As Zeno reads on, Rosetta notes an unusual tremor of excitement in her husband’s voice.
‘I’m so looking forward to your meeting that rare, charming and fine Empress Eugenie, whom we told all we could about you and your coming on the 20th.
‘The Empress, Rosetta. Just think, we are meeting with the Empress! Ah, my darling, I am beginning to believe this visit may prove rather special, after all.’
Zeno seizes his wife and kisses her passionately. He presses her ripe body against his own, conscious not just of desire but of an overwhelming sense of exhilaration. The showman in him has been roused. There is nothing like the thought of putting on a really spectacular display before a new audience – and such an elevated one, at that – for stimulating this strange man.
THIRTY-FOUR
The French Riviera: it is a place whose name still evokes an image of glamorous abandon; a location made for sybarites where the restraint imposed by other lives lived far away can be set aside under a balmy sun and soft blue skies. Ever since the 1920s, when Coco Chanel deemed suntans to be smart and the fabulous doomed Americans Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald spent months there in the wild pursuit of pleasure, it has been a site for summer revelry. But during the affluent, indulgent years of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, it was in the winter months that the Riviera functioned as an enticing playground for the rich, the famous and the titled.
From the beginning of January until precisely the first of May, they flocked to the sparkling strip that lies between Saint Tropez and Menton. Initially, they were drawn by winters that, in 1834, Britain’s former Lord Chancellor Lord Henry Brougham declared to be ‘as mild as Cairo’. But there was so much more than fine weather to be had.
There were the sheltered bays and sweeping headlands, opulent hotels that had the appearance of lavishly decorated wedding cakes and, increasingly, flamboyant villas, boating on the turquoise sea, gambling in Monte Carlo, parties, balls and receptions everywhere. And, always, there was a certain permissiveness that enabled these important people to act in a manner that would be considered rather shocking in the palaces and stately homes they had, for a few gratifying months, left behind.
Elegant men and women travelled south in their luxurious private railway carriages with enormous quantities of monogrammed luggage and retinues of servants: maids and valets, footmen and drivers. They motored through the pretty villages and chic towns in gleaming Daimlers and Bugattis, driven by liveried chauffeurs valued as much for their discretion as their skill behind a wheel, for private assignations were not uncommon. Some came by sea, sailing into Cannes in sleek yachts with swan-white sails, sipping champagne as their eyes scanned the shore in anticipation of the agreeable diversions that awaited them.
More than any other traveller, it was that renowned pleasure seeker Edward, Prince of Wales, who created the vogue for this resort. During the 1880s and 1890s Edward regularly embarked upon three-week visits, timing his stay for the annual Pre-Lenten Battle of the Flowers at Nice. There, his carriage was bombarded with blossoms – roses and peonies, hyacinths, tulips and freesias – until layers of fragrant petals lay thick upon its roof. Stray blooms lined the corners of the carriage windows and adorned its doors so that the vehicle was quite transformed. No longer a staid conveyance suitable for a future king, it resembled a travelling fairy bower. Prince Edward delighted in the experience. As he proceeded along the parade route he laughed and waved, basking in the energetic approval of the cheering crowds while the vibrant floral tributes continued to fly, arcing their way across a brilliant sky.
The philandering prince chose not to bring Alexandra, his wife of more than two decades, instead enjoying the company of famous actresses and courtesans when not attending to more publicly documented duties such as unveiling monuments and laying cornerstones.
The French Riviera (or Côte d’Azur as, since the writer Stéphen Liégeard coined the term in 1887, it was also known) had become the winter destination for, not just the British, but the members of a dozen other royal families. In 1905 King Leopold of the Belgians bought twenty-six hectares on Cap Ferrat, building sumptuous residences for an unholy trinity consisting of himself, his young mistress and his chaplain. Despite opposition from her German Emperor brother who had no love for the French, Princess Charlotte purchased a grand villa at Cannes, La Fôret, where she entertained with enthusiasm.
France’s last Empress, the indomitable Eugenie, widow of the deposed Emperor Napoleon III, was also in residence. She occupied a luxurious mansion, Villa Cyrnos, at Cap Martin.
A pride of prowling Teutonic princes indulged in baccarat, roulette and cards, though none matched the Russian grand dukes’ voracious appetite for games of chance. They gambled with fierce carelessness. Fortunes were lost and won, and lost again. These extraordinarily rich men (for now, at least) kept their mistresses in Monte Carlo. There, elegant in their homburgs and pin-striped suits, they could be seen strolling down the sea-front promenades with the most beautiful of the demi-mondaines. Such pretty women: they wore long, white dresses and large hats trimmed with drifting veils. From behind this filmy protection they regarded their imperial patrons with lovely, knowing eyes.
So marked was the torrent of royalty that the Empress Eugenie herself exclaimed, in a letter to her niece, ‘All the crowned heads of Europe are rendezvousing on the Riviera.’
The dishevelled British Prime Minister Lord Salisbury, enjoying the delights of what he referred to as ‘the cottage’ (in fact a vast, square villa named La Bastide at Beaulieu), made the more acerbic though nonetheless accurate observation, ‘Flies in summer; royalty in winter.’
The jaded senses of millionaires and kings were roused by captivating performances. In 1913 the Ballets Russes’ greatest dancer, Nijinsky, caused a sensation in Cannes with his soaring leap at the conclusion of a performance of The Afternoon of a Faun. The following year, in 1914, after Nijinsky had made the unpardonable error of marrying, the impresario Diaghilev’s new paramour, the eighteen-year-old Léonide Massine, astounded audiences with his own athletic feats. It was not only dancers who were drawn to the Riviera. The composer Richard Strauss roared in from Munich on his motorbike to see his ballet The Legend of Joseph being rehearsed. Famous opera singers such as Feodor Chaliapin and renowned musicians, including the brilliant young pianist Arthur Rubinstein, came to entertain the statesmen, the industrialists and the aristocrats who continued to flock south.
There were also two others – without traditional talents, yet undoubtedly gifted in other less conventional ways, neither born to greatness nor to wealth though adored by many who were – who arrived at this happy, sun-dappled coast. The year was 1914 and, after that, nothing was the same.
THIRTY-FIVE
CAP MARTIN, FEBRUARY 1914
The Empress is old now, so very old. Her head is encircled not by a diadem of diamonds as in her youth but by a cloud of white hair; arthritis cripples her ageing limbs but still she takes the most intense interest in all around her. Eugenie is nearing ninety. She has known terrible grief, burying her beloved only child, his father’s heir, when the boy was just twenty-three. Eugenie has watched great states rise and fall. She has ruled an empire only to see her husband, Louis Napoleon, deposed. Escaping France, the country in which once she basked in all the gilded glory that the Second Empire could bestow, she fled to England, into exile. She waited there.
Years passed until her return to France was possible. The Riviera was the perfect place to build an impressive villa in which she could reside. Far from the capital where, even now, her presence might prove a dangerous provocation, she settled on the wooded peninsula of Cap Martin. This is where, in 1892, the imposing Villa Cyrnos was constructed in an Italianate style. The villa’s name is ancient Greek for Corsica, that rugged island where the most illustrious of all the Bonapartes was born. It is fortuitously close to her confidante, Madame Ernesta Stern.
Eugenie holds court in her great white mansion, surrounded by elder
ly retainers and elaborately arranged flowers. Crowned heads, royal dukes and princelings all come to pay her their respects. Even Eugenie’s old friend, Queen Victoria, would visit her there during her final years. It was the Queen’s top-hatted coachman, a kilted Highlander by his side, who drove the dear sovereign through the high double-crowned gates and on to Eugenie’s home. The two monarchs, one past, one present, walked beneath the palms and cypress trees in her pine-scented grounds, the Queen tiny beneath a black parasol, the Empress leaning heavily on her gold-topped cane. They talked of life, though prudently avoided politics. There were lingering goodbyes.
Unlike the late English Queen, Zeno is not invited to call upon the Empress. Eugenie is wary, sceptical for, despite the fact that he has won the approval of the Princess and the Baroness, she has known too many frauds and tricksters in her time to feel quite certain that the Professor should be allowed to breach her privacy. Instead she comes to Torre Clementina to assess him for herself, this man who, although spoken of so warmly by her friends, she still refers to as ‘that Japanese’.
The romantic gardens, lovingly designed by Madame Stern’s great favourite, the Italian landscape painter Raffaele Mainella, contain a remarkable swooping marble staircase slashed at its core by a terraced waterfall. As Rosetta strolls through Torre Clementina’s extensive grounds she sees this curious feature gleaming, white and somehow eerie, despite the clear Mediterranean light. She touches Zeno’s arm, about to comment but, seeing he is deep in thought, drops her hand. He looks neither left nor right. They pass stone columns and ancient statuary yet he remains withdrawn, unusually preoccupied. As they continue, it is as if he does not see the rose-entwined pergolas, the terracotta archways or cascading fountains but another world, one to which he alone has access.
In Rosetta’s view Torre Clementina, beautiful but strange, is the product of a very rich woman’s surfeit of imagination. A mixture of the Gothic, the Venetian and the Byzantine, it looks to her much like an overwrought setting for a self-styled Scheherazade. Despite its fanciful facade, the villa’s exterior does little to prepare Rosetta for what lies inside. It is an Aladdin’s cave of sorts, a spiritualist’s treasure trove.
Wherever Rosetta looks, be it on an ebony table or marble plinth, in an alabaster niche or engraved cabinet, she sees an eruption of arcane artefacts, a testament to her hostess’s ecumenical inclinations. Jewel-encrusted Coptic icons jostle ancient Hebrew candelabra on a sideboard. Across the room, a Byzantine crucifix rests in close proximity to an immense bronze Buddha tinged green with time while, grouped together on a desk of ormolu, statues of Gothic saints peer from lidless eyes at Egyptian gods and dancing Hindu divinities. It is a riot of religious reference.
Surrounded by this barbarous confusion, Rosetta sips sweet, strong Turkish coffee. It is served to her beneath a cathedral-like ceiling in the villa’s large central room by a young Nubian attendant, his snowy jacket a stark contrast to the dark gleam of his skin. Before her, on a low table, lies a lacquered plate of Arabian sweetmeats; Rosetta inhales their tantalising aroma of honey, almond and cardamom.
Savouring the moment, she reflects upon her first meeting with Zeno – how long ago it seems – in the now distant Antipodes. ‘It is this life,’ she thinks as she considers her august company, ‘that is the destiny he revealed to me.’
Madame Stern interrupts her thoughts. ‘Divine, aren’t they?’ she says, discreetly patting small flakes of golden pastry from the corners of her lips. ‘I find these confections quite impossible to resist.’
For the sake of politeness Rosetta takes one, smiles. She plays her part, for like these others she, too, is an experienced consort. Her role is not to rule either kingdom or salon. She charms, keeps Charlotte and Ernesta suitably diverted while her husband is occupied with the Empress in one of the adjoining rooms.
The Princess is addicted to gossip. ‘Did you know,’ she remarks in her alluring voice, ‘they say the very first place Diaghilev took his new little dancer – that beautiful Massine – after his audition was to look at Catherine the Great’s paintings in the Hermitage? What is your view of this, Madame Zeno?’
Rosetta, smiling, responds airily, ‘As I believe his next stop was the maestro’s hotel room, I would say it was the beginning of a rather rapid education.’ The grand ladies laugh in appreciation; the Professor’s wife is never less than amusing.
For all their sophisticated sang-froid, Madame Stern and the Princess have proven to be, in the presence of their beloved Professor, quite overcome. Ernesta is fifty-nine, Charlotte nearly fifty-three, but when in his company they conduct themselves with a coquettish demeanour that belies both their station and their years.
Zeno has spent time with the two women earlier that day. Rosetta does not yet know what has been discussed in these intimate sessions, nor will she enquire. Zeno will reveal these confidences to her in his own time. She assumes, however, by the flushed appearance of the ladies as they have, by turn, emerged from their individual consultations, that at the conclusion of their sessions each has enjoyed one of the Professor’s uniquely beneficial massages. They are reputed to transfer psychic energy and are popular with women of a certain age, particularly widows or those with inattentive husbands.
Rosetta has grown used to rank, to majesty. She sees that, beneath the thin distinction of wealth and caste, a person’s wants and needs are very much alike. She has learnt that the same terror of the night, the same longing for another’s touch, are shared by all humanity. Death is feared and love desired. Absolution for past wrongs is sought. And always, there is that primeval longing for revelation, a key that will unlock the secrets of one’s life. Rosetta knows this need well: after all, it is what first drew her to the magician who now sits in seclusion, sharing his visions of the future with an Empress by his side.
Rosetta hears a small, soft sound and looks towards it. It is Eugenie, shuffling across the marble floor in her pale-blue silken slippers, the only footwear that her poor twisted feet can bear. Zeno has been with her for no more than an hour, yet she is obviously exhausted. Princess Charlotte, worried, moves to her old friend’s side while Madame Stern rings for a servant, calling, ‘Hurry, brandy for the Empress!’
But Eugenie stills them with a single wave of her frail, bejewelled hand.
‘My dears, do not concern yourselves about me. It is only that I am very, very tired. The Professor and I have had discussions of the greatest importance.
‘This man,’ she gestures at Zeno, following behind, ‘sees butchery and bloodshed. I may seem old and foolish, but I know much of violence and loss of life. My own dear son was cut down, massacred in Africa during the war between the English and the Zulus.’
The Empress looks even older now, and very pale.
‘Already, trouble begins to ferment in half a dozen places. But what do our statesmen do? They make empty gestures, speak in platitudes. The Professor predicts conflagration of a magnitude that we have never seen. He says there will be slaughter and carnage. I wish I did not believe him.’
With the last of her strength Eugenie turns to Zeno and says, ‘Professor, I thank you for your revelations. I came here expecting shallow entertainment. But you have paid me the compliment of honesty, something an empress rarely sees. I pray to God the turmoil of your prophecy will never come to pass, but I fear that what you say is true.
‘I doubt we will meet again. It seems that circumstances are unlikely to permit this taking place.
‘I am retiring to my villa now, to rest and think. Certain people must be warned that there is danger. Whether they will listen … well, I don’t imagine that they will.’ She sighs deeply, steadies herself.
‘Professor, Madame Zeno, travel safely. Adieu.’
THIRTY-SIX
I cannot go to Torre Clementina.
This is not because the villa has been destroyed – it remains intact, perched above the azure waters of the Mediterranean at Cap Martin, just as it was a century ago when Rosetta went there
with Zeno and exchanged confidences with Baroness Stern, Princess Charlotte and Empress Eugenie. Unfortunately, unlike a number of other, nearby Belle Époque villas, such as the great flamingo-pink mansion at Cap Ferrat that Béatrice Ephrussi de Rothschild donated to the French nation, Torre Clementina is privately owned. Members of the public are not welcome.
Worse, for me at least, the proprietor, Frederick Robinson Koch, is a man described by Vanity Fair magazine as ‘notoriously private’. Like his three younger brothers, Frederick Koch is an American billionaire. Unlike them, he is not known to be enamoured with conservative political causes – two have famously pledged a billion dollars to support the Republican candidate in the 2016 US presidential election. Frederick seems not to be politically inclined, nor does he seek publicity. Rather, he ‘conducts his life as if striving for obscurity’.
Despite this passionate discretion, however, Frederick has a reputation for philanthropy. He is the man who, it was much later revealed, underwrote the multimillion-dollar reconstruction of the Swan Theatre at Shakespeare’s Stratford-upon-Avon in 1986. He has endowed the Frick Museum in New York, the Carnegie Institute in Pittsburgh and libraries at Yale and Harvard universities with priceless historic documents. Among them are handwritten scores by Mozart and Schubert, letters by Baudelaire and Proust, poems by Cocteau and Victor Hugo, the drafts of manuscripts by Henry Miller and Oscar Wilde.
Frederick Koch is also known to have extraordinary objects that remain in his possession. There are pictures by Fragonard, fine wood panelling from the palace of Versailles, a bed that the Mayor of Paris gave to Marie Antoinette when she married Louis XVI, a marble head of Antinous that once belonged to his lover, the Emperor Hadrian. Frederick is a discerning, avid collector of stained glass and mosaics, of bronze statuary, of carpets, paintings and tapestries and, most relevant to my preoccupations, of historic properties. He bought Sutton Place in England, the legendary seven-hundred-acre estate where Henry VIII met Anne Boleyn (though now it is in the possession of an oligarch from Russia). He owns an enormous royal hunting lodge in Austria, and the Woolworth mansion in Manhattan. And, since purchasing it from the granddaughter of Ernesta Stern three decades ago, among his stellar accumulation is Torre Clementina.
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