by Guy McCrone
It was beautiful in this hushed, foreign garden, with its strange, snow-covered temple. Beautiful. Far away. Unreal and strange. What was she, Phœbe Moorhouse, doing here? No, not Phœbe Moorhouse, Phœbe Hayburn. At this time exactly a week ago she was dressing for her wedding. All the familiar faces had been about her then. Now, in this place of white stillness, Phœbe asked herself if she would choose that the past week—the week during which she had been Henry’s wife—should be taken back and forgotten. She smiled to herself. Her strange moment of ecstasy on the balcony this morning came back to her. No. Something would snap now, if Henry were taken from her. Her husband. The impetuous, yet oddly sensitive male creature, who took her into his arms in the darkness; who was grateful to her for being a woman. A new Henry. But one she would not change. He had shown forbearance and a great tenderness, and out of these things her love for him had put forth a hot, Maytime bud, and burst—it would seem suddenly—into full bloom.
A puff of wind brushed the garden, blowing a light cloud of dry snow before it. She must not risk taking cold through sitting here any longer. She passed by the Ballhaus Platz and the Michaeler Platz into the Kohlmarkt. Here there were still more fine shops to be examined. Italian silk. Bohemian glass. Hungarian leather. Everything that was rich, elegant, unusual. And now here she was in the Graben once more! Phœbe laughed to herself. She had actually recognised it. She was getting to know Vienna! The pealing of bells warned her that it was midday. Henry had said he hoped to get back early. Another look at those shops she had already seen. That fine china. That strange embroidery. Those flowers.
But Henry might have come back, and would be wondering where she had gone to. As she turned into the quiet of the Domgasse, she saw her husband at the front door of their little hotel, waiting for her, bareheaded in the sunshine.
Chapter Eight
IT was a quarter to seven in the evening two days later. Maximilian Hirsch pushed his way through the glass doors of a restaurant in the Kärntnerring. He stood for a moment, blinking in the light, while a waiting doorman hastened to relieve him of his heavy fur coat. He thanked the man with what would have been stiff formality, had his thanks not been spoken in the Viennese dialect which proclaimed him one with the fellow-citizen he was addressing. Was the restaurant full? he asked. There was still room for the gracious gentleman in this dining-room, the man said, indicating a door.
Maximilian thanked him. And there was just one other thing. A foreign young lady and gentleman would ask for him about seven. Would the man be so good as to let him know when they arrived? Meantime he would see about a table.
Maximilian came here only when he had people to entertain. At other times he ate at a restaurant of long standing in the Griechengasse, where he was a Stammgast or regular diner. There he found comfort, pleasant familiarity, his own table, and cooking to turn the brain. But this town-man’s restaurant was no place for strangers. Indeed, a young lady like Frau Hayburn, who, along with her husband, was to be his guest tonight, would have been more than out of place among the sybarites of the Griechengasse.
Besides, this here, was one of the famous restaurants of Vienna. It was a place for Frau Hayburn to see. He called for an aperitif—a pleasant, un-Viennese custom he had learnt in Paris—and sat holding it in his plump white hand, sipping it now and then and looking about him. Yes, all these mirrors, this gilt, brocaded furniture, these glittering gaseliers, that soft music, was far more for a young woman than the subtleties of cooking.
As he sat waiting, his black eyes met the eyes of one or two acquaintances, and each inclined towards the other with conventional bows. This place was the restaurant of finance and wealthy business. It was of the first class, but the aristocracy did not haunt it, as they haunted Hopfners in the Kärntnerstrasse or Sacher’s near the Opera. Here Maximilian was on his own social level, and, as a typical man of Vienna—that city of so many sharply defined grades of society—it had never occurred to him to risk the unpleasantness of a snub. His wealthy, middle-class bachelorhood suited him excellently. He much preferred savouring life to wrestling with it.
The strong waters he was tasting gave him a comfortable glow. The hidden orchestra was playing a homely, old-fashioned waltz. It might have been written by Lanner, or his partner the elder Strauss, Maximilian reflected. At any rate, it wasn’t a waltz such as, in these days, the younger Strauss was writing—heady, compelling stuff, that was sweeping the town. No; it had the heavy, simple rhythm of a peasants’ round dance. Maximilian beat a finger thoughtfully on the damask table-cover. He encouraged the music to rouse the pleasant ache of memory.
Thirty years ago. He had been twenty, and he had gone with fellow-students to Grinzing to drink the fresh-pressed grape, mix with the workpeople, and dance with the girls. Perhaps they had played this tune then. It seemed elusively familiar, and brought things back. It had been early autumn, and he and his girl of the evening had stayed all night in the woods. He remembered the dawn as it came up out of Russia. He remembered the early morning birds, and the sunshine beginning to strike through the beech leaves. He even remembered the face of his blonde companion. Why did that music bring back these things so clearly?
And yet he had had a very good fifty years of it. During the first forty of these he had stayed with his mother in a villa in Penzing near the Palace of Schönbrunn. At her death, and now being a man of substance, he had removed his easy existence to an expensive flat in the Inner City. His windows had a view of the Minoriten Church and the open space that surrounded it. In addition to being within walking distance of the bank, he was now within walking distance of the Opera and most of the theatres. Like most educated Viennese, his interest in these places was fanatical.
Thus he had fashioned the pattern of his life—a pattern easy for an intelligent, wealthy citizen to weave in this graceful, culture-loving, pleasure-mongering city. Some imperial pride; a real and perceptive interest in the art of the opera singer and the actor; much excellent eating; some selective drinking. Kindness and good manners; some cynicism; much self-indulgence. No attempt to pierce the iron defences of circles, intellectual or aristocratic, to which he did not belong. Pleasant affairs—a sin hidden is quite forgiven—and just as much work as would keep him going.
The band had finished its nostalgic music. Maximilian Hirsch pulled out his fine gold watch, flicked it open, and looked at the time. It was after seven now. What had happened to the Hayburns? Oh, there they were! He jumped to his feet. As they were led towards him, he saw that they had seen him and were grinning, a little gauchely, as they came.
A broad smile of welcome overspread his smooth, dark face as he advanced to greet these two denizens of another world.
II
Maximilian liked to think of himself as a taster of life. He liked to see himself, a highly civilised citizen of a highly civilised city, sampling, appraising, measuring—places, peoples and manners—with his own urbane, tolerant yardstick; savouring the bouquet of them as he would savour the bouquet of a wine he did not know.
Tonight he was enjoying himself. They were something fresh for him, these two. The quality of the young man he already knew. He was quick and decisive in his work. He had enterprise, and that strange, British seriousness that had no play-acting about it. So far as young Herr Hayburn’s work was concerned, Maximilian was receiving what he paid for. He had been no dilettante when he had engaged this young man. But Maximilian had long satisfied himself about this. It was not Henry’s constructive talents that filled his mind now.
He sat in his corner smiling genially upon his guests, rotating the stem of his wine-glass with his finger and thumb, and looking on the luxurious stir in the room beyond. At a nearby table, a party which had dined early in order to reach their box in the Opera before the first act was over was rising to go. Laughter. Perfume. The rustle of silks. The aroma from long Viennese cigars. Discreet music. Waiters hurrying to and fro. Stacked plates. Service wagons. Pails of ice. Flowers. Well-dressed men, prosperous and po
lite. Their women; charming, young, and dependent; or old, influential and bedizened. If, like Maximilian, you understood some of the relationships behind these good manners, it was all the more entertaining. No; his business relationship with the Hayburns did not concern him tonight. He saw them as a new and amusing type, lit with a flame that gave forth, somehow, a different light from the brilliance around them. They did not conform to the Anglo-Saxon pattern he was accustomed to. Particularly the girl, with her dark blue, strangely set eyes, that were avidly taking in everything around her. He must find out what she was thinking.
And they seemed so simple, so artless. At their naïve request that he should choose for them, he had ordered a meal of Backhendl followed by Salzburger Nockerl. They were eating these things with appetite, but no special show of interest. Their glasses of Voeslauer were scarcely touched.
The orchestra was playing snatches from a Mozart opera. Unconsciously, Mrs. Hayburn was beating time as her hand lay on the table.
“Do you like Mozart, Mrs. Hayburn?”
“I beg your pardon? Do I like—?”
“Do you like the music of Mozart?”
“Yes, I like all music.”
He saw that she did not recognise the composer of this fragment. “Perhaps you did not hear much music in Glasgow? But now that you have come to Vienna—”
“Oh yes, we had splendid concerts in Glasgow. We used to go sometimes.”
“But here, in Vienna, you can hear everything! The best! Opera, concerts—!” Maximilian shrugged and cast eyes of wonder and appreciation heavenwards.
“Yes, I hope we’ll have time.”
Time! Would a young woman with a single drop of Vienna running in her veins have talked about having time? “My dear young lady! It is your duty!”
For reply Phœbe smiled with respectful indulgence. After all, she could not be expected to argue with Henry’s employer. Besides, foreign though Mr. Hirsch might be, he could not possibly be quite serious.
Maximilian drained his glass, asked them if their food and wine were to their taste, received quite formal assurances, and decided it was no easy matter putting himself into accord with these strange young people.
And yet she was lovely, this child. Put her in the hands of a good dressmaker, teach her to moderate, to mix with graciousness the suddenness of her manners, let her pick up the small change of conversation, and she would become enchanting.
He was following this train of thought when he made his next remark. “I must present you to my aunts, Mrs. Hayburn. They are much older than you, of course, but they can teach you about our wonderful Vienna.”
Phœbe murmured that she would be very pleased.
No. A strange, gauche creature, who had everything to learn. “And where are you going to stay, Mr. Hayburn? You are still in your little hotel, yes?”
Phœbe answered for him. “Henry had quite a nice room before he was married. He thinks we might go back there.”
“What! To the Quellengasse in the Favoriten? Impossible!”
She was looking at him directly now—regarding him gaily with those strange eyes of hers. “Why?”
“But it is a workmen’s quarter! You have your lives to live! The shops! The theatres! You will make friends! You cannot receive in the Favoriten!”
“But, Mr. Hirsch, Henry and I are here to work, not to play!” She was so earnest, so charmingly young, that he leant over and patted her hand.
“But you must play, too, my dear child. It would be much waste for you only to be serious, here in Vienna.”
A cloud he did not understand passed across her face. “Henry has his way to make,” was all she said in reply.
But her host was quick to note that, a moment afterwards, her eyes were full of eager amusement as a bejewelled woman entered the room flaunting a scarlet ostrich fan.
“Henry! Would you look at the size of that fan!”
At last she was understandably charming. Her eyes were sparkling now like those of any other young woman. He wondered what she would say if she knew this woman’s history, and the aristocratic names of those who had given her her finery. Yes. He must do something about the education of this lovely barbarian.
III
It was a very few days after this that Phœbe had an envelope handed her by the porter of her hotel. She had just come back from one of her many solitary walks of exploration. It was time for lunch, she was very cold and hungry and, remembering that Henry had said he would be too busy to have his midday meal with her, rather more lonely than she cared to admit.
The envelope was addressed to her in a strange, spidery hand. She tore it open. For a moment it was difficult for her to make out the writing. But reading it through more than once, the full sense became plain. It was a message in stiffly phrased, imperfect English, inviting her to come to the Paulanergasse in the Wieden on the following day. The writer signed herself Stephanie Hirsch, described herself as the aunt of Maximilian Hirsch, and hoped that Mrs. Hayburn would do her sister and herself the honour of taking the midday meal with them. Further, the writer asked Mrs. Hayburn’s pardon for inviting her thus informally, and might she assure her that no disrespect was meant? But, as her sister was no longer young, and as she, the writer, was inclined in winter to a chest complaint, they neither of them went out any more than was quite unavoidable. Being “English”, perhaps Mrs. Hayburn would find it easier to overlook this unconventionality, and dispense with the ladies’ failing to pay a first ceremonial call upon her. If Mrs. Hayburn accepted, the carriage would be sent for her tomorrow.
Mrs. Hayburn had no difficulty whatever in overlooking the daring unconventionality of the aunts of Maximilian Hirsch. From the letter, she suspected that the ladies might be somewhat alarming, but already she was becoming tired of being left so much to herself. She sat down, then, to write them a note of grateful acceptance, which her friend the porter undertook to have delivered.
At half-past eleven next morning a carriage, drawn by handsome Russian horses, came to a standstill before the door of the hotel in the Domgasse, and Phœbe was conveyed to the apartments in the Wieden.
An avuncular house-porter, middle-aged and benign, and treating her with that combination of respect and approval which is one of the charms of simpler Vienna, led Phœbe up the old-fashioned stone stairs to the flat on the first floor.
Presently Phœbe found herself in an ante-room, the window of which overlooked the street. Being alone, she gazed about her. It was a very strange sort of place indeed. More a museum than anything else, she decided, and certainly the last sort of room she had expected two elderly ladies to possess.
It was essentially a male room. Apart from the curtains at the window of double glass—the inner ones elaborately looped-up lace, the main ones of plain red baize—there was little that would not have been appropriate in a mountain hunting-box. The chairs were stretched with worn leather, and studded with many brass nails. A skin took the place of a rug on the floor of polished hardwood. But most amazing of all to Phœbe were the heads of foxes, the heads of chamois, the antlers of stags, and even the head of a wild boar, which hung from the walls. There were several daguerreotypes in plush or gilt frames, depicting an old, but apparently vigorous gentleman in Tyrolese costume. Occupying the place of honour in the midst of these was an oleograph of the young Emperor Franz Joseph himself, wearing a Styrian hunter’s hat, with its shining black-cock plumes, and a long grey hunter’s cape, from beneath the fold of which the muzzle of a sporting gun protruded.
Phœbe was examining these things with curiosity, when she became aware of the rustle of silk behind her. She turned in confusion. A tall, thin lady of sixty-five was standing very erect, holding out her hand and smiling.
“Mrs. Hayburn, no? It is a pleasure that you come!”
She was surely the most civilised human being Phœbe had ever seen. Her stiff black dress was bustled, although this was not the fashion of the year; it was severe and unadorned—unless the little crucifix on a f
ine gold chain might be called an adornment. Her poised head, with the well-tended grey hair cut to a fringe that came low on her brow. Her smile that seemed just to have won the battle for kindly tolerance against instinctive disdain. Her white hands. Phœbe felt uncouth and provincial.
“You look at the picture of our dear father, yes? He is dead already twenty years. He hunted very much. He arranged this room, and we do not change it. This is the Kaiser, Franz Joseph, no? My dear father had allowance to hunt several times in his private lands.”
The tall lady seemed inordinately proud of this fact, as she led the way through the door, whence, presumably, she had come. As she followed her, Phœbe did her best to respond by making appropriate, awestruck noises.
Now they were in a larger room, carpeted and more feminine. At a round cherry-wood table, a little bent lady, who seemed much older, was sewing.
“My sister, Helene, Mrs. Hayburn.”
The elder lady did not get up. She merely gave Phœbe her hand, and bestowed upon her a smile of benignity resembling her sister’s. “Do you speak German, please?” she asked in a voice of great gentleness using the German tongue.
Phœbe shook her head.
“Tell her I can’t speak English, Stephanie,” Fräulein Hirsch said to her sister, once again taking up her embroidery. “You must be our interpreter.”