sure of that?” asked Mr. James. “Most young ladies don’t.”

  “You’re wrong,” said Constanza.

  “Dear girl, aren’t you being rather cool about it?”

  “What else? The double standard? I never pretended to Simon that I expected a hard and fast marriage. Besides he’s enjoying himself—when you think how very nearly he might not be here to do that. And I have had my schooling, I have seen how to behave and how not. I have my rules, and shall stick to them, same as mama.”

  •

  Early in 1918 Simon’s cousin was killed in action. “Poor devil,” Simon said. “He was the only civilized one of the lot. So handsome, too. Poor devil. He was engaged but didn’t think a war marriage was fair on a girl. How right he was. What a waste. . . .” He also said. “He was father’s only brother’s only son. Winner takes all. That house,” he named it, “will go to Tom now.”

  “The Italian—the Italianate—house?”

  “Yes.”

  “Will your brother Tom love it?”

  “No. It might just as well be Scotch Baronial. But he’ll like the money: there’s a lot that goes with it. Well, long may he enjoy it.”

  “He is all right?” said Constanza.

  “All right in Egypt. Yes, darling, as safe as anyone. Safer.”

  Constanza touched her ruby.

  •

  After that spring Simon talked no more about going to Mexico and Guatemala; he said Germany had lost the war and it was time to think about one’s future. He told Constanza he would not go on with the Bar. “I might try my hand in politics, an interesting life if one’s financially independent and not too ambitious.” People were forcing constituencies on him, he said, and sketched for her the life he saw. What fun it could be; how he would keep himself free and never hesitate to say boo to the Party Whips, or think he was indispensable, or work too hard. He said for the first years he’d like to be the enfant terrible of the House; and of course he would always have to be right.

  “You would like it?” he asked her.

  “Very much,” said Constanza.

  She asked him if Miss Mouse approved of his new plans.

  “How not?” Simon teased her. When they were by themselves they often called Miss Mouse Miss Mouse; it re-assured them.

  “You used to like being talked back to,” Constanza said.

  “I find the other more restful—now that I’m getting old and important. Mary hasn’t got as many principles as you have, she isn’t New England.”

  Constanza found this a huge joke. “But am I so opinionated? Do I force my opinion on you?”

  “No,” he said, “but you always have one.”

  •

  Simon’s father came up again, and took him out to dinner. He gave him vintage port. It was the only wine Simon did not really like, but he appreciated the gesture. He reported, “The old miser has taken to my going into Parliament, and he’s going to see me through.”

  “Does he know that you’re not going to be a pillar of the Tories?”

  “He doesn’t know. He suspects. He’ll swallow it when the time comes. One step before another.”

  7

  BY MIDSUMMER Simon had asked Constanza to give him a divorce. He did not quite put it in that way. They both had been too young; he was looking differently at things now; the war was going to be over soon; it might be a good moment to start with a clean slate. “So if it’s all the same to you?”

  After she had agreed, he said, “I thought you would. It isn’t as if—Ah well, no use going into all that again. Now that we know where we are, there’s no hurry, no hurry at all. So many people involved, it’s going to be rather complicated.”

  “Not like our wedding?”

  “No.”

  “Simon, one thing: Mama.” Constanza almost daily judged her mother, but the affection was still there. “Have you thought about telling mama?”

  “Haven’t I?” he said.

  •

  They shelved it for a week or two. Then Simon came to her very much depressed. “I was an ass not to think at once of the laws and customs of this antediluvian country. I told you there are too many people involved. I want to marry Mary as you know and all that. Well: if you divorce me and name her as the intervener, her people are going to kick up the most awful row. The seducer. I may not get horse-whipped, but what do you say to a political career that starts off with one morning, one evening and a Sunday paper against the candidate?”

  “Caro, you must quickly seduce somebody else and I will name her as the intervener.”

  “Furba,” he said. “Well and good, that still leaves me. I’m the person most involved. As the Guilty Party to a divorce, I might squeeze into Parliament, but there’ll be small chance of office, nor could I ever be a judge.”

  “I thought you were giving up the Bar?”

  “I shan’t practise. But I might as well eat my dinners, I’d like to have been called. And it has its uses. But that’s neither here nor there.”

  “Did you say Guilty Party?” said Constanza.

  “Hmm. We haven’t got Desertion or Mental Cruelty, we haven’t any of those accommodating outs they have in your mother’s country.”

  “I believe they only have those in the newer States. And in my father’s country we have no divorce at all.”

  Simon said: “A bright idea! What about an annulment? It’ll cost plenty, but that ought to be no problem. Yes—let the cardinals do it.”

  “My sweet oaf, we would have to be properly married to get an annulment. Married before a Catholic priest. In their eyes we aren’t married at all.”

  “Damn,” said Simon.

  “Darling, it would make a difference if you were the injured party?”

  “All the difference.”

  “Very well then, that’s simple enough. I must seduce somebody and you divorce me.”

  “That isn’t so well-regarded either,” Simon said.

  “Your crime passionnel. You’ll carry it off, you have the jealous streak. Unfortunately.”

  “Is there somebody?”

  “There is not.” She nearly added: as it happens.

  “I must know the truth.”

  He looked tense and wretched. “There is no-one at all,” she said.

  “Swear.”

  “You know I don’t do that. But it is true.”

  “Well I’m glad,” he said, and looked it.

  “You’re as bad as mama.”

  “You are like your father. What about last year? What about——? and——?” he shot names at her.

  This time she decided to lie.

  “You are a queer girl,” he said. “Now why this? Why do you suggest taking a lover to help with my divorce?”

  “Because it seems a friendly, sensible way. I’m not going into the House or sit on the Bench.”

  “Women
will any day now.”

  “One step before another,” said Constanza. “I won’t have it,” Simon said, “not as long as you are married to me.”

  “A dilemma,” said Constanza.

  “I wasn’t saying it was not a tempting proposition.”

  •

  Then she asked him, what about Flavia?

  “I don’t want her,” he said.

  “I know. She’d better stay with me. For better or for worse.”

  “No use having her bundled to and fro the way your little brother was before the war. It’s not as if my people were good with children. Yours being an R.C. makes it rather awkward for them, and what they’re keen on is sons. She really doesn’t fit. Anna’ll look after her.”

  “I will look after her,” said Constanza.

  “Either way, better start with a clean slate here, too. Tom’s going to marry as soon as he gets home. I can always get a peep at her when I come to see Anna.”

  •

  Next day Constanza said, “I’ve got it. Since you’re so finicky, why not make it a divorce blanc? You know the way men fix it up by going to Brighton with a tart. Can’t we rig up something like that for me? Spend the night at an hotel with a man we know and have the chambermaid come in with the breakfast tray?”

  “And who is going to be this partner of our white divorce?”

  “You may choose him, caro. It shouldn’t be difficult. Let’s ask one of our friends who doesn’t like women, we seem to know so many of them lately.”

  •

  It was very difficult. The men who did not like women took alarm at the thought of spending a night with Constanza at an hotel and being dragged through the Divorce Courts for their pains. Others had to think of their wives or mistresses or their careers, and not one of them thought the proposition very creditable.

  “So much for friendship,” said Simon.

  “My sweet, you will have to leave it to me.”

  “I will not,” said Simon.

  •

  And how right he was, Constanza told him presently. “I’ve realized, it will have to be a white divorce or nothing. Mama. If she leaves me, she’ll be all alone, poor woman. I don’t expect you’d have her to live with you and Mary?”

  But Simon, shrewd as always, absolutely forbade Constanza to let her mother in on it. “She’ll have the King’s Proctor on us. And that would be exposure, scandal, all our plans in ruin.”