‘So, Poppy, now we are alone in the darkness. Can you hear the sound of my sighs, of my tears falling? Do you know I am searching for you and will never cease to search. I will walk in rags across the Earth, with matted hair and blooded limbs until I can hold you in my arms and claim you from the evil that has taken you. Remember when we strolled in the garden and woke the bees together with our songs. The sweet-scented days of spring will not return until we are united. No joy or pleasure will enter my heart until you and I are whole again. Be brave, my dearest child, and wait for me. I am so very near.’
Conclusion to the 1st Hour
‘Oh, why must we leave my story here, at such a dreadful moment, in such a dreadful place?’ the English Lady asks, herself, a little overwhelmed by her feelings - for it has indeed been a most distressing experience. She had been for one awful moment inside that cell. Those two loathsome women for company - so unkind; so brutal. It is difficult to erase the vision from her mind, as if it had been some terrible nightmare.
The face of the handsome young maid, meanwhile, and who is still seated just behind her, gazes out from the surface of one of the oval mirrors, conveying a presence so soothing that, upon seeing it once more, all of the most disagreeable sensations immediately slip away. Gently, without sound or fuss, the newspaper upon whose pages the story has been evoked is folded and replaced upon the table. How long have they been seated here together? Thirty minutes? An hour? She feels powerless to turn to glance at the clock on the chimneypiece. There is the distant perception of its ticking; the quarters sounding at intervals with their delicate, barely audible chime. There is the occasional crackling of the fire, supporting the faintest of embers and which, together with a solitary candle, reveal the room and its contents only vaguely - its sensual fabrics and surfaces, drapery and upholstery an indeterminate blend of leathers and brocades, cashmeres and fine wools - all so richly dark that they merge all as one, as in the landscape of a gorgeous, intoxicating dream from which she has not yet quite woken.
It is also that hour of the morning when silence engulfs the city, when all the traffic has gone and no one yet stirs. The building itself is likewise quiet. All is well; all is at peace. Even better, her wish has been fulfilled, just as she had wanted upon her arrival earlier - that she should not yield to slumber - and yet fulfilled in a way she could never have anticipated or ever felt possible in the company of this strange and utterly enigmatic young woman.
‘What is happening, Kristina? Am I dreaming? Am I going mad?’ she asks.
‘No m'lady. It is the world that is mad,’ Kristina answers, getting to her feet to fetch her mistress’s nightgown, ‘the world outside these walls, already damned and rushing to its own destruction. You have seen this in your premonitions and have lamented it: the flower of youth to be slaughtered, and all our grace and beauty to perish with it.’
‘I fear it, yes. Whether I have seen it … I’m not so sure,’ Deborah replies as she feels the welcome arrival of her peignoir, which Kristina drapes across her shoulders. Sliding back into her chair, she waits as the silken gown is then wrapped across her breast. It is as if the young woman is everywhere at once, with a dozen arms and hands: alive to every need of her mistress, and with a face so full of solicitude, like that once glimpsed in some exotic temple, inscrutable and aloof as it gazes back from the often bewildering surfaces of the triple mirror where at one time it is seen in profile, at another face-on, while at yet another observed in a profusion of ever-repeated and diminishing images that continue into infinity. And through it all, whenever she chooses to seek it out, her own pale visage will also gaze back at her - and one which, at just this moment, she hardly recognises or wishes to acknowledge.
‘Oh dear - now look at me,’ she sighs, examining her face without makeup - her hair all loose; her lavish outer garments now all spirited away, so that she really does look her age. So ordinary. ‘No wonder I feel so at home here in this old place.’
‘In Vienna?’
‘Yes, in Vienna,’ Deborah echoes, aware then of the young woman’s hand resting upon her shoulder, supporting her in her weariness. ‘Everything about this place is old, Kristina. An ancient city presided over by an ageing ruler in an even more ancient Empire. Yes, I am old. And yet if you were to tell me that now, if I were not able to see the sorry evidence for myself, I would not believe it - for I feel better now, somehow far better than when I came in earlier. Isn’t that strange?’
But Kristina, neither agreeing nor disagreeing, merely smiles. ‘You have shed a skin or two, m'lady,’ she suggests merrily, leaning her arms on the back of her mistress’s chair, so that her young sweet face is almost next to hers in reflection. ‘I have unfastened your armour, taken away your mask.’
‘Yes ... that may well be true,’ Deborah sighs, but then chuckles softly to herself - the face of her companion so close behind her now that she is certain she can detect the fragrance of her skin: fresh and cool and slightly scented with rose. How would an artist paint it, she wonders? Pale, so very pale that it should hardly belong to anyone living - almost translucent and with shadows tinted with strawberry or avocado. Why, one could almost taste it. ‘Oh, to be your age again, my dear,’ she continues softly, ‘to have skin so bright and luminous, and eyes that are so large and without suspicion or pain. What do you see, I wonder, when you gaze into a mirror? Why, I remember long ago when I was almost as lovely, and yet how critical I was then of every little blemish or imperfection - the length of a nose, the shape of a lip or eyebrow. You see, Kristina, one never quite realises how beautiful one is when young, and that one will never look as good again; that tomorrow will never be quite as fair as yesterday.’
‘Real beauty, it is not a subject of age, ma'am,’ the young woman argues, much to Deborah’s astonishment. ‘It can only come from within.’
‘You are too funny!’ Deborah chuckles, surprised that she does not mind being challenged, especially as it seems to be flown on a compliment, and allowing her head to loll back a little to touch the brow of her companion, the lightest of touches and from which she does not recoil. ‘Very poetic, my dear: the beauty within. I’ll settle for that. Only, I wonder, how very few people can see it?’
‘The true beauty within is never invisible,’ the young woman answers with authority, as though she had pondered and studied such things for a thousand years. ‘It shines from that good spirit of tenderness and fairest nature that so few possess. And no disguise or pretty mask of birth’s good fortune can cover up its absence.’
‘Oh, then you really are the perfect companion,’ Deborah replies, amused still, but aware that her own voice is scarcely more than a whisper by this time, hardly audible even to herself. ‘You have made me feel beautiful, my dear, despite everything. You really do perform your work so well. But all work and no play? What a waste of a fine young life that would be.’
‘Do you not believe, ma’am, as I do, that we should always strive to accomplish our work as perfectly and as honourably as we can?’ Kristina responds. ‘Even the most mundane of tasks, no matter how dull, can become the greatest of joys then. For every man or woman is made in the image of our Lord, and thus we embark upon a pilgrimage each and every time we humble ourselves in service.’
‘Made in the image of our Lord?’ Deborah repeats, somewhat bemused. ‘That, indeed, is a most unfashionable sentiment, my dear. Can you really believe such a thing?’
‘I do not believe, ma'am. I know.’
‘Oh yes, that’s right,’ Deborah continues with a further sigh, almost of surrender this time. ‘You know everything - isn’t that so? Isn’t that what you told me earlier? You know everything, and so I expect you will continue my story in due course - no matter how disturbing? Those who were lost. Those who fell, and those who triumphed along the way?’
‘With your permission, ma'am, I shall.’
Introduction to the 2nd Hour
‘Has m'lady decided on what she will wear for the assignation?’ Kristina in
quires, returning from her duties of making ready the bath for later, setting out towels and attending to the English Lady’s needs with the utmost care, even setting some champagne on ice should it be required.
‘You need not trouble yourself over that, my dear,’ Deborah replies, her thoughts, even now, half-immersed in the amazing visions experienced earlier. ‘I have already rehearsed my executioner’s robes to perfection and set aside the items I shall require.’
Sensing the young woman’s eyes upon her all the while, and with the expectation, half longed-for, half-dreaded, of yet more of her story to be revealed shortly, Deborah gets to her feet also, as if to delay the inevitable - still declining to examine the clock that might inform her of her approaching destiny, and instead drawing apart the heavy double doors of her wardrobe and reaching through to explore the contents within. In the dark, there is nothing to be seen, of course, only textures to explore - the wondrous textures of silks and velvets and gorgeous furs sliding on their hangers of smooth polished cedarwood. She loves the fragrances that linger upon each garment, even the relatively minor collection she has here in Vienna: the carnation and kananga; the citrus oils and lilac - all the very best the perfumeries of Paris and Cologne might offer - and all these mingled almost imperceptibly with that subtle and slightly intrusive ‘maleness’ of tobacco and expensive liquor, and thereby bringing to her recollection the thrill of so many intimate and amorous encounters. Her wardrobe is a history, therefore, a combination of times past, and telling in that wonderful variety of fragrances of all the darkest and most delicious of her personal adventures.
‘Naturally, I should strive to look my best,’ she remarks, withdrawing and laying out those items she has already set apart in readiness. ‘I must be the perfect toy for the baron, the perfect ornament. Fools like that can see nothing but faults in the women who do not measure up to their ridiculous ideal.’
‘Is there an ideal, ma'am? I wonder …’
‘Oh yes, and never has it been more requisite for a woman of my calling to follow it,’ Deborah answers with confidence. ‘I am reliably informed, moreover, that one who has never undressed a woman of today’s fashion will remain unacquainted with one of the best refinements of love-making known to man. My attire must be seductive, in other words, but not vulgar. This is what I have chosen - pastel in shade and suitable for daywear, but tightly fitting upon the bodice and hips - with a skirt that must not trail in the dust, and a blouse and jacket with a high collar to urge me to raise my chin at all times. A woman of my age looks ten years older if she allows her chin to drop. Did you know that, Kristina? Well, if you did not, then you must learn. Shadows form in the hollows of the face, and wrinkles appear out of nowhere.
‘My gloves, sleeves and tunic, meanwhile, must be generously buttoned or laced, the more anticipation in the unfastening. And my hat must be airy and cool but also of a generous circumference and extravagantly trimmed - for I must look as if I am worthy of the greatest attention while also being perfectly indifferent to any inconvenience it might entail. My shoes must also aid me in this contrivance, and must have a substantial heel to incline my weight forward. This is vital, my dear, as I am sure you appreciate. A woman who leans back on her heels as she walks looks awkward and masculine, while if she does the opposite and walks on her toes she will look mincing and affected. One who is perfectly poised and balanced in-between these positions, however, will always appear confident and in command of herself. As for the corset, that, alas, must be severe. You must lace me so artfully and so tightly that I will become as curvaceous and as voluptuous as Venus herself, with an arch that tilts my derrière behind, and a chest that thrusts before me - the very goddess of desirability. And so, Kristina, were a man to observe me in profile he would be able to trace with his eyes a beguiling S-shape in the air around my silhouette: a joy for his most intimate pleasure and, should he be so fortunate, for his hands to explore. This summation of absurdities is precisely what a man like the baron expects. I understand this implicitly, even though we have never met. And for the perfection of all these items of fetishistic ritual he will sacrifice his dignity, his wealth, his marriage or even his very life to possess me.’
‘Bravo, m'lady!’ Kristina cries, and clasps her hands together in excitement, full of delight at the performance - as accomplished a piece of oratory as surely any that the English Lady would have given on the stage.
A moment later, however, the gravity of the situation overcomes them both and, sensing this, Deborah retrieves a more serious and sober countenance. ‘Oh dear,’ she murmurs, catching the look in the young woman’s eye. ‘It is time, isn’t it? I presume my story must continue, and I must bear witness. I long for it, and yet I dread it as well.’
‘Would m'lady wish to place herself more comfortably this time?’ Kristina suggests without needing to reply directly. ‘It is a good while yet until dawn.’
‘It is,’ Deborah confirms, with a glance at the clock at last, and watching, too, with a look of stunned amazement as the young woman busies herself checking that the mirrors of the dressing table can be viewed from the only other seat in the room, the chaise upon which Deborah is wont to recline at times - though how she would have known of this is a mystery. But it matters not. Deborah is becoming accustomed to being amazed by the young woman, and watches with fascination as she takes from a vase upon the chimneypiece all those flowers of yesterday that are not yet faded or wilted, to compose a fresh bouquet - all scarlet and purple colours, of plum tulips and purple sage, with just a little pink camellia included - so full of the promise of spring. And with these in hand, bound with a ribbon, she returns to present her modest gift as Deborah takes her seat.
How peculiar it is - yet all so perfectly natural, Deborah reflects as she reaches up to take the bouquet - as if they were the closest of companions. And how surprising, that she herself, a soul so hardened and embittered by life’s adversity, should surrender to such an unfamiliar gesture of humility - and this, moreover, with a servant. It is a most strange moment in a night of endless strangeness, so much a part of the mystery and astonishment that surrounds her that she hardly notices or marks the event with anything more than a fleeting sense of curiosity as, a moment later, taking also a glass of sparkling wine, she sips at this most self-indulgent and yet familiar pleasure, perfectly at ease in her surrender of every last vestige of custom and propriety. It is, she is amused to discover, a most generous ‘chalice’ of a glass that has been prepared for her and this she shares, quite spontaneously, with the young woman who comes now to sit at her side.
‘Have you ambitions, Kristina - of being like me? Many of the young women who serve here do,’ Deborah inquires, picking up the bouquet once more and examining it more closely, fingering the tender petals and wondering at such an abundance of transient beauty.
‘Do you think it would suit me, ma'am?’ the young woman replies, hardly flattered at all, it would seem, and even quite amused.
‘What kind of answer is that?’ Deborah admonishes her, though without rancour, leaning back now and taking pleasure from the warmth of the body close to her side. ‘I do not doubt for one moment you would succeed admirably. You would succeed where a thousand others would fail. The men would be intrigued by you, and their wives even more so.’
‘Their wives?’
‘Oh yes. The tacit approval of their husbands’ amours is often included in the transaction - and sometimes even much more. Why, Kristina, I should tell you I have often had requests from a gentleman to amuse and entertain his wife for his delectation. A ménage à trois, as it is termed in polite circles - this and a multitude of deviations from the norm that until just a few short years ago I had no idea even existed. And I must say, not at all unpleasant in most cases - since a woman of my class is never obliged to undertake anything that is disagreeable to her. Being in possession of such a broad repertoire has become my entrée to ever-higher patronage over the years, even as my looks have faltered. And anyway - youthf
ul looks - what are they to men of the world! They could find among the occupants of any street café or patisserie here in Vienna a dozen women more youthful and more beautiful than I shall ever be again ... and by chance even more lovely than you, my dear. But that, alone, is not what they seek. My consorts are as worldly wise, as weary and sated of the banal as I am. It is reputation - reputation that is the key, Kristina. They yearn for one who has been enjoyed and savoured by their peers and whose charms have grown all the greater in the telling, until the legend becomes an unstoppable force, the domain of infatuation and obsession. A courtesan, in other words, is a vintage, Kristina - a vintage wine, and like that wine, each time she is sampled a little less remains to be treasured, leaving her all the more coveted and, just like the sour old wine that lingers in some dusty old bottle, pursued by those who have far more money than sense. Oh yes … you could succeed, my dear. In time, you could succeed where thousands would fail - the mistress of the most powerful and wealthy. Your youthful vine is one that ages well. That is my instinct.’
‘I have no aspirations, ma'am,’ the young woman responds with amazing self-confidence. ‘My ambition lies only here with you, as mistress of the story.’
‘Mistress of the story …’ Deborah echoes softly. ‘Yes. In other words it is high time that I should cease my chattering. Isn’t that so? You see, I am only trying to delay my torment.’
But the young woman does not respond this time. She is, Deborah senses already at some distance in thought - her breath deepening, lengthening, already urging them both from the luxurious little room where everything proclaims such warmth and safety, such pleasure and such delight to the senses, into an altogether different state of consciousness, becoming part of that extraordinary landscape of the past that awaits her. For without even the need to hold forth the pages of the paper, the magical Kristina has somehow already begun to reveal her story in the mirror once again - the visions passing through the oval frames as would scenery gliding upon some fabulous stage, the surface of which now brightens and fills with colour, and all the while mingled with the slightest presentiment of sound, as if her very breathing might convey the voices of the past upon the air.
THE HOURS BEFORE: A Story of Mystery and Suspense from the Belle Époque Page 15
