by Guy McCrone
“Do you know what I think, Maxi? I think the poor child is trying to grow a shell.”
Her nephew smiled. That was nothing new in Vienna.
III
Yes, Phœbe was growing a shell. A shell of elegance. A shell of fine manners. A shell of social interests. Things that might have been good in themselves, if all else had been well with her; but now they were anodynes for her sharp unhappiness.
Henry, ashamed and obsequious, allowed her to do what she liked. In the rented flat in the Wieden she had taken to receiving such of the English and American colony as she chose to invite—wealthy students mostly, and one or two Viennese. She learnt to chatter of music, of the theatres, of the doings at Court.
Her husband watched her, troubled. This was not Phœbe. Not the girl he had married. But he blamed himself, left her alone, and found his own anodyne in more and yet more work.
But daily, Phœbe found herself face to face with her misery. Lying in the darkness of her lonely bedroom, she fought her battle, time and time again. Why had Henry done this to her? They were not of the same clay as those people here. They could not take things lightly.
But by degrees the mists of intolerance began to clear a little. She began to wonder about this patient, untidy, lost young man who left the flat early each morning and usually came back in time only to go to bed.
Towards the end of March, Henry, exhausted and ill with overwork, was at home for some days.
She nursed him with devotion, though she showed him no affection. When he thanked her, she turned his thanks aside with hard, impersonal brightness. But when he had gone back to work, the house seemed empty. And so, through this unhappy year, Phœbe and Henry blundered on. Contrition and distress on the one hand; pride and bitterness on the other.
A sharp old woman of their own kind—Mrs. Barrowfield, for instance—might have brought them back to reason, and a measure of happiness. But here, in their exile, there was no one. And the colourless letters they sent home gave no inkling of their distresses.
IV
And meantime Imperial Vienna continued on her brilliant way. More brilliant than ever; for in May the Emperor’s son, the Crown Prince Rudolf, was to be married to the Princess Stephanie of Belgium.
By April, at many points in the Ring and at such other places as the royal processions would be seen to advantage, scaffoldings for seats were being placed. No trouble would be spared. That the Princess might not see the waters of the Wien river, muddy and full of factory refuse, as she crossed the Elizabeth Bridge coming from the Palace of Schönbrunn, the entire bridge was to be turned into a bower of flowers in which young girls would stand and throw rose-petals at her carriage. On a tribune opposite the Burgtor the mayor and dignitaries of Vienna would present addresses of welcome. The spire of Saint Stephen’s itself was to be outlined during the nights of celebration with glass bulbs containing electric lights.
The month of April was cold and wet. The scaffoldings, undecorated, looked bare and forbidding. People kept telling Phœbe how wonderful they would look with all their garnishings. These things chimed, somehow, with Phœbe’s mood of cynicism; with her feeling that all was vanity; that reality’s scaffolding could never long be hidden.
At first she had thought of Pepi Klem merely as a wanton, who had set a cruel barrier between herself and Henry. But now, as time went on, she found herself possessed by an unnamed urge to see her. She had caught sight of her in January in the chorus of an operetta. Henry had not been there, and she was glad. But although her curiosity had sent her back to the same theatre, Phœbe had not seen Pepi again. What had become of her? Phœbe did not want to meet her face to face, but the desire to see her amounted to morbidity.
And meanwhile preparations for the Imperial marriage continued. The first of May, a Sunday, was wet and cold. The yearly Prater Corso fell flat. In the afternoon it rained, and there was little of the customary glitter. The Hirsch ladies, ever conventional, drove the length of the Haupt Allee but they did not invite the Hayburns to accompany them.
Now, however, the weather had changed, as though by Imperial command. There was warmth and brilliant sunshine. With luck, it would continue until the wedding-day, which was the tenth.
Vienna thrilled with interest at the news of each important arrival. Gossip and surmise flew. The Prince of Wales was here. He had been greeted on the platform by the Archdukes and by Sir Henry Elliot, the British Ambassador. The Belgian King and Queen were at Schönbrunn Palace holding their own temporary Court, and giving out that their daughter already felt more at home in Vienna than in Brussels. Prince and Princess William of Prussia had arrived in the royal train from Berlin. Regal and imperial blood was flowing to Vienna from all parts of Europe.
And humbler Vienna was kept carefully and properly informed. It must be entertained by the doings of the great. It heard that the Prince of Wales had dined with the Archduke Karl Ludwig. That two thousand five hundred of the Empire’s aristocracy had been to a ball in the Imperial Palace, where the Emperor and the Empress had shown themselves particularly gracious.
And now, on the day before her wedding, the Princess Stephanie was to show herself to the people over whom one day, she would be Empress. Her future Emperor, the Crown Prince Rudolf, had, to increase his worthiness of her and to prepare himself for matrimony, just returned from a pilgrimage to the Holy Shrine in Jerusalem.
On a seat in one of the stands erected on the Ring, Phœbe sat with Henry, waiting for the Princess Stephanie’s procession to pass her by.
She had been surprised when Henry, who cared little for such things, had come to her with place tickets. But Henry had become like that. He thought, now, of things to please her.
She sat looking about her, while her husband sat woodenly beside her. The Ring was dense with people, most of them carrying bunches of lily-of-the-valley, for this, it had been said, was the favourite flower of the Princess.
Now there was no longer any bare scaffolding. There was bunting everywhere. The black and yellow of the Empire. The yellow, red and blue of Belgium. The white and blue of Bavaria; as a compliment to the Empress. Where there was no bunting, there were festoons and garlands.
Now the Princess Stephanie was coming. There was shouting in the distance that could be heard above the pealing of church bells and the firing of artillery. Down there on the pavement below them, people were struggling for a better view; darting out, only to be pushed back by the soldiers cordoning the street.
Suddenly, as the procession was nearing them, Phœbe saw a young woman dart forward, trip and stumble, laughing into the arms of a gendarme, who roughly ordered her back. It was Pepi Klem. To show her composure, Pepi made him some reply and did not return to the pavement until the man had commanded her yet more harshly. Then she walked unhurriedly back, giving Phœbe time to look at her.
Now the splendour of the Austro-Spanish Habsburgs was passing Phœbe by. Red trumpeters mounted on black horses. Court servants in seventeenth-century uniforms. Horse-guard. Foot-guard. Carriages with the suite of the Princess drawn by black thoroughbreds harnessed in gold. More soldiery. And now the fair young Princess with her mother in a carriage drawn by milk-white stallions of the Imperial stud, their heads nodding with ostrich plumes, the postillions in mediæval white and gold. Bells rang. Guns fired. People shouted. Flowers were thrown.
But Phœbe had no eyes for a Habsburg exhibition. She had seen that Pepi Klem was going to have a child.
V
Somewhere about midsummer Henry received this letter from Mrs. Barrowfield:
“DEAR HENRY,
“It vexes me sore that it should have come to this. You may well be miserable! If you are, as you say, repenting in sorrow, it is no more than you should be doing. I am glad to hear the Lord has given you that much grace, anyway.
“Your letter says that ‘sheer desperation’ is making you tell me everything. Well, my dear boy, maybe you might have done a worse thing than write and tell Granny Barrowfield. She has alw
ays been fond of you and your wife, and would do anything to help the both of you. And I may just tell you, that two or three minutes—since just before she went to look for her ink-bottle—she was down on her knees asking her Maker to put some common sense into her old head, so that, with His help, she would maybe write and give you some of His Divine Guidance.
“You are not a bad young man, Henry. You never have been, and never will be. There is nothing vicious in the build of you. You are just a great big innocent. But, if I know you at all, your blood runs twice as quick as most young men’s, and your feelings are strong. It may be hard for an old woman of seventy-six to judge the strength of a young man’s temptation. But what is wrong is wrong.
“All the same, I never thought it was right, the way they took Phœbe away from you last August. It was against nature and against common sense. When Bel told me what she and Mrs. Dermott and Lady Ruanthorpe had done, I could have taken a stick to the three of them. I could never abide the Dermott woman anyway, and I dare say the other old cat is worse.
“I was very, very sorry for you at the time, dear Henry. I nearly came out to see you. But at seventy-five, and me not used with the travelling, how could I do it? And mind you, I think these three women—and I am sorry to say my own daughter was one of them—sinned against you, just about as much as you sinned yourself. Only their sin is not listed in the Ten Commandments, so maybe it is harder to put a label on it, and not so awkward for their consciences. But you can take it from me, that conscience or no conscience, Bel heard all about it from her mother!
“I doubt you will just have to put up with what you call Phœbe’s hardness. And if you think she has got harder since this woman is to have your bairn, surely you can see the reason for that, too? As your wife, Phœbe can only see the whole thing as a terrible affront. (By the way, how do you know this bairn will be yours? If the besom is anybody’s girl, then it may be anybody’s bairn. Be sure to write about this. Don’t forget.)
“I wish I could give you more comfort, Henry. But remember this: Phœbe’s blood runs quick, just the way yours does, and if you give her time, I think things will get better. She would not be staying on with you if there was no love for you left in her. Have patience, ask help on your knees, Henry, and brighter days will dawn!
“I hear from Arthur that he can get you the offer of a good job here at home. But he will be writing to you himself, I dare say. That would be far the best for you both.
“This has been a long letter for an old woman to write. I hope the Lord has made me put down everything I should. But anyway, now I must stop. As you ask, I am sending it to your office.
“Yours lovingly,
“ISABELLA BARROWFIELD.”
Chapter Twenty
THE Volksgarten was quite still this morning—still and autumnal. From the Franzensring outside, the traffic sounded far-off and muted. When, some minutes ago, the clocks of the City had announced the hour of eleven, their peal had come to Frau Klem, sitting here in the garden, with the unreality of those strange bells said to come to the ears of becalmed sailors from belfries long since sunk beneath the sea.
The children near her went about their games quietly; throwing dead leaves into the pond and watching them thoughtfully, as they floated on the glassy surface; or hiding from each other noiselessly and without enthusiasm behind the pillars of the Theseus temple, while governesses and nursemaids sewed and gossiped in whispers on the seats around.
Frau Klem sighed, looked into the face of her sleeping grandson, adjusted the shabby shawl that was wrapped about him, decided that her seat was hard, and wished that Pepi would come back to fetch them.
She must have been gone almost two hours now. Surely they must have reached a decision about her by this time. The letter from the Director had said half-past nine. But theatres were go-as-you-please places, she had always heard. Still, Pepi was only seeking student work in the chorus to earn some now very necessary money, and her voice was true and strong.
A trio of tiny children passed. They were richly dressed in little velvet coats, and attended by a nurse in Bohemian peasant costume. The children of some nobleman, perhaps. Frau Klem stroked back a wisp of untidy fair hair, and her eyes followed them until they had passed from sight among the shrubbery. A pang of jealousy and regret caused her to hold the bundle in her arms yet closer.
No. She had never expected to have grandchildren so rich and well tended as those three. And yet, if Pepi had married a respectable burgher—like, say, Willi Pommer—it would have been the delight of her heart to make and contrive small clothes for them, and lead them out—a proud grandmother—before the world.
Not that she did not love this child; but its coming had been unfortunate, look at it as you would. Oh, she had been assured that Pepi would be a great singer, that she would one day earn enough money for all of them and bring up her son to be a gentleman; that you had to make all kinds of allowances for people as highly gifted as Pepi’s teacher declared her to be. And, of course, young people were highly inflammable.
But Frau Klem did not like it. She liked things straight and settled. Herr Hayburn had been very good. He had been to see his son, and had been helpful. But he was a stern, remote young man; and he couldn’t be Pepi’s husband. And say what you would, a husband and a ring on the right finger was better than a weekly allowance. Even for a young woman who was going to be a great opera star.
The little creature in her arms was awake now. He was looking up at her with wide, dazed eyes.
As though she blamed herself for these thoughts, Frau Klem gave rein to her instincts. She kissed him; she talked nonsense to him; told him he was the sweetest baby in Vienna and that she would not change him for all the other children in the Volksgarten, however grand they might be.
For a moment, one or two elegant nurses raised their eyes to look at the rather shabby woman fussing with the untidy infant over there on that seat by herself.
But she was sorry that Pepi had needed to look for work so soon after the baby’s coming. Whatever the doctor had told her, it couldn’t be good, either for herself or for the child. Still, if she got this work in the new season of operetta at the Ring Theatre—as the Comic Opera House was coming to be called—she would be able to pay for her lessons, and help with other expenses, too. It had been nice of her cousin Lisa to put in a word for her. More people were coming into the garden now. A young man with a roll of music in his hand passed near her. She wondered if he had been to have his voice tried, too. A staid old gentleman in a black frock-coat, a grey cravat with a pearl pin, and whiskers cut like the Emperor’s. One or two women of fashion.
Suddenly a modish young woman emerged briskly from a side-alley. She was almost standing over Frau Klem before they recognised each other.
Colour flooded to the roots of the elder woman’s hair. It was Frau Hayburn. Frau Klem smiled stupidly.
For reply, Phœbe responded with the coldest of nods, turned her back and walked on quickly up the gardens.
Frau Klem watched her as she went. The encounter had been uncomfortable. Frau Klem’s heart was beating. But poor Frau Hayburn! You could hardly blame her, when you remembered she had lost her own child!
Now she saw that Phœbe’s steps had slackened. That she had stopped. That she was coming back. Now again she stood before her.
“I’m sorry, Frau Klem. I was rude to you just now. I apologise.”
How beautiful, how elegant Frau Hayburn had become since last she had seen her in January! Elegant, and strangely bright, like a diamond.
Frau Klem was friendly and humble. “Please, Frau Hayburn. But I understand!”
Phœbe said nothing to this. But she did not move. The woman could see that she had lost colour; that her strange, dark blue eyes were ranging about the gardens as though they were seeking help.
For a moment Frau Klem wondered if she were going to faint. But now the blood had come back hot into her face, and she was looking down at the child.
Her
voice, as she spoke, was low and controlled. “Is that your daughter’s child?”
“But, yes. You see, Frau Hayburn—”
“My husband’s child?”
For reply, and finding no words, the grandmother uncovered the child’s face. As she held him up for Phœbe to see, he opened his eyes once more and looked about him.
She wondered at Frau Hayburn’s quick, low cry. She did not guess that a familiar twitch of the tiny mouth, a hovering frown about the dazed, scarcely focused eyes, had almost torn the heart out of her.
“I must go now.”
Frau Hayburn turned and went away without another word.
II
December the seventh.
Henry Hayburn sat at the back of a box in the Ring Theatre taking no part in the conversation.
Some time ago Maximilian Hirsch had come to him saying that he had, by good fortune, been allotted a box for the first performance of Offenbach’s “Tales of Hoffmann”, and would Herr and Frau Hayburn care to join his party? The presentation of this, the only serious opera the dead German-Parisian composer had written, was being awaited with excitement in Vienna. Maximilian was sure Frau Hayburn would be interested.
Henry had accepted. Not because he wanted to go in the least. But because he thought it might please Phœbe. This was a rule with him now. Helpless, he was forever seeking to make amends.
He looked at Phœbe. She was sitting in the front of the box, talking with the other young woman of the party. Together, they were discussing the many well-known people who were appearing at this important premiere, pointing them out to each other, as they came in. An Archduke, one or two ambassadors, stars from other theatres, a society beauty.
Phœbe was brilliant—lovely. And quite detached now from himself. It was as though she had encased herself in sophistication that he might not come near her. He did not know, any more, what Phœbe was thinking. They occupied the same house; ate meals at the same table. But they had fallen into a dull politeness, the one towards the other. Sympathy, emotion, between them was, it seemed, dead.