by Guy McCrone
Beneath her the street was depressingly autumnal and silent. What little traffic there was seemed to be strangely hushed. The leaves on the newly planted trees beneath her were limp and colourless. She could hear the barking of a dog, coming from a distance. Having put the feather-beds back, she returned to the window and sighed dispiritedly.
She felt low and frustrated, as only nineteen can. Here she was, young, pretty, a creature of endless potentiality, and all the future was to be allowed to hold for her was Willi Pommer. A tear dropped on the window-sill. Pepi looked at it ruefully. Another splashed beside it. Let them all come! She was no longer angry. Her spirit was gone. She was nothing more now than a poor, tragic child! Let them go on falling until they made a waterfall down the front of the building, splashing first on old Frau Wolfert’s window-sill immediately below, and then next into the geraniums of the Linsenmayer’s window-boxes before they finally flooded the pavement.
Taken now with this tragic fantasy, Pepi leant a little farther out of the window just to look down to see what exact part of the pavement the waterfall would strike. In doing so, she received a sudden shock. For there on the pavement, immediately beneath, with every appearance of making to ascend, were two young men. She drew in her head abruptly; but almost at once, that she might not be mistaken, she thrust it out again. As she did so, a soiled, grey-cotton hand pointed out the number. Yes, it was the Pommer himself.
It is a strange fact that young women on the point of meeting suitors it is their firm intention to reject should rush to their mirrors before they meet them. But this was what Pepi did. And when, at last, the door of the Klem’s flat was opened to Herr Pommer and his companion, they were confronted by a little lady who was the ultimate expression of provocation and off-hand charm. Herr Pommer, shabby Viennese bank clerk though he was, bent over Pepi’s hand with a reverent elegance that would have done credit to an Esterhazy, a Trauttmannsdorff or a Dietrichstein, his shock of mouse-coloured hair falling over his brow as he did so.
Was Fräulein Pepi’s gracious Mama at home?
Fräulein Pepi regretted.
Because he had brought this English—no, Scottish gentleman, on the suggestion of Fräulein Pepi’s honoured Papa. This gentleman was on the outlook for a room in the house of honourable people, where he might be one of the family and practise his German. He had come all the way from Scotland to organise and manage a new factory in the Neubau district. In the meantime, Herr Pommer, pleased to impress upon Pepi his accomplishments, told her somewhat off-handedly that he had given himself up to acting as this gentleman’s interpreter, the great Maximilian Hirsch having decreed that he should do so.
Fräulein Pepi permitted herself some show of interest. The gentleman from Scotland was formally presented to her. He was a bony sort of young man with an abrupt handshake, queer English clothes, and no discernible manners. But he had white teeth, a disarming smile and did not look unfriendly. And, putting him at his lowest, at least he was a novelty. So she hastened to say that although she was the only one at home, she was sure it would be all right to show the gentleman the spare room, as he had been sent by the Papa.
She allowed herself to remark, however, that it seemed strange for him to be seeking rooms in the Favoriten district when his work lay in the Neubau. Secretly, Herr Pommer gave Pepi a bad mark for this. Although he hoped to make her his wife, and although she spoke in a tongue that was quite incomprehensible to the stranger, she must learn that in business—even if it only be the letting of a room—one did not as much as breathe of disadvantages at the moment of negotiation. He said nothing, however, but followed her along, with his companion, into the house. Pepi, remarking that her mother was due to appear at any moment, left the front door open.
III
There were endless peculiarities about the young “Englishman” who had taken a room at the Klems’ in the Quellengasse. And one of the chief of these was that he kept insisting—at first by means of Pommer, his interpreter—that there was no English blood in him whatever; that he came from Scotland. Had not the Klems heard of the land of Mary Stuart, of Shakespeare’s Macbeth, and of Sir Walter Scott?
Of course they had! Were not Schiller’s “Maria Stuart” and Shakespeare’s “Macbeth” on the repertoire of the Hofburg Theatre? And Walter Scott? Who had not read Walter Scott? In this City of culture even humble people like the Klems must not admit any ignorance.
But indeed this young Islander was a strange, incomprehensible being. Old Frau Kummer, farther down the Quellengasse, had once had an Oriental medical student who had come to Vienna to study under the great Billroth. And dark though his skin had been, and fantastic his garments, he had seemed to adjust himself much more easily to the life of Vienna. He had been gay and erratic. He had spent hours pleasantly wasting his time in suburban cafés, or in the large coffee-houses on the Ring. He had had several private adventures more or less publicly; and had, in other words, behaved in a way that was normal and understandable. But he had paid well, and old Frau Kummer had been fond of him. Although, indeed, she had been compelled to return a niece, who was in Vienna learning millinery, to her home in Pressburg. The Oriental gentleman was taking her for more rides on the switchback in the People’s Prater than Frau Kummer considered wise.
There was nothing of this about the Klems’ “Englishman”. Apart from the fact that he paid regularly, he was different in every respect. Yet no one could say that he wasn’t an easy lodger. He was almost no trouble. He was the most serious young man the Quellengasse had ever seen. He took morning coffee at an early hour, then set out on one of the new safety bicycles; bicycles with both wheels the same size—in Vienna the best-known make were “Kangaroos”—to pedal his way across to his factory in the Neubau. Much to the interest of the Favoriten district. By means of Herr Pommer, he explained that it saved his waiting for the infrequent horse-trams. In the evening he came back for his meal, and thereafter took himself to his own room, where, on certain nights, Herr Pommer came to give him lessons in German.
In his absence, Pepi took much interest in the foreigner’s belongings. It was a way of finding out about him. He had begged for a larger table at which to work, and this was now strewn with technical books and drawings, engineer’s blueprints, a German grammar, notebooks containing hieroglyphics connected with his work, and German exercises written out for Willi Pommer.
There were two little photographs. One of a rather forbidding old woman in a white cap, to whom he bore some resemblance, and another of a girl about Pepi’s own age. Pepi spent much time wondering about this girl. She was stiffly posed, and wore a fur bonnet that was dowdy by Viennese standards, but, in the picture at least, she was beautiful, with eyes that slanted a little in the same way as the eyes of a Tartar gipsy who had once told Pepi’s fortune in the Prater. Was he betrothed to this girl? Married to her? Was she his sister? Had not Pepi been hotly determined to keep Willi Pommer at a distance, she would have begged him to find out.
But, as the weeks passed, the barrier of language began to dissolve. Herr Pommer had reported at once that his pupil was very intelligent, that, in the factory, his quick mind and his practical good sense were combined with a surprising creativeness. Maximilian Hirsch had shown astuteness in employing this young man. Some time in the beginning of the New Year he would have the little factory running. And it was the same with his study of German. Before many weeks Henry was giving directions to the men in the factory. Here and there Pommer would catch him using their own homely, uninflected speech. He told him that this was not German, but that he was in good company, as the Emperor Franz Joseph, too, spoke Viennese. Henry replied he did not mind what he spoke, so long as the men obeyed him.
Pepi’s interest in Herr Hayburn grew as his ability to express himself increased. Now he went out of his way to talk to all of them, begging them to set him right when he went wrong; which was continually. There was laughter at this, and friendliness, and the warm-hearted, suburban family began to like the stranger
who had come among them.
At this time Pepi Klem was happy. Her ambition to be a singer had, strangely, ceased to trouble her. Although Willi Pommer came continually to work with Herr Hayburn, she managed to keep him at arm’s length, and her parents seemed prepared to let things be.
The young foreigner occupied her mind. She helped him with his stumbling German. She corrected his exercises. He was so unlike other young men, that it was possible, somehow, to treat him with camaraderie, like a schoolboy; to scold him and laugh at him; to forget he was a creature of the opposite sex. And yet he seemed to like her; to turn to her ready friendliness when he was lonely. It was not quite without a pang that Pepi learned that Henry was betrothed to the young woman in the photograph; that he intended to marry her whenever it was possible. But everything about him was so strange, so unreal, that Pepi felt she need not quite believe it.
On Sundays, now, when it was fine, the Klems took him sightseeing. To any Viennese, there is nothing so well worth seeing as Vienna. He seemed to enjoy himself, but his enjoyment had an austerity, an odd, Puritan self-consciousness, that would not be shaken off.
At this time the building of the Ring was in progress. The walls and ramparts of the Inner City had been thrown level to make the most spectacular boulevard in Europe—a spacious circle round the inner town, with trees and gardens being planted and many public buildings nearing completion.
Herr Hayburn’s interest seemed caught with all this planning and laying out. What was the purpose of this great building? And that? It was awkward to be made to feel ignorant about these things by a foreigner. Pepi and Frau Klem were not quite sure which was the new town hall, which the new university, which the new parliament buildings, which the new museums. They had sometimes to refer these questions to the Papa.
But why bother about solemn, unimportant things like public buildings, in this, the capital of elegant pleasure?
IV
Now, in less than a week it would be Christmas. Emerging from the overheated atmosphere of the bank, Willi Pommer dug his gloved hands deep into the pockets of his short overcoat and looked apprehensively at the sky. It was the colour of lead. The snow was late this year, but now it looked like coming. A sharp gust of wind from the east blew papers and straw along the street. Piled-up mud, swept to the side, was frozen to solid iron.
Willi turned up the fur collar of his coat and started off up the street. Somewhere a clock struck the quarter before midday. He had not realised the morning was so far gone. He had been given a note from Maximilian Hirsch to deliver to Mr. Hayburn at the factory in the Neubau, but he decided he would have a walk to rid his lungs of the stifling air of the bank, have lunch somewhere, and deliver the message thereafter. That would be time enough. He was in no hurry to see Mr. Hayburn this morning.
Willi Pommer was depressed, and Mr. Hayburn had much to do with his depression. When the Scotsman had come at first, everything had looked so promising. The study Pommer had made of English had, at last, turned to his advantage. On his return from London, Maximilian Hirsch had enquired among the clerks if any of them knew English well enough to act as interpreter for a young Scotsman who had come to Vienna. Willi had offered himself. It had given him a sudden importance in the eyes of his fellow clerks; it had also allowed him much greater freedom; for, of necessity, his time as an interpreter must be irregular. He had attached himself to this young man from Scotland with an interest almost amounting to passion. In every way he was so different; so incomprehensible, yet so fresh; so far removed from the humdrum of other young men in Vienna, with their favourite cafés, where they sat for hours playing tarock or dominoes, their adventures that were so commonplace that they were scarcely adventures at all, their talk of horse-racing in the Freudenau.
His new duties had made him feel a being set apart; had raised him up into that world of intellect which counts so much with the Viennese. Had he not been such a styleless creature, Willi would have begun to give himself airs.
As he walked from the Bankgasse towards the Franzensring, he came on the staging and partially built walls of what was destined to be the new Imperial Theatre. The intense cold had brought work to a standstill. Scaffolding and stonework alike were rimed with frost. Smoke was rising from the braziers of the crouching watchmen. An itinerant Slovenian peasant in a shaggy sheepskin coat was trying to sell roast chestnuts from his little, wheeled charcoal oven.
Yes. And the culmination of his good luck had come when Mr. Hayburn, tiring of his hotel—or its cost—had begged him to find rooms. Or luck at first it had seemed. Willi’s senior at the bank, Joseph Klem, had always been his friend. So much so, indeed, that Joseph and Martha Klem had smiled upon his application for the hand of their daughter. With his pupil settled in the Klem household the advantage to everyone would be great indeed. The foreigner, who seemed quite overwhelmingly respectable for so young a man, would have pleasant lodgings. The good Frau Klem would receive a welcome addition to her housekeeping money. And he, Pommer, in his capacity of English tutor and interpreter, would of necessity be constantly received in the flat, and thus be able to press his suit with the desirable but rather too high-spirited Pepi.
But as the autumn moved into winter, things had not seemed to get better. Mr. Hayburn’s apparent boyishness, his immaturity, seemed to appeal to the young woman. Were they genuine? Or was this yet another example of Albion’s perfidy? They had struck up a great friendship, it seemed. She was forever helping him with his German; trying to tease the solemnity out of him.
Slow, single feathers of snow were falling out of the sky as Willi Pommer turned from the Franzensring into the Burgring. By the afternoon, Vienna would wear her winter mantle. Over there, before him in the distance, a company of the Imperial Guard had swept through the Burgtor, their splendid, nervous horses dancing in the sharp cold as they crossed the wide expanse of the Ring on their way to the Imperial stables. It must be after twelve. The Palace Guard was changed.
Somehow the sight of them gave Willi confidence. Pepi was young and wilful. But she was a lovely, gay little creature. Things must take a favourable turn soon.
Deep in this thought, Willi did not notice that a long, striding figure enveloped in a rough Inverness cape was coming towards him. Henry Hayburn hailed him with a shout: “Hullo, Pommer.”
Willi jumped. The Hayburn was the last person he had expected just then. He was annoyed to find himself returning Henry’s greeting almost with an air of guilt.
But Mr. Hayburn certainly noticed nothing. He was radiant, friendly and bursting with news. “Do you know where I’ve been?” he demanded gaily, taking the Austrian’s arm.
“Where, Mr. Hayburn?”
“I’ve been down in town arranging my ticket. I’ve been given leave to go home at Christmas. I’m getting married. I’m going to surprise them.”
“Ach! But I did not know you had …”
“Yes, well, I have. And I am going to bring her back with me. Come and have lunch.”
Herr Pommer was led away expressing congratulations that came from his heart.
Chapter Six
BEL MOORHOUSE was enjoying herself as an invalid might enjoy convalescence. It was no unpleasant thing to feel that the battle was over, just for the moment; that there need be no more gathering of her forces, no more steeling of the nerves.
Bel had given the customary family Christmas party at Grosvenor Terrace two days ago, and it had been a tiring business. Her sense of hospitality, her sense of importance, her vanity and her kindness of heart had joined themselves together and forced her to ask everybody. And so, in addition to the usual McNairn and Butter families, there had been Mungo and Margaret, and David and Grace; and as Grace’s mother, Mrs. Dermott, could not be left solitary, she, too, had received an invitation.
But now, on Saturday evening two days later, Bel’s troubles were behind her. The house, except for the still hanging Christmas decorations, showed no trace of the recent upheaval. Exhausted maids had been placated, an
d she, herself, could rest. She sat by a blazing fire in the pleasant drawing-room of Grosvenor Terrace, her feet on the embroidered hearthstool, occupying herself with needlework. Her husband, Arthur, relaxed for once, sat opposite to her reading his newspaper. Upstairs her children were sleeping. The only member of the family who was not safely beneath the roof was Phœbe, who had gone with the Butter children to the orchestral concert in the New Public Halls, or Saint Andrew’s Halls as they were coming to be called. Bel had wondered at her bothering to go. The night had been so wet and stormy.
Even now, as she sat here in the warmth, she started a little, as a particularly sharp squall burst against the drawing-room windows, causing them to shudder in their frames, and driving the rain against the glass.
“Listen to the storm, Arthur,” she said, looking up from her work.
“Aye. It’s wild,” was the complacent answer.
“I wish Phœbe had stayed at home.”
“She’ll be all right.”
“I hope so.” Bel settled back. She supposed there was nothing to be alarmed about really. And Phœbe had been determined to keep her promise to go with her cousins to the concert.
Yes, she reflected, she had had her troubles with the immense Christmas party. That was the worst of being in a family at all kinds of social levels. The Butters were so homely. The McNairns were so smug. Bel’s own mother, old Mrs. Barrowfield, could be so outspoken, with the habit of flaunting her opinions in broad Scotch to make them sound yet more downright. Set against these, there were David and Grace, who were becoming more and more distinguished as time went on; Grace’s mother, who met lords and ladies on her various committees, knew what was what, and did not scruple to say so. And Margaret Ruanthorpe-Moorhouse, a daughter of broad acres, who had genuine, blue blood. An appalling hotchpotch of a family really!