by Vera Caspary
“Aren’t you coming up, Gerhard?”
“Later. I need fresh air, I think I’ll take a short stroll. Pleasant dreams, dear.”
I fell asleep almost at once, but had an ugly dream and woke in black silence, afraid. It was the first of many lonely, dream-haunted nights. The door of the secret staircase never opened, the tall figure in white silk pajamas no longer visited my room. Perverse though it may have been, I longed for the ardors and agonies I had at first resented. Now it was quite the other way; I dreaded the lonely hours. Fear shared my bed, needlessly. I had but to switch on the light to find myself safe in my tower, surrounded by objects of crystal, silver and gold, by paintings, damask cushions, French furniture. I had a white fur rug for my feet, a robe of swansdown, I had a bell to ring when I woke in the morning and wished fresh coffee on the instant. On my bed table, lest the overfed grow hungry in the night, stood a carafe filled with hot chocolate, a tin with sweet biscuits. None of these could comfort me. Even my books could not divert me from the terrors of loneliness.
In sleep, inevitably, I returned to childhood and the prison. Often Elfy was there, and I had to pursue her, for reasons never divulged, through twisting, endless corridors. Night voices penetrated my tower walls. I heard familiar cries, the moaning of ghosts, voices long forgotten, prisoners taken off in the night trains, all of them mocking and jeering, their groans and laughter reproach to one of their kind who had, undeservedly, lived to know luxury and ease. Too often sleep brought back the Nile horse game.
Restless, I sought escape but was unwilling to wander alone through the silent castle. A journey in empty, eerie halls, darkly paneled, decorated with medieval pikes and swords and empty suits of armor was like a journey through a different nightmare. Behind the swelling doors of old armoires specters waited, sinister creatures lurked in every shadowed corner. It seemed that I was living from night to night in suspense. There was no reason for this. Nothing happened.
Once when I dared climb the winding stair to my husband’s suite, I found his bed untouched, his rooms empty. The next morning I asked where he had been.
“You came upstairs, Leonora?”
“I was lonely.”
“What a pity you didn’t find me. I’d gone for a walk in the park.”
“At three o’clock! In such weather?”
“I get restless at night. You know how badly I sleep.”
“Insomnia must be contagious.” My laughter was off-key. “Why didn’t you come to me?”
“I don’t like to disturb you at that hour.”
“What is a wife for?”
“You’re a sweet girl, Leonora.” He took my hand and raised it to his lips.
“You’re pale, you look tired, you need diversion,” he said the next evening. “What about a few days in Vienna? Let’s take the car. How would you like that, dear?”
He was in a quiet, reflective but generous mood. In our suite at the Hotel Imperial (the same baroque rooms in which he had proposed to me) he crammed a great wad of money into my hands. “Buy yourself something pretty, my dear.” He went out to meet some business acquaintances and I walked alone on the familiar streets, looking into shopwindows that reflected my elegant image. I felt very good again, young and proud. In Vienna with money to spend and time to indulge myself. I bought an enormous crocodile bag like the one Irene had carried, six English books, a lipstick in a golden case, a jar of face cream weighing a kilo, a sewing set for my maid Suzi, an imported Scotch wool coat for my dog. “You see!” I told the faraway face of Martin when I passed the seedy restaurant where we had our last lunch together. “You see!” I repeated to dead Elfy, “what a gentle, generous husband I have.”
That night we met an old friend of my husband’s. I had often heard of Wolfgang von Schamberg, the tennis champion. He had served as Gerhard’s secretary during a season when there had been some work planned on the alterations of the castle’s eastern wing. Wolfy was alone at a small table in the Drei Hussaren Restaurant when we entered. He cried out at seeing Gerhard and bounded toward us like one of his own tennis balls. I have seldom seen a man move with such grace. Only a ballet dancer or a cat shows such a smooth flow of movement.
He joined us at dinner. Immediately he and Gerhard began to argue vehemently about the uncompleted plans for the restorations at Liebhofen. Apparently they had quarreled over some detail and Wolfy had been dismissed. Now they were more moderate in their attitudes, and interested in the work. “What would you say,” Gerhard asked me, “if I should invite Wolfy to come back with us? I believe it’s necessary to go on with the restoration. In the interests of the property.”
“Do say yes, Frau Leonora. I have always adored Liebhofen, and I am sure it will be even happier with such a charming mistress.”
Wolfy offered admiration with such buoyant charm that one could not doubt his sincerity. Such exquisite manners, such a Viennese young man. His features were not so clean and beautifully cut as my husband’s, but his face was impish, the expression delightful, his yellow-green eyes constantly changing shape and mood. His skin was kept tan in summer by the sun, in winter by a lamp which (I have since learned) he carried with him at all times.
We spent a delightful week in the city. Wolfy’s natural gaiety kept us in high spirits. When Gerhard was engaged with business matters the younger man became my escort. He enjoyed nothing more than driving Gerhard’s costly car about the city, pointing out the palaces where his ancestors had lived. “Küss die Hand, Herr Baron,” said elderly doormen and waiters who remembered the son of General von Schamberg. Wolfy sucked in flattery like honey. He showed me, ruefully, the homes of famous members of his parents’ families, now government offices, boardinghouses and dressmakers’ shops, and one a pension for African students.
At the end of the week he drove home with us. A gay season followed. Wolfy brought new life to the old castle. He was always ready for pleasure, most ingenious at devising entertainment. And such a dance partner! He taught me the difficult Latin-American rhythms, the newest movements in jazz. In the waltz he would whirl and whirl me about until I was so dizzy I had to be helped to the couch. How he would laugh, teasing and flirting with outrageous mockery.
“Please,” I whispered when Wolfy danced too intimately, “do not make your jokes quite so realistic. Gerhard may not like it.”
Wolfy winked naughtily. “A bit of jealousy is good for a husband. You must not let him be too sure of you.” And when we drove in the car Wolfy would press his leg against mine and in the billiard lessons guide my hand on the cue.
Sometimes when Gerhard yawned and complained of weariness, Wolfy would be allowed to drive me to a cafe where we could drink a glass of wine and dance to the newest disks. We both enjoyed being with young people and stayed out very late.
“Be careful of Wolfy,” warned Hansi once when we had been discussing something quite different, dresses or a novel I had lent her or Joe’s distressing habit of staying in Salzburg to work at his musical studies when Hansi wished to have him with her at Altbach.
“Don’t be stupid, Hansi dear. Wolfy is not my lover.”
“He is not your friend.”
“I am glad I have not your suspicious nature. Wolfy is like one of the family and I’m sure these little flirts do not bother my husband at all.” Although Hansi had become my friend I sometimes found her irritating. All the talk about men and money, the vulgar way she wore her jewels with pullovers and trousers, the way she prodded me to play coquette with every unattached man who came to the parties. In spite of her warnings against Wolfy she was always happy to dance with him, and sometimes I wondered if she was not jealous because this good-looking young man showed such obvious preference for me.
“Do you know about his father? General von Schamberg was an intimate friend of the Archbishop Innitzer who welcomed Hitler to Vienna.”
“But Hansi, that is a long time ago. Wolfy was a child. Can we blame the new generation for the sins of their fathers?”
I
n spite of these protests I watched Wolfy more closely in order to discover signs of unfriendliness. Gerhard, too, was zealously observed since I was not sure he was pleased when Wolfy would kiss my hand (or my cheek) in his presence. No reproaches were ever made. Since Wolfy had come to stay with us, Gerhard and I were seldom alone and had little chance for intimate conversations. Much of his time was spent with Wolfy over the plans for restoring the eastern wing. I was never invited on any of their excursions to this part of the castle.
“Dearest Leni, we would not think of taking a lady into those damp dungeons. It is too ugly there, and cold,” Wolfy explained.
“And unhealthy,” said Gerhard.
“Wait, please, until it is a fait accompli.” Wolfy offered the smile of a cherub.
So far as I could see, the restorations remained in the planning stage. In spite of all the measuring and calculations, no workmen came to make changes. Nevertheless, Gerhard kept himself occupied and was not so restless. There were other diversions, too. Wolfy had an aristocratic talent for the useless arts. No one planned parties and balls with such dash and variety. Gerhard fell into the carnival spirit with enthusiasm and extravagance. Once he had a pavilion erected in the old courtyard of the eastern wing. Artificial grape leaves decorated the trellises, clusters of fruit were of colored glass. Guests came in dirndls and Lederhosen as to a country Heurigen. The Bezaubernde Leonora entertained with zither and songs.
For our Venetian festival we had a small fleet of boats painted like gondolas, beribboned poles on our pier, we were rowed by men costumed like sailors with ribbons in their hats. A corps of waiters in silk stockings, knee breeches and gold-braided red coats served us from a raft on which hot and iced dishes were laid out on tables decorated with flowers and burning candles. A chamber trio had their own raft and boatman. During Mozart’s “Minuet” a guest fell into the lake. He was a stupid baron who had a hunting lodge in the neighborhood. Wolfy dived in and saved him but the accident gave the party a comic aspect which destroyed the calculated dignity.
Wolfy suggested that we get Hansi’s Negro lover to play piano at our American jazz party. Joe refused, and Hansi stayed away, Wolfy found a group in Salzburg who played jazz and did not mind painting their faces black. We dressed in silly costumes, the men in tight blue cotton trousers and the women like Hollywood stars with furs over cowboy pants. We danced on a great round wooden floor put up in the garden. Village people watched through the bushes or from the public bathing pier which faced the peninsula. We resented their curiosity because we felt that the walls of the castle kept us in a world quite separate from our neighbors. The fever and gaiety made us so dizzy that we forgot that we were simply people like all the others, with regrets and disappointments.
In May and June warm dry weather had favored these entertainments. With July came the inevitable Salzkammergut rain, so persistent that a bright half-day was regarded as a miracle. On a wet Saturday when the prospect of a dull weekend darkened our spirits, Wolfy proposed an impromptu masquerade. Gerhard gave orders to the butler and housekeeper; the servants ran about like ants, the kitchen became a steamy workshop with the cook shouting orders to the frenzied maids; extra servants were brought from the camp of Roumanian refugees on the hillside. The village butcher and bakery shops were cleaned out, the chauffeur sped to Salzburg with a long list of purchases; Wolfy supervised decorations, Gerhard telephoned for musicians, I used the other wire to invite our friends who were instructed to devise costumes and wear masks.
We met at lunch. “What will you wear?” asked Wolfy.
Gerhard had decided to dress as Faust. “You will be Marguerite,” he instructed.
Marguerite wears peasant costume. I had a dozen dirndls in my wardrobe, some of silk brocade with velvet bodices and fine lace on the sleeves. These were ordinary. I wished to appear in more exotic dress. There was plenty to choose from in the house: in chests and vitrines, shawls and helmets and swords and fans; in the storeroom cupboards, discarded clothes, polo outfits, ski costumes, wigs, uniforms, old-fashioned gowns and coats which had probably belonged to Gerhard’s mother.
I had brought my maid up to the storerooms. Suzi was clever about such things. “Gnädige Frau, why don’t you wear the rose-pink?” From a cupboard she took a white shroud, raised it to show me a shimmering pink satin gown made in the fashion of the early years of the century, trimmed with jet and black lace. “And the hat with all the feathers,” From a great round box Suzi brought a black velvet hat burdered with ostrich plumes.
“The Merry Widow! Wherever did it come from?”
“You haven’t seen it!” Suzi’s brow knotted. Then she said, “Perhaps the gnädiger Herr bought it as a surprise for you for one of the Fasching balls. Perhaps you were in Vienna when it came, after your friend died so suddenly.”
It was not unlikely that Gerhard had ordered the costume for me during Fasching, and forgotten it in the drama and separation that followed Elfy’s death. “Quite possibly,” I said. “I’ll surprise him.” I waltzed back to my dressing room, I sang while Suzi slipped the gown over my head. The shoulders are too wide, the waist too ample, the skirt too long. The breast was wired and fitted with pads.
“Men do not know how to buy for women,” Suzi said. “And it may have been designed to give you the figure of those times. The ladies liked to look large.” Her hands described an ample figure. “I have seen photographs of my mother’s aunt in Bucharest. Perhaps I could adjust the seams and hem. With large stitches, just for tonight.”
When Suzi had finished her alterations I put on the lovely costume, set the feathered hat upon my upswept hair and, in great elation, hurried up the secret staircase. Before the dressing room mirrors Wolfy posed in helmet and breastplate from the armory, a pleated skirt borrowed from my wardrobe and fastened with pins. Gerhard wore the flowing robes and velvet artist’s beret of Faust as a student,
I sang the opening bars of the famous Lehar waltz.
Absorbed in their play-acting, Gerhard and Wolfy paid no attention.
“Pericles of Athens!” declared Wolfy and struck the breastplate with his fist. Then he found me in the mirror and exclaimed, “Leni, how…” but said no more as he had seen the look on Gerhard’s face. We were actors playing a scene in mirrors, reflected and multiplied. As the repetitious images grew smaller, we adults became more absurd; Pericles and Faust and the Merry Widow as stiff and mute as waxwork figures in a museum.
Gerhard moved toward me. “Where did you find that outfit?”
“In the storeroom cupboard. Is anything wrong?”
Wolfy cleared his throat noisily. He did not look at Gerhard but there was a sense of warning in his posture.
“Nothing, nothing at all, my dear.” Gerhard’s voice caught in his windpipes. “I wish you would not wear it.”
“Why not? It’s so beautiful.”
“It’s not appropriate. Nor becoming.”
“I think I look lovely, don’t you, Wolfy?”
Gerhard said, “I do not wish you to wear it, Leonora.”
“Then why did you order it for me?”
Watching himself in the mirror Wolfy made a fencer’s movement with his sword. He did not see that I observed the flickering smile nor the delicate wink at Gerhard.
My husband gave no sign of having noticed the naughty gesture. “I asked you to dress as Marguerite. It was inconsiderate to ignore my wishes.” Faust had become the Prussian officer.
“Oh, I am sorry, please,” I retreated to childhood humility, “forgive me. Marguerite seems so dreary. I wanted so much to be dashing. I thought you would be surprised and,” I sniffled, having brought no handkerchief, “happy to see me wearing this.”
“Please do what I asked, Leonora. I am sure you will find the Marguerite role adequate. And blow your nose.”
In my boudoir I found Suzi sewing paillettes on a silk mask. She was astonished to hear that I was not to wear the rose-pink gown. “But why? It is so elegant and you are so pretty in it. It’s
not possible that Herr Metzger was not pleased with you.”
“He wishes my costume to match his,” I answered with dignity. As the dress was pulled over my head I noticed the scent, heavy and Oriental, of a perfume that I had never owned and would never use.
Still with my back to her I asked, “When did you find this gown in the cupboard, Suzi?”
“I hung it there, gnädige Frau. That is why it surprised me when you said you had never seen it.”
“Who gave it to you to hang away?”
“One of the maids, gnädige Frau. Gretl, I think, the one who got married and went away. I did not hang it in your wardrobe here because I knew you would not go to any more Fasching balls this year.”
“Where did Gretl find it?”
“I cannot tell you, gnädige Frau.”
“Cannot or will not, Suzi?”
“I do not know.”
“Are you telling me the truth?”
Suzi blushed. She and I had been, in spite of Gerhard’s disapproval, warm friends who chattered and laughed together from the moment she brought my morning coffee until she warmed my nightgown. She was an honest girl, pious, an Evangelical from the refugee camp on the hillside. Her people were the Volksdeutsch who had been moved to Roumania in the time of the Empress Maria Theresa, moved back again by Hitler. They had been forced to leave good homes and prosperous farms to live in the poor wooden huts of the camp and work as laborers and servants. Gerhard’s mother had insisted, loudly and often, that these people were cleaner and more industrious than the native Austrians, and would have no other servants, except for the Hungarian butler and the Viennese cook. Gerhard also preferred them as farm workers. This was resented in Altbach. Poor Suzi, in love with the local baker’s son, was snubbed by his family because she was one of those foreigners and not Catholic, and without a dowry. It was cruel to accuse her of falsehood, but I was too disturbed to consider her feelings more important than my own.
