by A. J. Cronin
‘Now, Kathy,’ he said decisively, when he had approved her bedroom and adjoining modem bathroom, both done in a delightful pale yellow with dove grey hangings, ‘you’re quite exhausted, in spite of your protests, so I shall say goodnight. I’m going to order something nice sent up to you on a tray, then you’ll take your bath and go straight to bed.’
How wise he was, how gentle and courteous. He could tell from her eyes that he had divined exactly what she wanted. Not a word more was needed, only the simple, graceful exit. He raised her wrist lightly, brushed it with his lips, nodded briskly, then with a cheerful: ‘We’ll meet at breakfast in the morning,’ he was gone.
He rang for the floor waiter, ordered breast of chicken sandwiches and hot chocolate to be sent up, then descended to the restaurant. Before going in he lit a Sobranie, and took, bareheaded, a short stroll along the Ringstrasse. How good to be in Vienna again, to hear laughter in the streets and waltz music coming from the cafés, even to see the naughty little dirnen starting out on their evening promenade. Scotland was very well, if one accepted the weather, excellent for golf and fishing, but this was better, more gemütlich, more his style altogether. And once she found her feet, how Kathy would adore it.
Next morning came clear and fine, a crisp autumnal day, and at nine o’clock, when breakfast was wheeled in, he went through the sitting-room, tapped discreetly on her door. She was up, already dressed, occupying herself with some knitting while waiting to be summoned. They sat down together. He poured the coffee, hot, fragrant and delicious, the very best coffee; it frothed into the fine Meissen porcelain cups, white as the snowy table-cloth and decorated with a gold crown. The butter, on ice, had the colour of cream, the honey in its silver pot was a rich golden yellow. The rolls, crisp and sweet smelling, were still warm from the bakehouse.
‘Try one of those,’ he said informatively. ‘They’re Kaisersemmeln – fit for an emperor. They’ve been going for almost a century. So you had a good night? Well, I’m delighted. Now you’ll be ready for a good day’s sightseeing.’
‘I’m looking forward to it.’ She glanced up inquiringly. ‘ Shall we need to go by car?’
He saw instantly that she was shy of using the Rolls. What a dear unspoiled child she was, and so sweet this morning, all dewy fresh from sleep. He said sympathetically.
‘We must drive this morning, we are going some little distance. But another time we’ll use Shank’s mare.’
The phrase must have pleased her. She smiled.
‘That will be nice, David. Don’t you think, when you walk, you see more? And more of the people, too.’
‘You’re going to see everything, my dear.’
Arturo was already waiting outside and could be seen from the window pacing up and down, maintaining vigil against the press of an admiring and inquisitive crowd. When at last they descended he whipped off his cap, bowed respectfully, and presented Kathy with a single rosebud and – delighted gesture – a brass-headed pin.
‘You see,’ Moray murmured in her ear, ‘how much my good Italian approves …’.
She had blushed deeply but, when they were seated in the car, submitted while he pinned the rose to the lapel of her lovat suit. Then they were off, bound for the Kahlenberg,
It was a dazzling drive, winding upwards through clean bright little suburbs to the high pine-clad greensward of the Wiener Wald. The sun shone, the air, electric with the hint of frost, was crystal clear, so that, when they breasted the ultimate slope, suddenly, far below, the whole panorama of Vienna lay revealed with breath-taking brilliance. Leaving the car, they wandered about the summit while he pointed out the landmarks of the city: the Belvedere Palace, St Stephen’s Kirche, the Hofburg, the Opera House, and, just opposite, the famous Sacher’s, where he proposed to take her for lunch.
‘Is it a very grand place?’
‘One of the best in Europe.’
At this, she hesitated, then diffidently placed her hand upon his arm.
‘David, couldn’t we just have something here?’ With her glance she indicated the little café just across the way. ‘It looks such a nice simple place. And up here it’s so lovely.’
‘Well,’ he queried doubtfully, ‘simple is the word. And the menu will be simpler still.’
‘Probably good plain wholesome food.’
When she looked at him like that, her cheeks glowing in the keen air, he had to yield.
‘Come along then. We’ll risk it together.’
He could refuse her nothing, though his forebodings were more than justified. A bare trestle table, cheap cutlery, and the inevitable Wiener Schnitzel, tough and rather tasteless, with which, of all things, they drank apfelsaft. Yet she did not seem to mind, appeared actually to enjoy it, and so, in the end, he became good-humouredly reconciled. Afterwards they sat for some time – she was still fascinated by the view – then, towards two o’clock, returned to the car and set out for Schonbrunn.
This was the special treat he had promised himself, for, as one set inflexibly against the architectural horrors of the modern age, he had a romantic affection for the stately eighteenth century summer palace of Maria Theresa and the lovely gardens, designed in the old French manner, which surrounded it. Besides, the role of cicerone was dear to him. From the moment they passed through the massive iron gateway he laid himself out to be interesting and, since he knew his subject, he was handsomely successful. Wandering through the great baroque apartments be re-created the Imperial Court in all its luxury and splendour. Vividly he sketched the life of Maria Theresa: from the quaint demure little maiden – he paused before her portrait at the age of six – in her long gown of blue and gold brocade, reproducing the dress of a fashionable Viennese lady, who seeing her father in state array called out, to the diversion of the entire court: ‘Oh, what a fine papa! Come here, papa, and let me admire you’ – from that sweet child to the woman of strong and noble individuality, central figure in the politics of Europe, patron of the arts, mother of five sons and eleven daughters who, asked on her death bed if she suffered greatly, as indeed she did, answered calmly – her last words:
‘I am sufficiently at ease to die.’
Time passed unnoticed. Never had he let himself go with such dramatic fervour. They were both surprised to discover that it was almost six and beginning to get dark when they came out again to the cobbled entrance court.
‘Good heavens,’ he exclaimed, in apology, ‘I’ve walked and talked you to a shadow. And, what’s worse, made you miss your tea. That’s inexcusable in Austria where the kuchen are so marvellous.’
‘I wouldn’t have missed this for anything,’ she said quickly. ‘You know so much and make everything so real.’
Apparently he had given her something to think about, for on the way back to the hotel, after a reflective silence, she remarked:
‘The privileged classes certainly did well for themselves in those days. But what was life like for ordinary people?’
‘Not quite so attractive.’ He laughed. ‘It’s said that in Vienna more than thirty thousand families had each no more accommodation than a single room. And if the room happened to be fairly large, two families lived in it – divided by a clothes-line!’
‘How dreadful!’ she said, in a pained voice.
‘Yes,’ he agreed, comfortably. ‘It’s wasn’t a good age in which to be poor.’
‘And even now,’ she went on, ‘I’ve seen signs of poverty here. As we came out, children barefoot, begging in the streets …’.
‘There always have been, always will be beggars in Vienna. But it’s a city of love, laughter, and song. They’re quite happy.’
‘I wonder,’ she said slowly. ‘Can people be happy when they’re hungry? I was talking to the woman who came to do my room this morning – she speaks very good English. She’s a widow with four young children, her husband was killed in some trouble during the occupation, and I can tell you she’s had a fearful struggle, with the high cost of everything, just to keep her fami
ly alive.’
‘Doesn’t that sound like the usual hard-luck story?’
‘No, David, she’s a decent wee body and completely genuine.’
‘Then you must give her something from your pocket money.’
‘Oh, I have!’
The pleased exclamation made him glance at her sideways. After they left the airport, so that she should have something to spend, he had pressed a bunch of notes into her purse – probably some 1500 Austrian schillings, the equivalent of twenty pounds sterling.
‘How much did you give her?’
She looked up at him rather timidly.
‘All.’
‘Oh, no, Kathy.’ Then he burst out laughing. ‘What a little do-gooder you are. Parting with your entire fortune at one go.’
‘I’m sure she’ll put it to good use.’
‘Well, if it pleases you, it pleases me,’ he said, still amused. ‘And one has to be liberal and a little crazy in Vienna. I love this city, Kathy – so much that it hurts me to see how quickly it is changing. You must take it all in now, my dear, for only too soon, like so many of the beautiful places of the world, it will be completely ruined. Just look at that horror on your right.’ They were passing a tall new working-class apartment building. ‘That faceless nightmare of steel and concrete full of hundreds of little rooms like dog kennels has replaced a lovely old baroque house, a petit palais that was bulldozed down twelve months ago so they could stick up this – this penitentiary.’
‘You don’t like it?’
‘Who could?’
‘But, David,’ she took a full thoughtful breath, ‘the people who live in it will like it. They’ll have a sound roof over their heads and comfort too, heating, hot water, proper sanitary arrangements, and privacy. Isn’t that better than pigging it across a clothes-line?’
He frowned at her quizzically.
‘Won’t they pig it in any case? But that’s not the point. What one resents is the destruction of beauty that’s going on all over the world. Tractors and trucks tearing about, gouging and rooting at the lovely monuments of the past, acres of jerry buildings springing up, all identical and all so drearily ugly. England is now swallowed up by dreary suburbs. Italy is full of factories. Why, even in Switzerland they’re crowding scores of tenements on to their loveliest lakeside sites – though not near me, thank God.’
‘Yes, it’s a new world we have to live in,’ she agreed, after a moment. ‘But that’s all the more reason to make the best of it. And to do our best to make it better.’
She looked at him inquiringly, as though anxious to know how he would answer her remark. But by this time they had reached the Ringstrasse, where lights were springing out and people beginning to leave their offices, congregating at the pavement cafés, talking, laughing, bringing a note of anticipation to the air. It was a fascinating hour and here, at least, there was nothing to offend his eye. As they slid easily through the evening traffic he drew near to her and, in the gathering dusk, passed his arm through hers.
‘I’ve worn you out with lectures and arguments. You must rest in your room for an hour. Then we’ll go out to dinner.’
He had sensed that she was shy of going to Sacher’s, yet for her own sake decided he would take her there. With a little encouragement she would soon overcome her constraint: besides, at Sacher’s one need not dress. As eight o’clock struck on the clock of St Stephen’s he escorted her downstairs and out of the hotel. As the night was fine, they walked the short distance along Kärntnerstrasse. The glassed-in terrace of the restaurant was crowded but he had taken the precaution of making a discreet reservation in the little side room known as the Red Bar. He could see that his choice of table gave her confidence and, glancing across the menu, which he had been studying, his expression became reminiscent.
‘I hope we’ll get something as nice as the fish you chose in Edinburgh. Our first meal together. I’ll never forget it. Tell me, do you like foie gras?’
‘I don’t know.’ She shook her head. ‘But I suppose I might.’
‘Well, then, we’ll have it. With some Garnierter Rehrücken and Salzburger Nockerln to follow.’ He gave the order, adding: ‘As we’re in Austria we must honour the country and drink a little Durnsteiner Katzensprung. It comes from the lovely Danube valley about fifty miles from here.’
The foie gras was brought, tenderly pink; he sniffed it delicately, assuring himself it was the real Strasbourg, adequately truffled, then ordered it served with raspberry sauce. When the wine was shown, sampled, approved and poured, he raised his glass.
‘Let’s drink a little toast to ourselves.’ Then, mildly, as she hesitated: ‘Remember, you promised to be human. I want to get you out of that dear little Scottish shell of yours.’
Obediently, though a trifle tremulously, she raised the long-stemmed glass, put her lips to the fragrant, amber liquid.
‘It tastes like honey.’
‘And is just as harmless. I think you know me by this time, Kathy.’
‘Oh, I do, David. You’re so very nice.’
The venison was all he had expected, served with a savoury radish and apple sauce. He ate slowly, as was his custom, and with feeling, giving to each mouthful the respectful attention it deserved. In the adjoining alcove someone had begun to play softly on the piano, a Strauss waltz of course, but in this setting how right – charming, haunting, melodious.
‘Isn’t this agreeable,’ he murmured across the table. He loved to see the colour come and go in her fresh young cheeks. What a darling she was, arousing the best in his nature, bringing out all that was good in him.
The sweet, as he had hoped, proved to be a triumph. Reading her expression, at which he was not expert, he explained:
‘It’s made almost entirely from fresh eggs and cream.’
‘How many eggs?’ she wondered.
He turned to the waiter.
‘Herr Ober, how many eggs in Salzburger Nockerln?’
The man shrugged, but with politeness.
‘So many, sir, you forget the number. If Madame wishes to make good Nockerln she must not count the eggs.’
Moray raised his eyebrows at Kathy across the table.
‘We’ll have to start a poultry farm.’
She broke into a peal of laughter, like a schoolgirl.
‘Oh, the poor hens, trying to keep up with that.’
Delighted with her unusual high spirits, he did not fail to notice that she offered no objection to his hint of their future association. Presently the bill arrived and, after a casual survey, he paid it with a note of high denomination, and tipped so lavishly as to produce a succession of bows, almost a royal progress.
As they came out of the restaurant they were met on the pavement by the usual outstretched hands – the match and paper flower sellers, the cripples, fake and genuine, the ragged old man with the wheezy accordion, the old women who now had nothing to sell but flattery. With the change from the bill he gave freely, indiscriminately, just to be rid of them; then, escaping towards the hotel, he was unexpectedly rewarded. She took his arm and of her own accord came close to him as they walked towards the Neuer Markt.
‘I’m so glad you did that. I’d have felt ashamed after that delicious, expensive meal if you hadn’t. But then that’s just you, David, to be so unsparingly kind and generous. And what a day you’ve given me. Everything so new and exciting. I can scarcely believe it all. When I think that only a few days ago I was washing dishes in Jeannie Lang’s back kitchen, it’s … it’s like a dream.’
It was so good to see her relaxed, free of her inhibitions, actually gay. Listening in indulgent silence, he let her run on, aware that her one glass of honey-tasting Durnsteiner could not alone have induced this mood but that he was in the main responsible for it. And in a sudden flashback he remembered that with Mary he had shown the same talent, one might even say the power, of lifting her from her serious preoccupation to a new lightheartedness. It was an auspicious omen.
Only too so
on they were at the hotel. Outside her room she turned to him to day goodnight.
‘Thank you for a most wonderful time, David. If you won’t forget our day in Edinburgh, I can tell you I’ll never forget this one here.’
He lingered a moment, unwilling to let her go.
‘Did you really enjoy it, Kathy?’
‘Terribly.’
‘Sure?’
‘Cross my heart.’
‘Then tell me, what did you like most of all?’
She paused in the act of closing her door, became suddenly serious, seemed to examine her thoughts. With averted head, not looking at him, she said very simply:
‘Being with you.’ Then she was gone.
Chapter Ten
During the next three days the weather, though colder, remained brilliantly fine. Conditions could not have been more perfect for the pleasures and excitements of continued sightseeing. Varying his programme with commendable skill, Moray escorted her to the Hofburg and Hofgarten, to the Imperial Museum of Fine Arts, the Rathaus, the Belvedere, the Parliament. They took tea in Demel’s, made the tour of the fashionable shops in the Graben, attended a performance at the Spanish Riding School – which, however, proved rather a disappointment since, although reserving comment, she had obviously disliked seeing the lovely white horses strained into unnatural circus attitudes. He had also accompanied her on a visit to Anna the chambermaid’s four children, all lined up in a row and dressed in new warm clothes with strong winter boots, and this had been perhaps the most successful expedition of all. These were, Moray told himself, the happiest days he had ever known. She had brought joy and sweetness into his life, renewed his buoyant youth. The more he saw of her, the more he realised he could not do without her.
And yet at times she puzzled him, even caused him an odd concern. Was she truly entertained by all that he so engagingly displayed? Impossible to doubt; he had seen her eyes light up a score of times, fill with interest and animation. Nevertheless there had been occasions when, while willingly attentive, she seemed troubled, nervously disturbed. At one moment she drew near, very near to him, and the next suddenly drew back. She had a strange capacity for receding into herself and could surprise him by her constancy to her own point of view.
