by Guy McCrone
But they were not uninteresting, these people; so long as one were not condemned to spend one’s life among them. In his business interviews he had met much forcefulness of character, much agility of mind. He had found them resourceful, eager and shrewd, beneath what seemed to be a universal pose of slow-wittedness and pompous courtesy. A baffling species, even for a fine-taster of peoples and places like himself.
He was glad Lady Ruanthorpe had given him this young man to drive out with. He was of the species, but divergent from it. For young Mr. Hayburn was without pompousness. He was boyish, quick and candid. And, it would seem, far from stupid. Yes, Henry might be of use.
He sat up on the high seat of the Duntrafford gig, looking about him, as his companion drove in the narrow Ayrshire farm roads; between beech hedges, which, here and there, were beginning to turn from dark green to yellow; between hawthorns hanging with crimson berries. He marvelled that beyond them in the fields the corn was still waiting to be cut. In his own, more southern country the oat crop had already been gathered weeks ago. Here in this northern land the year’s cycle was later. But it was a beautiful, mellow country, well tended and eloquent of a healthy peasant life; unspoiled by the industries that had ruined so much of the Island.
“Have you seen this reaping and binding machine, Mr. Hayburn?” he asked his companion presently.
Henry, who was not a practised driver, did not take his eyes from the horse’s head. “No, I haven’t,” he said.
“It should save a great deal of labour in the fields. Yes?”
“I suppose it does.”
“It must be a very clever invention. To cut and tie at the same time.”
“Yes.”
“Do you understand the principle?”
“I’ve never tried.”
“But you are an engineer. I would have thought …”
“Oh, I dare say I would understand it quickly enough, if I had to.”
Strange young man. His answers were almost rude; yet the Austrian could see that they were not so intended.
Suddenly, after successfully negotiating a corner, Henry turned:
“Do you understand it?” he asked unexpectedly.
“No. But I’m very interested. I may try to get the patent, and open a factory for reapers in Vienna. You see, in my country, or rather in Hungary, corn-growing is the most important industry. We could make them in Vienna and send them down the Danube.” Mr. Hirsch waited for Henry’s comment.
But he only said: “I don’t know whether it’s any good or not,” and went on driving.
IV
If this morning Mungo had felt annoyance at the prospect of having to receive a visitor sent by his fussy, self-important father-in-law, the happenings of the early afternoon had done nothing to lessen it. Just after his men had returned to work, the new reaper and binder broke down.
Mungo was a good farmer, but he was a bad, impatient mechanic. Like peasants all the world over, he was inclined to believe that a complicated mechanism has some strange, magic life of its own. That, if it goes wrong, it must be propitiated, rather than painstakingly understood and set aright. The workers stood by waiting, uncomfortable at his displeasure. They were well aware that Mungo was loathing the enforced idleness for which he would have to pay them.
The harvest field was in a state of angry tension when Henry and his companion arrived. Henry called to a man to open the gate of the field to allow him to drive in, then begged him to hold the horse’s head. This done, the visitors alighted. Mungo, perfectly aware of their coming, made no sign. He had not wanted to be bothered with Sir Charles’s foreigner this morning, still less did he want him now.
Mr. Hirsch had heard that the Scots could be ungracious. He was to get a demonstration of it now. He crossed the expanse of stubble—where the reaping machine had already done its work—hat in hand, ready to greet Sir Charles Ruanthorpe’s son-in-law. But Sir Charles Ruanthorpe’s son-in-law did not bother to raise himself from his crouched position. He merely presented Sir Charles’s visitor with his back.
This rudeness might have been disturbing. But Mr. Hirsch, being a man of many worlds, did not allow it to be so. He had not come here to worry about hurt feelings. He turned to his young companion, and waited. The young man made no attempt to effect an introduction. He was intent upon what Mungo was doing. Presently Henry spoke.
“What’s the trouble, Mungo?”
“I wish I could tell ye,” was flung back over Mungo’s shoulder.
“Have you been stuck for long?”
“Since dinner-time.”
“Let me have a look.”
Mr. Hirsch was astonished at the change in Henry; his sudden excitement before a mechanical problem. Now he was down on his knees, regardless of his clothes, having pushed Mungo and his assistant aside.
The Austrian did not mind that Mungo, standing up stiffly and slowly from his crouched position, did not bother, even now, to greet him. The sudden animation of this strange boy fascinated him.
“Look, Mungo. A nut has come loose and got lost there. And therefore that thing has come out of its place. Oh, and good lord! Look at that! If you had tried to drive any further you would have smashed the whole machine! For heaven’s sake unharness the horses now, before they move and do any damage!”
The young man was in control. The others were doing as he told them. As the horses were led forward out of harm’s way, Henry was flinging off his coat and rolling up his sleeves.
“What have you got in your tool-box? Yes, I want that spanner. Oh, and good—there’s a spare nut the right size! It’ll do for the one that’s got lost. Now, what happens here?”
His hands were strong, deft and trained. They seemed to be leading a life of their own; quick, with mechanical understanding. There was education, skill, and a great, urgent talent.
He worked rapidly and with fanatical concentration. For him there were no white clouds in the sky, no golden landscape, no calling moor birds; no field-workers, impatient to get on with their harvesting. His hands, his clothes, his face even, were smeared with grease, as he crawled hither and thither, beneath and around this piece of dead mechanism it was his passion to bring back to life.
At last he rose, oily and grinning. “There. That should be all right. Put the horses back and try it.” And presently he was running, cheerful and dishevelled, shouting instructions to Mungo in the driving-seat, as the reaper cut its way successfully down the next stretch of standing corn, throwing out at rhythmic intervals the finished sheaves.
When the cavalcade had returned triumphant to the point at which they had started, it suddenly occurred to Henry to introduce Sir Charles’s guest. Mungo, more mellow now, regretted that his hands were too dirty to be shaken; but he expressed his pleasure at seeing Mr. Hirsch, and told him he would be pleased to show him his new, and altogether excellent combined reaper and binder.
V
They had, of course, to consult the family. The family came into everything. A strange, foreign gentleman, who went by the name of Maximilian Hirsch, had offered Henry an important post in a new factory in Vienna. If there had been anything for him at home, Henry and Phœbe would not have considered the proposition for a moment.
But there was nothing. The summer had dragged on, nerves had been frayed, and things had looked hopeless. Now there was this man offering a sum which, if Henry took pencil and paper, and turned things called Gülden and Kreutzers into pounds, shillings and pence, seemed really quite a lot. Quite enough to live on, perhaps even to marry on; if, when Henry got there, he found that Vienna was a place suitable for a properly-brought-up young lady.
Vienna. Round the fireplace of Bel’s drawing-room in Grosvenor Terrace they got out Arthur’s atlas and peered at the dot on the map. It did not tell them very much. They knew it was the capital of Austria, and appeared to be situated on the Danube, which, according to the waltz, then in high popularity, was beautiful and blue. That was all very well, but were the people on its banks God-fearing and civilised
and fit for a Hayburn, and possibly a Moorhouse, to mix with?
They were simple people, these, who gazed at this black dot in the centre of the map of Europe; none of them many generations away from the peasantry. And what education they had, had been gained as an aid to their advancement in the world. They had not yet had time for foreign travel.
Mr. Hirsch had given Henry a week to decide. If he accepted, then he was to travel to London, and thence continue his journey in his company. Henry was unsure of himself. Now he was being asked to cast his moorings and set his course for the unknown. Besides, he did not particularly want to work in a factory for making reaping machines. His interests lay in the heavy industries that ran in the veins of his own city.
But Phœbe kept urging him. Her sense of adventure was kindled. Let him go, she said, get things started, and she would come to him. Or, if that were not allowed by Bel, he would, surely be given time to come home and fetch her. Let him think what fun it would be for them to be alone in a strange, new city, making new friends, finding a new life.
Upon a suggestion of Phœbe’s going at once with Henry, Bel put down her foot. No; Phœbe could not possibly go until Henry had found out what sort of place Vienna was, and established a settled and comfortable existence for her. If he could not do without her for a time, then he must stay at home.
But staying at home meant having no work to do, and Henry did not want that. It was very difficult.
What had Sir Charles thought? Sir Charles had thought the offer an excellent one. Just the very thing. He himself had been in Vienna once as a young man. He could not remember the year, but it was before he was married. It must have been a long time ago, because he had gone through Switzerland in a stage coach sort of thing. And Phœbe had better pack her bags and go with Henry, for, if his memory served him right, there were one or two handsome young women in Vienna.
All of which, being in substance reported to Bel, was not particularly reassuring. Sir Charles was very well, and in their burghers’ hearts they were proud to be connected with him; but, with some justification, they were none too sure of the oats Sir Charles must once have sown.
During this week of indecision, discussion raged furiously in the Moorhouse family. Stephen, Henry’s elder brother, feeling himself confined and prospectless in the offices of Dermott Ships, urged Henry to get away at all costs. Stephen’s advice meant much to Henry. David, who had never put forth any effort beyond keeping his place in the procession of prosperity, told Henry from the safety of his pedestal that he seriously thought Vienna would be the making of him. Sophia bustled in to say that William had read that the Viennese were all Roman Catholics and went to the theatre on Sunday; and she would not at all approve if it were Wil or Margy who thought of going. Mary, who happened to be calling on Bel at the same time, felt that home was the best place for all young people, and that she and George had always done very well just staying quietly in Glasgow. Mrs. Dermott wondered what kind of schemes there were for social betterment in Vienna; and hoped Henry would have time to look round and write her about them. And Bel and Arthur, who were the only ones who were genuinely troubled, did not know what to advise, and worried their heads off.
In the end, it was old Mrs. Barrowfield who weighed down the scales in favour of Henry’s going. She had learnt much about the young man during the many visits he had paid her in the dog-days of the summer. Anything was better for him than these last two months of unhappy idleness. Frustration and a growing suspicion of his own futility might begin to undermine his splendid eagerness. This offer would stop all that. And it would develop Henry, turn him into a man, to find himself pitched headlong into new responsibilities, new labours, a new world. In some ways he was immature, boyishly dependent on sympathy, lacking in the confidence his abilities seemed to warrant. Nothing could be better for him than that he should go to this strange city to find his feet, learn to depend upon himself, and make his mistakes away from the criticism of those who knew him.
And so it came about that, as an eastward-bound express flew on its way relentlessly through the pale mists of a late September dawn, an odd-looking young man, homesick and dishevelled from the long night journey, peered from the window at the eddying, clay-coloured waters of the River Danube, at the unfamiliar reds and browns of the autumn vinelands, at the odd little wayside stations that rushed past him, all of them painted in the official black and yellow of the Austro-Hungarian Empire.
Chapter Five
JOSEPHINE—known among her intimates as Pepi—Klem, only child of Joseph and Martha Klem, of the new-built and very unfashionable Quellengasse in the Favoriten suburb of Vienna, was often described by her good-natured and pleasantly sentimental parents as the light of their lives. But if Pepi was a light in the lives of her adoring parents, she was a light that gave forth sparks. And there had been sparks this Monday morning before her father, a bank clerk, had taken himself off to his duties. Indeed, if her parents had addressed any remark whatever to Pepi during the weekend, sparks had been the result.
Now she was banging about the little flat in the Quellengasse, viciously punching up the feather-beds, and putting them to air at the window, rubbing up the hardwood floor as though it were the face of a prostrate enemy, and wringing washcloths as though they were the necks of her foes. Before this tornado her meek and kind-hearted mother had fled to do the morning shopping, leaving Pepi and her displeasure shut up and alone in the apartment. She knew from experience that her daughter would probably do the housework in half the usual time out of sheer bad temper. And she prayed that when she got back Pepi should have become more calm.
It was Pepi’s father who had raised the storm again this morning, over their rolls and coffee, by asking, well, what was he to say to Herr Pommer? Pepi had exploded. Herr Pommer? The Pommer had nothing to do with her. What did he mean, Herr Pommer? He could say what he liked to Herr Pommer. The Pommer did not exist so far as she was concerned.
Her mother had tried to interpose. Pepperl must not talk to the Papa like that. The Papa was thinking of her future. The Papa wanted her to become betrothed to a nice, steady young man, who had a nice steady post in the bank like the Papa himself. And Herr Pommer was being so steady. The Papa said that in no time at all he would be able to marry her, and install her in nice apartments just like these ones here. And who knew, perhaps in a year or two there would be a dear little baby to take up her interest, when the good Pommer was at the bank?
At this, Pepi, who was not perhaps so innocent as her childish pug nose and her surprised brown eyes might indicate, said the Viennese equivalent of “Bosh!” and dissolved into tears of fury. She would get something better than the Pommer, with his apologetic cough and his worn, grey-cotton gloves. And if she didn’t get that, she would stay as she was! And a nice apartment like this one here? Out in a suburb, within pleasant reach of the meat market, the goods railway station and the gas-works? And even that was too expensive for them. Were they not, even now, trying to rent one of their rooms to a suitable tenant? The Pommer was not yet thirty, and the Papa was fifty-five. When, she asked, would Herr Pommer come to achieve the Papa’s magnificent income?
By this time her father had got himself into his short Viennese overcoat, set his soft hat upon his blond, distracted head, opened the door of the flat and fled.
It was after this that the child said something that somewhat alarmed her mother. Pepi dried her eyes, fixed them, gimlet-like, upon the older woman and said: “I don’t care. I’ll go and ask Lisa Fischer to find some work for me to do!”
Even Frau Klem’s mildness was shaken. “You’ll what?”
“You know very well I want to be a singer.”
“Not that kind of singer, I hope.”
Lisa, a young second cousin of Herr Klem, had shaken the family dust from her elegant shoes, and taken herself into the chorus of comic opera. But though her relatives had now little opportunity for talk with Lisa, it was obvious to all of them that more than the pay of a lady of
the chorus supported her magnificence.
Vienna was an important capital city. But in certain respects it had the gossipy qualities of a market town. In the Inner City, or in the great main carriage-way of the Prater, everybody kept meeting everybody else. Only yesterday afternoon the Klem family had seen a very fashionable Lisa indeed, tricked out with feathers, parasol and gloves, driving in a glittering private phæton beside an officer of the Hungarian Guard, pass over the Aspern Bridge on the way to the Prater. Her older relatives had dropped their eyes discreetly. But a glimmer of recognition had passed between Lisa and her young cousin.
Having gained a sufficiency of composure, Pepi’s mother managed to ask: “Have you any idea what kind of woman Lisa Fischer is?”
“A singer. What else?” Pepi was perfectly aware of the right answer. But she knew her mother, and enjoyed driving her into corners.
Frau Klem rose from the coffee-table troubled. “Well, if you don’t know the answer to that question, I dare say it’s just as well,” she said, hedging. “But let me tell you, my child, any thought you have of following Lisa’s example is playing with fire.” And having thus, not quite honestly, quieted her conscience, she put on her hat and went out to buy blood sausage and sour cabbage.
II
Having done everything else in the house that she intended to do, Pepi went back to the open window to take in the feather-beds. As she did so, she stopped to look out. It was a pale, late September morning. A light fog hung over that part of Vienna which could be seen from her window, high up in the Quellen-gasse. Far on her left she could just make out the slender spire of the Cathedral of Saint Stephen—an insubstantial fretwork ghost, hardly distinguishable in the morning haze above the Inner City. Down there, much nearer and more distinct, were the solid towers of the Imperial Arsenal. And over there, in the distance, beyond the houses of the Landstrasse district, stretched the great expanse of the Prater.