by Guy McCrone
“I didn’t know it was so late,” she said, looking round her.
“It doesn’t matter to me. I’ve nothing to do.”
“Neither have I.” Suddenly she sat up and looked at him. “Herr Hayburn! Shall we go for a sleigh-drive in the woods? It would be wonderful today! We can drink coffee somewhere.”
Henry was surprised to find himself assenting.
III
They had hired a horse-sleigh in the suburbs, and were speeding out towards the Vienna Woods.
Now, as Henry sat thickly wrapped beside his companion, he took the trouble, British fashion, to assure himself that this was just the thing his health and spirits needed. That a run in the sharp winter air would clear his head, disperse the cobwebs and render him fit to begin the work of the New Year.
His companion saw that he was cheerful, that he was pleased to find himself with her.
Their way took them up through Döbling and in the direction of Weidlingbach. It was some time before Henry realised they were coming out in the direction of the house that he and Phœbe had rented last summer. They passed the end of the path that led up to it. Now, in the snow, everything seemed unfamiliarly familiar.
Memory forced itself upon him. The still evenings in the garden up there. The roses and the pine-trees. Their hopes. Stephen’s companionship. Phœbe’s last descent through these trees, when at last they were persuaded it was right for her to go. The evening he had received the news.
Seeing his solemnity, Pepi spoke. “You lived up here in the summer, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“Oh, quite near here.”
But she wanted him to stay in the present, to be merry and think of herself.
“Oh, look! Isn’t it beautiful!”
The snow was just right for a sleigh-drive. It was dry, powdery and not deep enough to make running difficult. There was no wind to blow it into drifts. The sun had been bright as they started out, but now it was obscured by clouds hanging so low that it looked as though they might run into them as the road climbed higher. The meadows, lit by the grey winter light, lay flat, white and monotonous around them. Now in the woods the pine-trees stood motionless, each branch bearing its heavy burden. On other trees, too, the frailest twigs were rimed with powder.
Everywhere they turned there was beauty, peace and mystery. Even the hoof-claps of their horse were muffled as he drew them on and upward, his breathing changing to little clouds that floated past them. For a time the only sounds came from the sleigh-bells.
The valley was narrowing. The road was taking them up one side of it. Down there was the stream. Now they could catch, here and there, the bickering of such water as still ran over the black stones and under frail bridges of ice. Yet further up, where the rock had been cut to make the road, dropping water had formed grottos of icicles.
Presently they were on the top and almost in the clouds. It was becoming misty. They could only see the nearer trees, the road, and the huddled back of the driver’s sheepskin coat, as he sat in front of them, cracking his whip and calling to his horse. Their universe of whiteness had turned suddenly clammy—menacing and unfriendly.
Under the rug, Pepi came closer to Henry, grasping his hand as though in fear.
Presently they had passed the top and were dropping down. The sleigh was running easily, the bells playing a different tune. Now the mist had parted and they could see the snow-covered roofs of a village beneath them.
Pepi gave a little cry of pleasure. She called to the driver. Down there was a room where they could drink coffee. The man replied that he could do with it.
The inn parlour was warm and friendly with its decorated Christmas tree; the innkeeper welcoming. Today he had expected no one. The young man, he saw, was foreign. But he knew better than to ask about a couple who had so plainly escaped beyond the frontiers of convention. It was natural with young people. Who was he that he should blame them?
Henry drank his coffee morosely. In the sleigh, the touch of Pepi’s hand, the nearness of her, had brought a sudden excitement. Longings had risen within him—longings that clouded his reason. Now Pepi’s voice as she talked to the inn-keeper moved him strangely and brought him near to despair. What was it she was talking of? He did not know.
The man had left them alone. He poured himself fresh coffee and threw it, scalding, down his throat. Now he was ready. He must get out. Out of here. He reached for his coat.
“But what’s wrong?” She asked.
He turned at the door, dazed. He spoke hoarsely. “It’s time we were getting back.”
“But why? I haven’t finished yet.”
“I’ll go out and speak to the driver.”
“The driver? I sent him away. I thought it would be nice to wait here for supper and go back in the moonlight. Didn’t you hear me talking about it just now? You must have been far away! When you said nothing, I thought it was all right. The innkeeper said there was someone here who could take us.”
He looked down at her, beaten.
She came to him. “My dear, are you sure you feel all right? Has anything happened?” She took the lapels of his jacket in her hands.
He caught her to him.
It was the next afternoon when Henry returned with Pepi to Vienna.
IV
“And your dear husband will be at the station to meet you?” The elderly English woman with whom Phœbe had travelled from London smiled across the carriage at her with a prim, tired smile. The carriage was stuffy. Neither of them had slept much.
“No, he won’t. I’m giving him a surprise. That’s why I planned to arrive on New Year’s Day. I knew I would catch him in his rooms.”
“When did you leave Vienna?”
“August.”
“He will be surprised!”
Mrs. Hayburn had lost a child, her companion gathered. Poor little thing! And she was so young! But now she was going back to her husband, to her youth, to all the intoxication of this city that held so many foreigners in its thrall.
The older woman envied her. To be coming back to a steady, British husband, and, at the same time, to the gaiety of Vienna, was a thing any woman might envy. Phœbe’s companion sighed, as she straightened her veil and buttoned her mended gloves.
Like so many other governesses, French and English, she had come at first to Vienna for a year, merely to gain experience. Now, after more than thirty, the Imperial City still held her. She could not leave it for longer than a few weeks at a time. In common with others of her kind, she had spent her days moving from one noble family to another, educating daughters, helping worldly mothers to sell them to the highest bidders in the Empire’s glittering marriage market; a mine of gossip about the intrigues and scandals that raged perpetually in Austro-Hungarian society.
Phœbe looked from the window. The train had almost passed through the mountains to the west of Vienna. In a short time they would be in the Westbahnhof.
On hills and forests the snow lay thickly. The sky was grey and leaden. Now the suburbs were beginning—the familiar villas and gardens of Vienna, taking their New Year’s morning rest under the blanket of whiteness. There were few people to be seen. Everywhere there was peace and stillness. Now the City itself. The train was slowing down. Now the rush and confusion that went with the arrival of the morning express from Western Europe.
Her heart was beating as a Komfortable took her towards the Klems’. She could see Henry already. He would be newly awake and dishevelled, his eyes staring like a boy’s. She laughed at the thought of him.
Her excitement mounted as the Komfortable entered the Quellengasse. She had no eyes to notice that some of the buildings, half-finished in the spring, were now complete and occupied. And here was the Klems’, and there was the old house-porter, beaming broadly and ready to help her with her luggage.
And had the gracious lady brought the gracious gentleman with her?
What did he mean?
Merely that
he thought that he was not upstairs. He could not, of course, be sure.
Phœbe laughed. He must be there. Where else could he be?
The Klems’ outer door on the staircase was still closed.
Phœbe rang with determination, once, twice, many times. At last she heard Herr Klem himself grumbling behind it. Now he was standing, leonine, unkempt and angry, in his shirt and trousers. But at the sight of her his colour mounted and his face took on a grin of confused welcome. How was she? Had she just come? And what had she done with Herr Hayburn?
He led her into Henry’s room. It was as she would have expected. His books and papers were scattered on his work-table. A suit of clothes, folded no doubt by Frau Klem, lay upon a chair. Her own photograph stood by his bedside along with one of his mother. His other belongings were everywhere.
But the bed had not been slept in. Phœbe turned.
“Where is my husband Herr Klem? He must have gone somewhere.”
The man shook his head uncertainly. He asked if Herr Hayburn had known the gracious lady was coming this morning.
“No. It was a surprise. But Henry must have said where he was going.”
Herr Klem shrugged. He knew nothing of it. Perhaps his wife—
And now Frau Klem, flustered and untidy, came to add her greeting. She was genuinely pleased to see Phœbe. She would bring her hot water and make coffee at once. And was the gracious lady quite well and glad to be back? It was a pity Herr Hayburn was not at home to greet her.
This time Phœbe’s eyes filled with anger. “But where is he?” Couldn’t the woman stop gabbling and tell her where he was?
At once Frau Klem was humble. Didn’t the gracious lady herself know? She had taken that for granted.
“How can I? I’ve only just come from Scotland.”
“He must be with friends.”
“What friends?”
“Na? The gracious lady must know Herr Hayburn’s friends.”
They stood bewildered for some moments longer, then Frau Klem went to make coffee, followed by her husband. He shut the kitchen door behind him.
Together they agreed that this was very unlike Herr Hayburn. But really, if his wife wanted her husband to confine his escapades to such times as she was not arriving back in Vienna, it would be much better if she told him when to expect her.
“Perhaps Pepi knows,” Herr Klem suggested.
“Go and see if she is there. I didn’t hear her come in last night.”
But Pepi’s room was empty, too.
“I don’t think that child should be going so much to Lisa Fischer’s,” Pepi’s mother went on, preparing breakfast. “Oh, I know Pepi’s an artiste, too, now. But I don’t think mixing with Lisa’s friends is doing her any good.”
Chapter Nineteen
HENRY’S transparent honesty would neither allow of apology nor concealment. He had sinned against his wife. And at once he hastened to admit the enormity of his sin. Let Phœbe do what she liked with him! Leave him! Divorce him! Anything! No punishment could be bad enough!
His conscience, consumed for a time in a flame of madness, sprang up once again, sharp and more vigorous from its roots, sprouting thorns to torment him. Thorns of tradition; of background; of the rigid code by which he and his kind lived.
Now they were having it out in their room in the Quellengasse. It is difficult to tell which of them suffered more.
Shocked and bewildered, Phœbe sat watching her husband pacing up and down; dishevelled, broken and ashamed. In any other circumstance the sight of his unhappiness would have melted her. If ever Henry was a lame duck, he was a lame duck now—lamed by his own hot folly.
But this folly had been committed against herself, against their own past intimacies, against her own body, so nearly broken by the disastrous, stillborn birth of his child. Her young, burning pride could find no forgiveness.
Flushed, expressionless and silent, she watched him, as he went back and forth, blurting out his misery, his loneliness, his weakness. She could not answer him, throw him a crumb of comfort. Had she not suffered, too? Had not she made that dreadful journey home? Been ill? Suffered these weary months of convalescence?
Had it been to amuse herself? Did he imagine she liked losing his baby?
At the thought of her child, Phœbe felt the tears fighting to come. But she dug her fingernails into the palms of her hands and bit her cheek until she could taste blood in her mouth. Her eyes followed him, dry and hard, as he moved about the room. She could not forgive him.
They were living in a foreign land, she knew, where such things were looked upon differently. But this had nothing whatsoever to do with herself and Henry; nothing whatever to do with their own strict ways. That they had learnt to live among the people here, to understand and like them, to find toleration, even, could not condone Henry’s behaviour.
But what was she to do?
Henry was asking her. She must, she supposed, find an answer.
“The first thing we must do, Henry,” she said, speaking evenly, and with no show of emotion, “is to get out of here.”
Henry clutched at the word “we”.
“Then you’ve made up your mind to stay?”
Phœbe did not reply to this at once. Stay with him? What else?
Go home to Bel lamenting that she had insisted upon marrying a waster? No. That was a thing she could never bring herself to do! Her mother’s Highland pride flamed up white within her. She would rather go down to the Franzjosefskai and pitch herself into the Danube Canal!
As yet she had no idea of her feelings—no idea if she loved or hated her husband. But one thing she did know. She must fight out her battle here in Vienna alone. Alone and apart. Free from leering gossip, from over-eager sympathy. The family at home must know nothing until, at least, her decisions were taken.
“I’ve made up my mind to stay in Vienna in the meantime. I don’t suppose you’re any more anxious than I am that this should reach home. But I am leaving this house at once. You can come with me. I haven’t unpacked. We can go back to our old hotel, and take two bedrooms. One for you and one for me.”
II
“Well, Maxi?”
Maximilian bent over his aunt’s hand and raised it to his lips; then, this salutation being too formal, he kissed her on both cheeks.
“How are you?”
“Very well, my dear. But your Aunt Helene is in bed. Nothing. A little cold.”
“I’ll see her before I go.”
“Yes. You must.”
Stephanie rang for coffee and led her nephew to a seat. “We haven’t seen you since Christmas Day, and that was only for ten minutes. And now it’s the middle of February.”
“I’ve been very busy.”
“Amusing yourself, Maxerl?”
“Working, Aunt Steffi.”
“Na? A little of both, perhaps?” Maximilian looked about his aunt’s pleasant old-fashioned room. The February sun was casting pale, slanting rays through the double windows with their draped lace curtains, catching silver dust-particles, and throwing patterns of light on the floor. The room was warm from the stove, and heavy with the scent of spring flowers.
“It’s nice here,” he said.
“Then why don’t you come oftener?”
Maximilian did not reply to this. He had got up and was wandering about, looking at familiar pictures and photographs. Aunts and uncles. His own parents. Suddenly he stopped and held up a filigree frame.
“Hullo! This is new.”
“Which, Maxi?”
“This photograph of the little Hayburn.”
Stephanie laughed. “You take a great interest in the little Hayburn, don’t you?”
“Of course. An uncle’s interest, my dearest aunt.”
“I’m glad. Do you know, Max, I believe you only come to see me when you want to talk about the little Hayburn!”
Maximilian was still examining Phœbe’s photograph. “I say!” He exclaimed. “She’s very smart, isn’t she?”
>
“Yes. I sent her to a place in the Kohlmarkt.”
“I was sure her clothes were Viennese!” He continued to admire Phœbe. Her close-fitting jacket. Her slim waist. Her modish bonnet. And the expression of her face had a new elegance, somehow. A little harder, perhaps. A little more sophisticated. But it pleased his sense of style. He looked up. “That young woman could almost be called a raving beauty. ‘Mister Henry’ had better look after her.”
“They’ve just taken a small flat quite near here,” Stephanie said after a moment.
“The Hayburn told me. Much more sensible.”
Stephanie signed to the servant, who had come in with the tray, that she would pour coffee herself. She did not want him in the room.
“Maxerl,” she asked as she gave her nephew his cup, “has anything gone wrong between these children?”
Maximilian sat down. He shrugged. “I took them to “Lohengrin” at the Opera a few weeks ago. It’s the only time I’ve seen her since she came back.” He thought for a moment, then added: “She seemed a little more artificial; a little older; a little more—what shall I say?—remote. It’s easy to understand—losing her child.”
In turn, Stephanie took her cup and sat down beside him. “Do you think the Hayburns are still in love with each other? It was a marriage of love, you know.”
Maximilian considered. “I should say he is. I don’t know about her.”
“What do you mean, Max?”
“Well, that night at the Opera he behaved as if he were her servant. Holding things for her. Running for this and that. Watching her expression to see if what he said pleased her. I wanted to laugh. And if you could see him in the factory! He’s getting more and more bad-tempered!”
“What do you think it means?”
Again Maximilian shrugged. “Who can tell? The English are strange animals. But it seems to me the Scotch are stranger!”
They sat silent for a time, drinking coffee and following the train of their thoughts. At length Stephanie turned to her nephew.