Rosetta

by Alexandra Joel

  As Frances skips ahead, preoccupied with a game of her own devising, the two women fall into easy conversation. Rosetta’s new acquaintance is fascinating. She speaks with a marked, throaty accent, comes from Poland and has all kinds of original ideas. The young woman is staying with a family in St Kilda, says something about helping with the children, though she is vague when asked what has brought her so far from home. Rosetta chooses not to pursue the matter. ‘We all have our secrets,’ she thinks.

  After that, they meet often, always at the pier. They begin exchanging confidences, to speak of their lives and dreams.

  ‘I want to tell you about something, something important,’ Rosetta’s friend says one misty day as both gaze at the long grey waves rolling in across Port Phillip Bay.

  ‘I have an extraordinary cream that can perform miracles – truly. It’s based on an old family recipe using essence of pine bark and water lilies. The main ingredient is wool fat – what you Australians call lanolin – something that is very rich and good here, only the smell is awful.’ She wrinkles her arched nose. ‘So I have made up my mind to produce it and to sell it, but with a fragrance. That has never been done before!’ She flings her arms wide in an exuberant gesture. Rosetta, watching, thinks, ‘How certain, how confident she is.’

  ‘I considered using oil of lavender, but I believe now that is too old-fashioned. Anyway, you have given me another idea.’

  ‘Me? What?’

  ‘I’m going to use rose.’

  Rosetta’s new friend continues to confide. ‘I know a man – his name is John Thompson. Mr Thompson manages the Robur Tea Company, you must have heard of it. He is very kind to me.’

  Rosetta, a little more worldly now, has some idea of what this kindness might entail.

  ‘Don’t tell anyone as his wife cannot know, but John is lending me some money.’

  ‘Whatever for?’

  ‘I’m sorry, truly, to say this, but women here have dreadful skin, burnt and coarse and dry.’ Rosetta gives her friend a quick look and raises her eyebrows.

  ‘Yes, alright, your own is not so bad. I see you go out when it is hot with your straw boater and your little parasol. But Rosetta, it is not enough.

  ‘My plan is that, with John’s help, I will open a wonderful salon devoted to improving the complexions of Australian ladies. I want to sell my beautiful rose Valaze cream and teach them all about how to care for themselves – everything! And, my dear, if that succeeds it will only be the beginning. One little shop will not be enough for me – I want to build an empire of beauty.’

  Rosetta only half believes her friend but is impressed nonetheless by such a grand ambition. ‘And what will this marvellous place be called?’ she asks.

  ‘Oh, that is easy. It will be my own name, of course. Helena Rubinstein.’

  Rosetta’s first visit to the newly opened salon is on a particularly blustery morning. She stumbles inside, clutching at her flying skirts, her cheeks whipped pink by the furious wind that swirls up Collins Street. ‘Oh, this weather!’ she says to Helena. ‘I must look completely dishevelled.’

  Helena, in her neatly buttoned peach-coloured uniform, moves back a step and studies her, taking in Rosetta’s long cream skirt and blue striped blouse, her glowing face and lustrous hair. She can see that several bronze tendrils are beginning to escape the boater Rosetta has endeavoured to anchor against the wind with a silver hatpin. ‘Actually, you look wonderful,’ she pronounces in her distinctive tones, ‘rather like a woman in a painting by Manet or Renoir. You could be strolling down a Parisian boulevard.’

  ‘A Parisian boulevard,’ Rosetta repeats to herself. She perches on one of the salon’s bamboo chairs and imagines a world where a lady might wander a cobblestoned street, catch an artist’s eye and be captured forever in glowing tints.

  Suddenly, the curtains at the windows billow in the breeze before drifting back down into white, airy clouds. ‘They’re lovely,’ Rosetta murmurs. Helena winks, then whispers that they were made from the dresses – ‘you know, darling, with those enormous skirts’ – that she brought in her suitcase from Poland.

  The filmy curtains rise and swell again as the salon door opens and a woman of remarkable appearance steps inside. Her enormous hat, adorned with a quivering ostrich feather, her richly embroidered gown and long row of gleaming pearls only serve to heighten the imposing effect she makes. Rosetta’s dark eyes widen as she realises who the woman is. ‘She has come home, of course, it is the tour,’ Rosetta thinks. ‘But what can Nellie Melba want?’

  Helena, with her usual aplomb, swiftly moves towards the resplendent diva’s side. Even so, she is surprised when, without preamble, Melba announces: ‘I desire that you give me a complexion to match my voice – like this.’ And then she sings.

  As the captivating, crystalline sound soars and fills the salon Rosetta feels an immense longing. She thinks about the oriental man that she encountered and the promise in his eyes. She thinks of Paris, of Lilian and London, of Helena’s plans, of artists and of opera. She imagines what it might be like to live a life rich in experience and pleasure.

  Rosetta knows that Nellie Melba was once young Helen Mitchell of Mackay, yet this had not stopped the girl from achieving her dreams. She can now see, too, that Helena Rubinstein’s own ambitions would very likely come to fruition. Yes, it is true, women face impossible constraints. But perhaps her mother is wrong. At least a few might dare to forge their own paths, make their fortunes, create an extraordinary life. That is, once some deft reinvention has taken place.

  Rosetta begins to wonder if she, too, can transcend her present circumstances. She is not foolish, knows that she possesses neither Melba’s talent nor Rubinstein’s unique skills. But perhaps there may be some other way to embark on her own, glittering journey, create her own version of success.

  This diverting meditation comes to an abrupt end with the conclusion of Melba’s brief burst of song. It is as if a spell has been broken. Rosetta catches a glimpse of herself in one of the salon’s mirrors, considers her reflection, her hat, her hair, her flushed cheeks. Even if Helena is right and she does look like a woman in a painting, what difference does it make? ‘I am still married, and there is Frances,’ she thinks, and sighs. ‘I am marooned in Melbourne. That is my reality.’

  FOURTEEN

  It is possible for me to follow the tumultuous route that Rosetta’s life now takes due to a large document headed ‘Divorce Papers Raphael vs Raphael 1905’. The papers detail the legal proceedings that occurred in the Supreme Court of Victoria. Like the other official records, they are written in an ordered hand, though their contents reflect a situation that had become frankly chaotic.

  The documents tell me that on 15 September 1904 Rosetta returned to her husband. It could have been at the urging of her mother, or because she feared the loss of security, the protection afforded by Louis Raphael’s good name. Maybe the pursuit of an alternative seemed hopeless, impossible to contemplate. Whatever the reason, she was back.

  They moved again. Louis found a house in Hoddle Street, East Melbourne, but within six months the family returned to Frances Villa. What was it they were looking for? Were they trying to outrun their unhappiness? They seemed unable to settle anywhere.

  It appears the novelty of another house won’t be enough. A new city is required, and though Louis has always considered Sydney a trifle raffish, the people a shade too loud, the Raphaels embark upon a visit in August 1905. Perhaps, this time, Rosetta will be satisfied.

  Sydney has a special light caused by winter’s drenching sun. It is so bright that Rosetta’s dresses of pale mauve and pink look instead to be bleached, bone white. She finds herself attracted to the city and its sights. She admires the sparkling harbour and the effervescence of the foaming, turquoise surf. They stay in Paddington, in Glenmore Road, and this is pleasing, too. Rosetta enjoys the erratic, narrow streets, the way they twist and turn, dip and fall, revealing an unexpected glimpse of shimmering water, a window-b
ox crammed with brick-red geraniums, a lush vine draping a garden wall. Melbourne, by contrast, is mainly flat, its roads do not diverge. Rather like its citizens, it is sensible and disciplined; a more polite terrain.

  Sydney seduces Rosetta’s senses. It has an edge of savagery. As she moves beneath the city’s bright blue skies she feels its throbbing beat; it awakens something wild within her, a fierce energy. She decides it is a place where she could make all manner of discoveries.

  But not with Louis. Rosetta’s return to him has required that, once more, she must submit to his physical demands; she finds his brisk brutality hard to endure. Even setting this burden to one side, she sees before her only a future of frustration, colourless and empty. ‘Life – it is happening somewhere else,’ she thinks, ‘and I am trapped, trapped in a prison of banality.’ She waits a day, a week and then, after a month, she runs away again.

  Rosetta returns to Melbourne, stays the night with Mrs Dowall, a friend of Fanny’s. ‘Don’t worry, dear. You go and rest, I’ll happily take care of little Frances,’ the woman says. Though she is grateful, Rosetta is not interested in her mother’s friend, barely notices her surroundings. Consumed by a tempest of emotions, her pulse races with excitement. But she is also frightened.

  That night, exhausted and troubled, she claws at her sheets, twists and turns in her narrow bed. It is the same dilemma that first drove her to the fortune teller. ‘Should I return again to Louis,’ she asks herself, repeatedly, ‘or dare I leave forever?’ This time, she knows, there can be no turning back. Whatever her decision, it will bind her for eternity.

  She wakes the next morning, surprised that she has been asleep. She feels quite different. It is as if, during those hours of slumber, something fundamental has altered. Those wild, disparate parts of herself have rearranged themselves, becoming whole and cogent.

  Rosetta stretches, the echo of a dream, a dream where something important was said, playing on her mind. Then she remembers; the dream was about Zeno, of course. ‘Both in the stars and on your palm,’ he’d said, ‘are written all the events that will in time unfold.’

  But Rosetta doesn’t want to wait; she has been waiting all her life. She wants her future now.

  That day she returns to the fortune teller’s rooms in Swanston Street. According to a report in The Age newspaper, Rosetta claims the reason for her visit is to undertake ‘lessons in painting’. It isn’t true. Though among Zeno’s diverse and curious talents he is, in fact, an artist, her purpose is not to learn how to master watercolours or oils.

  Rosetta enters Zeno’s room. She wears a slim black skirt and a black lace, high-buttoned blouse. She closes the door firmly behind her, turns, unbuttons her gloves, takes off her coat and hat and lets them fall. She does not sit down. Rosetta goes to Zeno. He is silent, betrays no surprise at her sudden appearance. They are so close that she can smell his breath; it is a mixture of aniseed and mint. The fortune teller pauses, as if some distant music only he can hear has ceased. He waits a beat, then two, regards Rosetta with his panther eyes. Then he guides her to a low divan draped with fringed crimson silk and gestures for her to recline. His murmured question to her is really more a statement of intent.

  ‘This is what you desire.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Only one word yet, once spoken, her life will never be the same.

  Immaculate and composed, Zeno remains in his usual attire – a dark suit, crisp white shirt and tie – as he slowly parts Rosetta from her clothes. He removes her black lace blouse, her skirt, her petticoats and, finally, her satin corset. As each garment slides towards the floor Zeno whispers to her, shocking, thrilling words. When Rosetta’s voluptuous, milky body is finally revealed he begins to touch her lightly, tracing the outline of her face, her lips, her throat, her breasts. Zeno taunts Rosetta’s nipples with his fingertips; it makes her gasp with pleasure and arch her back.

  Zeno asks for nothing. His demeanour does not change; perhaps his black eyes are just a little more opaque. Only a slight huskiness in his voice betrays the effort of restraint.

  The fortune teller has much experience. Zeno knows how best to stroke and tease and please. His hands and mouth search out hidden, tender places, commit small, indecent acts. The things he does have never been done to Rosetta before. How long it lasts, this abandoned pleasure, she doesn’t know. But then a moment comes when she has never felt so alive, so powerful.

  Zeno has no scruples; Rosetta has no shame. It is all too easy to believe that the stars are right and she is not to blame.

  ‘It is my destiny,’ she tells herself, her mouth curving into a jubilant smile, ‘to live a different life.’ Her decision made, she feels a sense of wild exhilaration, as if she were falling with reckless speed through space.

  According to the records of the court, Rosetta next appears on 23 October. She goes with Frances to Fanny’s house in Johnston Street, Fitzroy. Louis has been living there: confused about his wife’s intentions, he has been hoping she might visit. The papers state that Rosetta stayed for just one night. The next day she received her weekly allowance from her husband. Then she went. She never spent another night under the same roof with Louis again and, this time, she left her child behind.

  These things are all set down in official legal proceedings and personal statements. I know they are merely a collection of old documents, but still I find the contents so affecting that I can’t continue reading. It is not difficult to comprehend the temptations of desire. Coming to terms with the abandonment of a child is infinitely more challenging.

  I think about what it might have been like to be a young woman living in Australia in 1905, how narrow and circumscribed life was, how hard it must have been. I try to imagine how it felt for Rosetta to crave the freedom to become the person she felt driven to be.

  My friend Robert, a gifted psychiatrist, believes that it is entirely possible for a person to arrange his or her mind so that any action, no matter how unthinkable or how much it contravenes social and moral codes, becomes the natural, the obvious step to take. ‘Some human beings are like that,’ he says. ‘If they want something badly enough they will find a way to justify anything.’

  Desire for Zeno and the promise of a world of passion, a life lived on a bigger stage where anything might happen; these things held Rosetta in their thrall.

  Guilt, remorse, compassion; such unquiet spirits had the power to rise unbidden and drag her down into the depths. Rosetta would be manacled just as surely as had her convict grandfather. She would not allow it.

  I was to learn, much later, that she embraced a different narrative, a rationalisation that made it possible to live with what she’d done. Rosetta maintained it was the violent events that took place on her wedding night that excused everything. She clung to this defence throughout her life as a woman in danger of drowning might grasp at a single, flimsy plank in a treacherous sea. It was necessary.

  If she permitted herself a moment’s softness she might waver. Only Frances had the potential to undo her. Like Achilles’ mortal heel, she was Rosetta’s greatest danger. It caused the exile of the child. Not only did Rosetta refuse to see her daughter, her very name was banned. She would not permit it to be uttered by a soul.

  I think about my own lost child, the way I never hear her name, then think more about Rosetta and her dreadful, desperate decision. The fact is, we all carry our children within us: it doesn’t matter if they are here or gone. All mothers learn this lesson.

  FIFTEEN

  Frances, Nana Billie to me, always claimed that she didn’t remember her mother. She maintained that Rosetta abandoned her when she was just a few months old.

  ‘My mother didn’t want me. She left when I was still a baby,’ she would say to me, rejection hanging like dust suspended in the air. ‘I never knew her at all.’

  It wasn’t true. Rosetta didn’t leave her daughter until she was well over five. This puzzles me. It is not unusual for there to be no memories up to two or three years of
age. But at five, something as cataclysmic as her mother walking out, surely she would remember that.

  In an effort to comprehend, I fall back on theories I read years ago when I was studying psychotherapy. In doing so, I recall the term that the old master Sigmund Freud devised in his Viennese study, with its collection of small pagan gods and famous couch, less than a decade before these traumatic events occurred. ‘Repressed memory’: it seems to me that, though so much of what Freud wrote is now dismissed, called ill conceived or out of date, this concept is neither of these things. It makes sense, gives me a way to understand why it was essential that the five-year-old Frances forgot everything to do with her mother – how Rosetta spoke, her chestnut hair and dark, toffee eyes – but most of all, her act of desertion. Erasing her memory of Rosetta was not only a means to reduce suffering. I think it was the way in which my grandmother survived.

  24 OCTOBER 1905

  The day it happens is like many others. Frances and her mother have spent the night at Grandma Fanny’s house. She eats a breakfast of hot oats and milk, then dresses in new boots and a blue smock. Her long-limbed Aunt Daisy, just fifteen herself, walks with her to the nearby school. Little brown-haired, blue-eyed Frances lines up with the other children, rubbing her new boots together to produce a pleasing, squeaky sound. This minor misdeed is masked by energetic singing of ‘God Save the King’. There is a photograph of His Majesty on the schoolroom wall. Close by is a chart of letters and, opposite that, a map with many countries coloured pink, like sweets.

  Just an ordinary day, in fact somewhat more regular, more certain than most. During Frances’ short life the family has shifted about a lot; sometimes she and her mother move to another house even when her father does not. Sometimes Ivy looks after her, sometimes it is Grandma. Frances has grown used to it, just as she has become familiar with the sound of her parents arguing or, strangely worse, the sudden silences. But that day, after school when she returns to Fanny’s house with Daisy, is the first time she hears her father shout in pain.