The Longest Winter

by Mary Jane Staples

  ‘There’s the dinner party for James in two days. You must be home early for a change.’

  ‘Yes. Of course.’ The baron hesitated. ‘Teresa, let it take the place of the engagement party.’

  ‘Ernst! Sophie must have an engagement party. What would she think if we didn’t give her one?’

  ‘She might surprise you.’

  ‘No, she shall have a proper occasion,’ insisted the baroness, ‘a splendid one. We must arrange a date at once. Sophie wishes the wedding to be as soon after as possible. She and James can better arrange the wedding when they know the date of the engagement party.’

  ‘I know, my dear. I’ll speak to you about it tonight.’

  But he was home very late and went tiredly to bed. Dates still hung in the balance, as other things did.

  James suggested a picnic, for the weather called everyone out of doors. Sophie would have agreed to eating a cold fish lunch al fresco in Greenland as long as James was there. Anne begged that she and Ludwig might come. Carl offered to drive them and took them to a spot miles out of Vienna, where it was gloriously peaceful and the meadows floated high and golden above the distant Danube. The day was radiant. It was a day for the old as well as the young, with Europe sunning in the brilliance of its empires and kingdoms, the era brave with the majesty of kings and princes, with Queen Alexandra still its inspiration and Kaiser Wilhelm its proud, ceremonial mouthpiece.

  Sophie never forgot that day of high summer, the purr of the Benz, the joy of being alive, the splendour of Vienna the golden and Austria the beautiful. And of Anne and Ludwig, patently falling in love, and James building a fire within a framework of stones and actually cooking meat for the picnic. He placed a piece of flat steel, punctured with holes, over the stones, laid thick slices of sausage on it and filled the air with the heavenly aroma of frying. Picnics were not a frequent occurrence among the von Korvacs. When they did have one it was a carefully planned operation involving many servants, speculations about the weather, consultations about what to wear, a journey with a slightly processional look and, finally, the picnic itself on a basis of organized jollity. There would be a lordly spread of cold meats, chicken and salads, eaten at a properly laid folding table and sitting in canvas chairs.

  To have James in charge of the picnic meant no servants, no chairs, just the natural environment and simple improvisation. And sausage sizzling over an open fire. Heavenly, thought Sophie. Anne and Ludwig strolled in the high meadows. The Danube, a hazy and winding glitter, flowed far below. Carl, stretched on his back in the grass, panama hat over his face, awaited the food and wine. James had supplied everything. It was his treat, he said. He was down on his knees in front of the fire, using a long fork of Maude’s to turn the sausage slices. Sophie put a hand on his shoulder, then caressingly touched his neck. He looked up at her. He was darkly brown. The sun got into his eyes and she felt, even though life was being so good to her now, that love could still be painful.

  She said, ‘Papa says it’s not necessary to have a huge engagement party if we’d rather not. Mama says she has never heard of any engagement party not being necessary. I said I didn’t mind either way, except that an engagement party must come before a wedding.’

  ‘True,’ said James, deftly turning a slice. He added, ‘At least, on the whole.’

  ‘To some people,’ said Sophie, ‘that could mean an engagement party getting in the way of a wedding.’

  He knew what she wanted. A definite date. He had not yet talked to her in the way the baroness had advised him to. His worry was a gnawing, uneasy one. Austria was going to war, and even his imaginative Sophie did not seem to realize it.

  ‘It might mean that to people like you and me, but it’s not how parents see it,’ he said. He channelled glistening slices of cooked sausage off the hot steel on to a plate. He put fresh slices on. ‘When do you want the wedding, Sophie?’

  Sophie, invited at last to be specific, said earnestly, ‘Oh, I would like it at the end of August. That is a long way off, I know, but—’

  ‘It’s next month,’ said James.

  ‘Yes, it’s a long time, I have just said so, but there will be such a lot to do and think about. Darling, is it too long for you?’

  The sun danced on her, warmed her, enriched her. James wondered how he had managed to win her. He ruffled his hair.

  ‘We have to buy a house, Sophie,’ he said, ‘I can’t take you home to a tent. I shall probably have to go back for a while and look around. When I return I expect your father will have got this Serbian business out of the way – I think he’s one man who’s up to it—’

  ‘James, you are not trying to put me off, are you?’ Her smile was valiantly bright, hiding her little feeling of sudden apprehension.

  ‘No, never. Aside from everything else, my parents would never allow it.’ He had written to them, enclosing a photograph of Sophie. He had received a brief letter of approval from his father, a long letter of happy surprise from his mother. ‘Oh, we’ll fix things, Sophie.’ Lightly he added, ‘By the way, you owe me a kiss.’

  ‘James darling, you can have a hundred, a thousand—’

  ‘Just one,’ said James.

  She looked around. Carl’s hat was still over his face and Anne and Ludwig were dreamy, sunhazed figures in the background. She bent and kissed James warmly and extravagantly on the lips. She did not know what the contact did to him, but it did the usual thing to her. It made her pulse rate leap.

  ‘That’s a debt very nicely discharged,’ said James, returning to his frying.

  ‘Debt?’

  ‘I told you when I gave you that sketch of yourself that I’d let you know one day what I wanted for it.’

  Sophie laughed. James, looking up at her again, saw her vividly alive against the pale blue canvas of the sky.

  ‘Is that what you always had in mind to charge me?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, I should have been happy to have made payment long ago,’ she said.

  ‘There’s some interest due. Hot sausage ready. Will you call Anne and Ludwig?’

  She said in an intense little murmur, ‘I will do anything for you, James.’

  ‘Sophie sweet—’

  ‘Oh, it will be over soon, all this fuss about Serbia, won’t it?’ she said and went to fetch Anne and Ludwig.

  They picnicked. They all ate hot sliced sausage with bread, olives, tomatoes and fat chunks of cucumber. James served the bread in crusty wedges. Everyone dipped into green salad and Carl poured the wine. They ate sitting on the grass, except for James who ate on his knees, keeping up with the demand for more hot sausage.

  The day was a hum of summer sounds, of laughter, breeze, murmuring grass and winging bees. They sat and talked when they had eaten, and they finished the wine. Anne and Ludwig took another stroll. James put out the fire and began to clean things up. Sophie tidied up. She sank to her knees beside Carl, who was having the laziest day. He was lying on his back again. She took the wine glass from his hand. He moved his hat off his face and smiled up at her. He looked young, strong and very contented.

  ‘It’s a good summer, Sophie,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, yes. I thought I had grown out of picnics, but I haven’t. That is what the summer has done. There’ll never be another one quite as perfect.’

  ‘There never is,’ said Carl, ‘the best summers are always the ones you’ve had. O-eight was quite good. Anne’s nose peeled. We’re going to miss you, Sophie.’

  ‘And I shall miss all of you. Terribly.’ Sophie sat back on her heels. Her hat was off, her hair bright with sun-burnished tints. ‘I’m a little scared. Wish me luck, Carl.’

  ‘I do. The very best. You’re the dearest girl. But scared? I’ve never heard you talk like that. They won’t eat you, the British, will they? What’s it called, that place you’re going to? Warwickshire? Where is it?’

  ‘It’s not that,’ said Sophie, ‘I think I’ll be able to manage Warwickshire. But I’ve never
been a wife before. Carl, supposing I let James down? He’s so practical himself, he can do things.’

  ‘So can you. And James knows he’s a man in luck, he knows he’s getting a stunner. He won’t worry about the little things.’

  ‘Carl.’ She plucked at the grass. ‘Carl, do you think there’ll be a war?’

  His relaxed look became cautious.

  ‘Oh, I don’t think so. Well, if there is, how long can it last? Not more than a month. We’d eat the Serbians.’

  ‘Everyone is talking about it now. Except us. James doesn’t mention it. Although he did say we ought to wait until the Serbian business is over before we fix our wedding. Carl, I couldn’t bear it, not a war. Everything is so lovely and I’m really quite stupid with happiness. But if – if we went to war how could I leave Austria? I couldn’t just go off and bury my head in the sand with James, I couldn’t simply say goodbye to Mama and tell her the war was nothing to do with me. But I desperately want to marry James, to be with him. Carl, do you think he would stay here? Do you think he would live with us until it was over? Carl, would you talk to him? Would you, please? You and James are such good friends, and you’re to be best man, aren’t you? You could suggest he and I might live with the family as if you’d thought of it. You see, I don’t wish him to think I’m running his life for him, he’ll begin to give me odd looks and I couldn’t bear that, either. Carl dear, could you just casually mention the idea to him?’

  Carl had the clear-sighted, uncomplicated outlook of a young man to whom life was a matter of simple ideals and understandable principles. Only recently had he begun to realize that life had its complex issues. And he felt an awareness of the intensity of his sister’s emotions, all to do with the very complicated nature of her feelings for James. Carl had enough intelligence and enough feeling for Sophie himself not to laugh at her worries.

  ‘That’s the devil of a good idea, Sophie. I’ll mention it to him at the right moment, rely on me. I’d have to get into uniform myself, of course.’ Carl was on the officers’ reserve list. ‘But James is the type who’d want to help in some way, and I’m not so sure he wouldn’t rather like to stay and see it through with us.’

  ‘Carl, that would be wonderful.’ Sophie seemed to float against the bright background in her relief. ‘Oh, thank you, I’m so grateful.’

  Carl reached and squeezed her hand.

  ‘Couldn’t let you down, Sophie,’ he said, ‘never.’

  He watched her as she rose to her feet. She was worried. Well, a woman did worry more than men about war. To men wars happened. To women wars were forced on people. He wondered if Sophie’s impending marriage to James signalled the first great irreversible turn of the wheel for the family. Sophie’s going would begin the break-up. They would all miss her. Anne was vivacious and bubbly, Sophie was humorously delicious. Both his sisters were good to be with, both companionable. He had grown up with them in an atmosphere of relative harmony, Anne always the volatile spirit of the relationship, Sophie the resilient link which bound them. She it was who made it possible to bring about reconciliation whenever the harmony did get besieged by argument. Sophie had grown into a woman. Anne still had flashes of clear, bright idyllic youth. One looked at Anne and saw the joy she had in being young. One looked at Sophie and saw a woman ready for the more sophisticated wonders of life. She was a woman wanting to give now, because she felt she had been given so much herself.

  I am having serious thoughts, reflected Carl, and for the first time in my life.

  He felt he knew why Sophie had committed herself so unconditionally to James. Sophie had grown up. So had James. He had acquired the easy front of a man who had worked, who had lived out his youth, who had come to know people and had left awkwardness well behind. Sophie said she liked James because she could talk to him. Her natural love of words flowered when she was with him. She discussed poetry with him, which she seldom did with others outside the family because of her sensitivity concerning her own dedication to the muse. He could not imagine James would ever find her inadequate either as a woman or a wife.

  Carl supposed his parents would expect him to make a suitable match himself soon. It was not something he had given a lot of thought to. He had not even sown his wild oats yet. It was expected of some men. Ludwig’s father had once said that some women preferred a husband who had sown wildly but well, since she expected to reap the benefits of his experience. Carl doubted if his mother would agree with that. She would say that there was a tender sweetness in a husband and wife learning from each other, and that that was how God intended it to be. Should a man sacrifice nebulous wild oats for the sake of his mother? Carl thought it would not worry him unduly. Women were not constantly on his mind. Not as much, certainly, as the Benz. The Benz always made him feel warm with the pleasure of ownership. He smiled to himself. He was inclined, he knew, to shift to one side the necessity of thinking about one woman in particular. It was a help to a motor-car enthusiast that there wasn’t one woman in particular. There was a highly engaging bevy at times of beguiling eyes and pretty faces, of attractive figures and peeping petticoats. There was enjoyment, careless rapture and the excitement of a world that was progressive, with countless years ahead. And there was no worrying involvement.

  He imagined he would get married some time within the next few years. Out of the immediate future would step some divine girl who would make the same stunning impact on him as Sophie had made on James. If he could not quite picture every detail of his ideal, he was clear about one thing at least. She would be Austrian. He had travelled the countries of Europe without feeling any of them produced women superior to those of Vienna. If anything, it was the other way about. Vienna had an astonishing quota of superbly good-looking women. His mother would look around for him if he dropped only half a hint, and she would certainly not think it necessary to travel to Germany or France, Italy or Hungary. She would probably not go more than half a mile in any direction. She might not even leave the house but simply say, ‘I’ll invite so-and-so and her family to dinner, so-and-so is a charming girl and it’s time you met her.’

  He conceded he was taking his time to enmesh himself in the intricacies of serious life, that he was extending the years of irresponsibility. But at least he was harming no one. He had made no girl shed tears.

  There was Helene, of course. Could he consider her seriously?

  He decided not.

  In any case, there was the Serbian question. Damned hard luck on Sophie if it took the gilt off her wedding day. Sophie deserved a perfect day. He was not affected himself. He had no commitments or involvements. He could fight the Serbians without making a girl weep for him. It would not last long and most generations were called on to fight for their country once at least. It looked as if the politicians weren’t going to settle the matter in relation to Serbia. It was going to be left to soldiers.

  All the same, because of Sophie he rather hoped now that the politicians would keep talking.

  * * *

  ‘James?’ Carl spoke from under the bonnet. They had arrived home from the picnic and he and James were putting the Benz cleanly to bed.

  ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘I don’t think it will alarm you, you’re not that sort of fellow. But there might be a war. It’s those damned Serbians— I must say, this engine is remarkably good on the oil. It’s still quite clean too, have you noticed that? Did I mention it won’t last long? It won’t, you may rely on that.’

  ‘Are we talking about the Serbians or the engine oil?’ asked James.

  ‘Oh, nothing to worry about,’ said Carl casually, ‘but I was just wondering about you and Sophie. A war might upset your plans a little. If it does happen – well, look here, would you consider staying on? You and Sophie, I mean. Just for the duration. With the family. We shouldn’t take long to settle the Serbians.’

  ‘If it’s just you and the Serbians,’ said James pointedly, ‘no, it shouldn’t take too long.’

  ‘I though
t you might consider the idea,’ said Carl, emerging from the bonnet and smiling cheerfully.

  ‘Has Sophie considered it?’

  ‘Mmm? Oh, I expect she will when you mention it.’

  ‘We’ll see what happens,’ said James.

  On the evening of the small dinner party the baron telephoned from his office to say he was simply unable to get away in time to help receive the guests. He was profusely apologetic and hoped his wife would understand. She did, for she knew now that a crisis existed and that it was a serious one. But it must not be allowed to spoil things for Sophie and James. Ernst had known what he was talking about when he suggested the dinner party should be in lieu of an engagement party. There could be no glittering ball, which was what the baroness would have liked to give, if there was a war on. Ernst in his quiet way would very properly discourage it. Therefore, Sophie and James must have a happy occasion this evening.

  There were only four guests. James and Major Moeller, Ludwig and Helene. Anne had rather begged for Ludwig to be invited. It looked very much as if Anne was becoming as seriously attached as Sophie. The baroness could not deny she would be pleased to have Ludwig marry Anne. So Ludwig came and Helene too. Helene would provide a pairing with Carl.

  The small reception room was used for welcoming the guests. It was more intimate than the larger one, and a champagne buffet had been set up to precede dinner.

  Sophie, wishing to dazzle James before settling down to be his earnestly inexpensive wife, wore a new gown. And it was not solely to dazzle him. It was for him, in acknowledgement of him, a reflection of what he meant to her. He was her lover, her protector, her saviour. Her poetic imagination dwelt on every descriptive word, and she was able to reconcile her abandonment to the flowery muse of a past era with her belief in herself as a modern young lady by remembering that self-expression could not be confined within the limits of what was popular and what was not.

  The gown was a sheath of pale, lustrous gold, waisted to emphasize the slender sweep of torso and bodiced to enhance the contours of her rounded bosom. Jewels studded her piled glossy hair. Her eyes were hugely brilliant. She herself was brilliant, her mirror told her so, but when James arrived and looked at her, stared at her, she wondered if she had not overdone it.