Rosetta (15 page)

I return to the letters, Ernesta's three, of course, but also those penned by the mysterious Charlotte, she of the copious crown-topped correspondence with the interlinking purple C's. There are fourteen of these, which means that on average she took up her pen, composed her thoughts and wrote to Zeno once every fortnight over a period of seven months. It speaks of dedication.

The warm, intimate communications from Ernesta and Charlotte provide me with the richest clues to the life Rosetta and Zeno led during the still-splendid days that stretched from the end of 1913 until midway through 1914. The letters show me that, against a backdrop of simmering international tension, my great-grandmother and her magnetic husband revelled in the splendour of what was to be the final, precious moments of that gloriously indulgent, lost time, now forever known as
La Belle Époque
.

Charlotte's writing is impenetrable. With the appearance of a series of single, bold straight lines, broken up at intervals by long diagonal strokes and shorter, heavier marks, it looks as if rows of millipedes have colonised the pages. It is a hand unlike any
I have seen before. My father must have been equally confounded, for I can see that, fortunately, he arranged for transcriptions to be made.

I look at them, an enticing small pile. They have been neatly typed on a manual machine and then numbered by hand from 1 to 14. I have other letters, from a range of correspondents, but no other writer is represented in such abundance. I can only speculate as to their significance because, maddeningly, I still don't know who Charlotte is. I can tell that she is a close friend of Madame Stern, as both refer to each other fondly. It is also clear, from the very first of Charlotte's letters, that she, too, has succumbed to Zeno's unique appeal.

As yet, I have no idea what Charlotte's ‘
sad and hard
' life might have been like. The second letter, written from her friend Ernesta's fabled villa by the Mediterranean Sea, provides no further insights. It does, however, reveal the two women's growing infatuation.

Should Charlotte have continued in this vein, her letters would have provided me with just more proof, though in truth by now none is needed, of Zeno's singular ability to gain the devotion of yet another rich, well-connected woman. I have grown used to, even a little bored with, these adoring protestations. They begin to cloy.

As I read on, however, I notice that something a good deal more interesting occurs. Charlotte begins to mention international affairs. Her second letter refers to:

By the fourth letter her comments not only reveal a deteriorating situation; they provide an insight into Zeno's remarkable prescience.

Zeno's ‘
sad predictions
' had been made months before the commencement of the Great War. This was at a time when almost no one – premiers, prime ministers or their sovereigns – imagined the catastrophic events that would come to pass. How was it that my step-great-grandfather knew these things? I catch myself beginning to wonder if he really had the power to foretell the future, after all. Perhaps, as was the case for so many, many
women and not a few men, the explanation is all too simple. I, too, am falling under Zeno's spell.

 

Charlotte's letters, with their increasingly fascinating content, have only added to my bewilderment. In the face of my confusion, I decide that, by necessity, she must wait. I will deal with Ernesta Stern's correspondence first.

Her hand is nothing like that of Charlotte. She writes with a clear precision, in very dark ink on small cards. These cards are topped not only with her address: they bear a curious sea-green insignia, its elements confined within a neat rectangle so that it looks something like a seal. There are her initials, ES, but also two blooms on each side. They look to me like lotus flowers, ancient emblem of Egypt and the Nile. A looping line connects these motifs with, at their centre, a five-pointed star. It is a centuries-old occult sign believed to drive away evil spirits and prove inviting to the benign; a pentagram.

Each one of Ernesta's letters reveals in what rarefied circles Zeno and Rosetta have now begun to move. In a few short paragraphs one undated despatch, written from her grand home, includes a plethora of royal references.

I imagine Rosetta holding this letter in her hand. She is smiling a little, nodding her head. If ever she had doubts about her husband's unusual abilities, here is proof that his immense self-confidence has been more than justified. A princess, two princes and an emperor, all mentioned in the space of one letter! The Princess already ‘
loves
' and ‘
admires
' him, Her Royal Highness going so far as to meet his train. Professor Carl Zeno's journey, presumably by railway from Paris to smart seaside Nice, would not have been so very long. The former William Norman, tinsmith, son of a goldfields Celestial and sometime fortune teller, has travelled a great deal further in his life.

A second letter, also written from Torre Clementina but this time dated 27 December 1913, reveals Ernesta's growing affection for Rosetta.

First, Ernesta mentions that she has not received Rosetta's presents, a jade heart and carved shell. I can see why Rosetta selected these particular objects: they are exotic, possess a certain oriental flair. The Baroness is worried that these baubles may have been lost en route. ‘
They have not yet reached me and I felt rather anxious about it.
' Considering her fabulous riches and extensive jewellery collection, this concern over the arrival of two comparatively modest gifts serves to demonstrate that, once again, Helena Rubinstein was right: the wealthy can be beguiled by such well-chosen tokens.

Ernesta becomes effusive, writing:

Finally, she signs the letter ‘
Your affectionate spiritual sister, Ernesta
'. This is how I know that Rosetta has also practised enchantment.

The third communication from Ernesta is dated 31 December, the last day of the final year of peace, 1913. Zeno is no longer addressed as ‘
Dear Friend
' but ‘
My adored Brother
'. He is as close to her as if they shared the same womb.

Whether Ernesta wishes Zeno to assist in the reduction of her earthly bulk or in the realisation of more ethereal ambitions is not made clear. Perhaps it is both. But then her attention turns to more political concerns.

This ‘Prince' is surely Napoleon Victor Jérôme Frédéric Bonaparte, Pretender to the throne of France, though always referred to by his more fervent supporters as Napoleon V. I have already discovered the postcard that bears his photograph. It shows a balding, unprepossessing man of around forty with an enormous black moustache and a faintly troubled air. He does not look like a saviour to me. Pasted on the back is a newspaper clipping, dated
23 January 1914, which announces that the Prince's son, Louis Napoleon, ‘heir of the greatest name with which the nation can be honoured', has been born.

Victor will prove unable to protect his homeland, though it will not be merely insufficiency of ‘
energy and resolution
' to blame.

There is a final allusion to another royal, Prince Bahram of Persia, ‘
who has been photographed with you
'. This solves one more, albeit small, mystery; it is the distinguished-looking bearded man in the photograph I have found who looks sadly from the bed in which he lies, with Zeno, immaculate in suit and tie, tending to his needs while by his side.

Ernesta's letter demonstrates that Rosetta and Zeno's plan met with wild success. Their goal – to win Madame Stern's favour and, by doing so, gain entry into an elite, glittering world – had been achieved. The Baroness, on intimate terms with the era's most famous writers, painters and poets, crowned heads of state and princes of the church, had come to love Rosetta. But she treasured Zeno.

‘
Tell the divine Master please that I feel quite happy and most serene; I wish only to please Him
,' she implored. By now Ernesta had not only concluded that her ‘
adored Brother
' was capable of influencing the destiny of rulers. She believed that he possessed the singular ability to communicate with the very greatest of divinities.

I know who Charlotte is. I have spread all fourteen of her letters out and isolated names and dates and places, references to Charlotte's residence
Meiningen
, to her father-in-law the Duke and the date of his death. I wrote all these facts down, searched, checked and checked again. Suddenly, it all made sense. My father always wondered who she was. But then he didn't have the benefit of the internet. After decades in which the letters' author remained a mystery, solving this riddle turns out to be as easy as tapping the right sequence of keys.

I am amazed by what I find. No wonder Zeno's most frequent correspondent began to comment increasingly on the turbulent state of world affairs; the fourteen highly personal, handwritten letters were penned by none other than the formidable Princess Charlotte of Prussia, daughter of the German Emperor, Frederick III, granddaughter of Queen Victoria and sister of Kaiser Wilhelm II, last Emperor of Germany.

From 20 December 1913 to 15 July 1914, the princess who was described in an article carried by
The New York Times
just four
days after her final missive as ‘the Kaiser's most brilliant, gifted, and fascinating sister' wrote from the very centre of the dramatic events that were to lead to a war that engulfed the world.

Now Ernesta's undated letter makes sense. The Princess who came to luncheon, talked of nothing but Zeno, who loves and admires him, was Charlotte. It was Princess Charlotte who sweetly met Zeno at the station. And when Ernesta wrote, ‘
You must try to impress the Emperor's mind
,
to wish to know you
', she was referring to none other than Charlotte's brother, Emperor Wilhelm, supreme sovereign of Europe's greatest power.

For thirty-three-year-old Rosetta, granddaughter of a convict, mother of an abandoned child, wife of a fairground charlatan, the devoted friendship of the Emperor's sister must surely have amounted to the very summit of success. It was a triumph.

LONDON, 1914

The knock on the door is hesitant. Rosetta, preoccupied with the accounts, looks up, frowns. There are no patients scheduled; she thinks Zeno is at his laboratory, though she acknowledges that she cannot be absolutely certain of his whereabouts. She chooses never to question him about that.

Rosetta does not welcome this disturbance, for she has been busy adding columns of figures, assessing the revenue from Zeno's increasingly lucrative practice and the sale of his custom-made medicines. The results are most satisfactory, so much so that lately she has commenced purchasing property, particularly in Ireland, where Lilian is able not only to effect useful introductions but to provide certain information on who has lost his fortune due to his addiction to the race track, or whose habit of supporting expensive mistresses has caused his marriage to collapse. Rosetta seems to know, innately, how best to take advantage of these helpful details. She has grown shrewd, discovered
that she has an aptitude for business. Rosetta has learnt a great deal since she came to London.

It is with some impatience, then, that she moves towards the door. Behind it is a boy of about twelve, a little nervous, a little out of breath. She gives him a couple of pennies, he hands her a telegram. After the boy is gone, after she has opened and read the message, all sign of Rosetta's irritation disappears.

The date is 29 January 1914. The telegram has been sent to Professor Zeno at 118 New Bond Street London from Cap Martin, despatched at precisely 11.35 am, and is of just sixteen words in length.

How extraordinary, Rosetta thinks. They have arrived in London, two vagabonds with nothing. Now a royal princess, sister of Europe's most powerful emperor, does not simply ask her and her beloved to come and visit. The Princess begs.

 

February is bleak in London and so cold that, in the streets, a single breath feels like a stab of steel. The days stretch on with only a deepening monochrome – silver in the morning, iron-grey by afternoon and then, too soon, the bitter black of night – to indicate that time is passing. Rosetta thinks of Australia, of the steamy tropical days that late summer brings, when the kookaburras call throatily from gum trees at dawn and a sea breeze curls its way through open windows, bringing with it the scent of eucalypts and lilly pillies as the day's bright, clear light begins to dim.

It is fortunate, Rosetta reflects as she contemplates another sunless London day, that soon they will be leaving for the south
of France. It will offer respite from this relentless English winter and, of course, the pleasant prospect of staying in sumptuous surroundings while being waited on by Ernesta's coven of attentive servants. Putting up with Madame Stern and the Princess as they simper over her husband can be tedious, but this is a small price to pay in exchange for an escape from ice and gales.

Zeno interrupts her thoughts. ‘Darling, I have heard from the Princess again,' he says. ‘I must say, she is dreadfully keen to spend time with me.' He grins and Rosetta thinks he has a wolfish look.

‘Listen, I'll read it to you.

Zeno looks up. ‘Yes of course, that's what she
says
, but you know as well as I do that it is quite impossible to flatter these women too much. Their appetite for compliments is insatiable. Anyway, then she writes:

The Professor's eyes meet those of his wife as he exclaims, ‘Thank heaven you're coming with me.'

‘Surely you're not complaining?' Rosetta smiles impishly. ‘Just think, there you'll be with the Princess and the Baroness, a trio of kindred spirits communing, or healing or whatever it is you will be doing, all in the lap of luxury – by the way, what
do
you have planned?'

‘We can come to that later. In any case mostly, you know, they just want to be listened to. But it is strange, Rosetta, I do seem to be, well, developing a heightened awareness.'

Rosetta raises an arched eyebrow.

‘No, really. I have the strongest feeling that the way things are, for the world, for us, well … it cannot last.'

Zeno continues. ‘Anyway, that is not what I wanted to tell you about, or at least, not right now. Hear what Charlotte says at the end of the letter. It seems there will be one more guest.'

As Zeno reads on, Rosetta notes an unusual tremor of excitement in her husband's voice.

‘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.