So we catch her in the act of fictionalising her "true story," not for the sake of the picturesque, but for the devious purpose of asserting herself as Princess of Portugal. So much for the trust to be put in Mémoires d'une Infante Vivante, the book of Maria Pia de Saxe-Cobourg...

The autobiographical novel of Hilda de Toledano, Un Beso y Nada más, is more informative, probably because one tends to spot authenticity in a fiction, instead of tracking falsehood in a statement. Wenceslao Fernández Flórez, in his preface, dated July, 1954, says very clearly: "...I have known personally most – almost all – of the characters in this novel...thus it is easy for me to find in these pages a circumstance that may escape to the appreciation of most readers: the sincerity of an extraordinary relation, written with a pen dipped in memories and observation." We are, indeed, more than ready to accept the word of the great Spanish writer, and to try decoding in Hilda's book the sad story of Maria Pia between, say, 1925 to 1935.

Though written in Spanish, Un Beso y nada más is so obviously by the same pen as Mémoires d'une Infante Vivante that it leaves no doubt as to the identity of the authoress. The story is that of a "Sieglinde de Granada," unhappily married to "Federico Juan Barcelona y Percal," who shares an impossible and platonic passion with "Miguel Lapilar." The process of name invention is clear. Sieglinde/Hilda—teutonic legendary heroins; Granada/Toledo—two major Spanish cities, particularly important in the brilliant times when the peninsula was ruled by the Arabs. The same pattern is reproduced with her husband's name: Francisco Javier Bilbao Batista. Same initials (FJ); Barcelona for Bilbao—two opposite seaports; Percal for Batista—two fine fabrics used for handkerchiefs and lingerie. It would probably be easy to identify "Miguel Lapilar," and we suggest the enquiry might start with the idea that "la (Virgen del) Pilar" is the patron Madonna of Zaragoza, but we see no reason for disturbing the memory of the unfortunate man who rests in the Cemetery of San Isidro—and never got more than a kiss from his beloved. Un beso, y nada más has been described as "typical lady-novelist stuff." Well...it is. A little. Definitely not a landmark book in modern literature. It does give us precious indications, which nevertheless need to be cautiously separated from the imagination of the novelist, from which we may paint a reasonably life-like portrait of Maria Pia in the 1920's.

She turned thirteen at the beginning of the decade. She was a precocious girl, the youngest of her set, living a cosmopolitan life between Paris, Madrid and Biarritz—a place that will be dear to her heart until the end. Her guardian is her adoring grandfather, Baron Laredo: a respectable gentleman with a full black beard. The rest of the family seems to fade a little into the background. Maria Pia is very good at languages—she is perfectly fluent at least in French, Spanish and Portuguese. She is a bright, lively, and slightly spoiled teenager. She would like to be an artist—a musician, or perhaps a writer. In fact, when she approaches Wenceslao Fernándes Flórez, wondering about his likeness to Adolphe Menjou, she proposes to translate into French his last novel. She is imaginative, clever, glib, and she is fascinated by life. Of course she wants to grow up, to share the existence of the glamorous ladies who sip champagne and cocktails at the Bar Basque and take part in the infamous parties at Villa Belza. Those are "Les Années Folles"—the years of madness. The Great War has turned the world upside down. Spanish grandees and South-American dagoes mix in a joyous motley of arrogance and pleasure. Maria Pia watches the fun, and wants to join. Her description of the smart set of Biarritz driving in state the five miles to Bayonne for an afternoon with the bulls is vivid, cheerful, and certainly authentic. It is also girlishly spiteful—as she was "too young" to go. She was very young indeed.