by Leo Perutz
He smacked his lips so loudly that Lola gave a little jump. Then he produced a shiny black skullcap from his pocket, clapped it on his bald pate - it paid to be careful of drafts - and drew his chair up to Lola's.
Vally's meaningful glance at her brother signalled that she was going over to the attack.
"Is it really true, Herr Ebenseder," she inquired with an air of innocence, "that you're one of the few people still alive who were personally acquainted with Nestroy?"
"What nonsense, Vally!" cried Ebenseder. He gave a fat, contented chuckle. "There you go again! Nestroy? How could I possibly have known Nestroy? He died in the eighteen-sixties! I did see Matras, though. I saw him at the Carl Theatre when I was a boy - Matras and Knaack and Katharina Herzog, who was in the original cast of Der Verschwender."
"Since when have you addressed me by my first name, Herr Ebenseder? I don't remember inviting you to do so."
"There's a first time for everything," Herr Ebenseder replied archly.
"And that time hasn't come," Vally retorted. "Nor will it."
Her father glared at her and changed the subject. He'd recently seen a watercolour in the window of Feldmayer's Bookshop. It depicted Charlotte Wolter in gipsy costume conversing with an elderly man who was looking at her through his lorgnette. He thought it might be something for his esteemed colleague's collection.
Herr Ebenseder pricked up his ears at once.
"The man with the lorgnette must be Laube, the director of the Burg Theatre," he said. "Of course I'd be interested in the picture - very interested indeed. Feldmayer's Bookshop, eh? I'll pop in there tomorrow. Wolter in gipsy costume ... I wonder which play it could have been."
He proceeded to count on his fingers. He'd seen the great Burg Theatre actress as Phaedra, as Mary Queen of Scots, as Lady Milford, as Sappho, as Medea, as Iphigenia, in a modern play whose name escaped him, and lastly, a year before she died, as Adelheid in Götz von Berlichingen.
"Ah, Charlotte Wolter!" he said to Lola. "I pity the modern audiences who never saw her. There'll never be another like her - never! May I?"
Sighing, he poured himself another glass of wine.
Georg Vit¬torin sat there with half-closed eyes. Herr Ebenseder's droning voice sounded very remote. He wrestled with the snug sense of security that had descended on him. The objects in the room reached out and held him fast as if he were their property. The ticking of the clock on the wall, the muted glow of the lamp, the discreet clink of glasses, the haze of bluish smoke from his father's meerschaum pipe, his sisters' noiseless movements - all were calculated to lull him and induce him to abandon his grand design. He felt that the impending battle would decide matters once and for all; it had to be waged without delay.
His desire for solitude became overwhelming. He rose with something of an effort, saying that he was tired and wanted to go to bed, and the moment he did so the battle was won. The surrounding objects had lost their hold over him. The clock on the wall ticked mournfully on, the smoke rings from his father's pipe drifted to the ceiling in melancholy silence.
He left the room.
Lola followed him out. She found him on his knees in the cramped little box-room whose barred window overlooked the air well, unbuckling the strap around his bedding-roll.
"Oskar doesn't like him either," she said after a while. "He only comes because of me. I'm glad you're back, Georg. I think he's already spoken to Father."
"Herr Ebenseder, you mean?"
"Yes, but I'd sooner drown myself. He's already been married twice. His first wife died young - he bullied her into the grave - and the other one ran off. They were both in vaudeville. What does he want with me, the repulsive brute? I'm not an equestrienne - I can't jump through a hoop."
Vit¬torin had opened his bedding-roll.
"This is some Chinese writing paper, and here are the envelopes to match. See how prettily painted it is?"
"It's very pretty - very stylish, really. There's something I've been meaning to tell you, but you mustn't be angry. You'll have to share this room with Oskar for the next few days. Your room - I wrote and told you we'd taken a lodger, didn't I?"
"I don't remember. No, I don't think so."
"I'm sure I did. A nice, respectable fellow - we've been really lucky from that point of view, one never sees or hears him during the day. He's paying a hundred and eighty kronen, and that's a very useful contribution to the family budget, believe me. Have you any idea what everything costs these days? Prices have been creeping up all the time. Of course, I told the gentleman he'd have to move out as soon as you were back in Vienna."
"That won't be necessary," Vit¬torin said. "He's welcome to keep the room. I'm not staying."
"But Father says the war will soon be over."
Vit¬torin rose slowly to his feet.
"When it is, I'm going back to Russia."
"Back to Russia? Are you serious?"
"Keep your voice down, the others mustn't know yet. This is just between the two of us. Yes, I have to go back."
"For long?" asked Lola, staring at him fixedly.
"I don't know."
"Did you promise her you'd come back? Why didn't you bring her with you - wasn't it possible?"
Vit¬torin evaded the question.
"The cigarettes are for Oskar," he said. "Be a dear and dish out the other things for me. The leather waistcoat is for Father, the Chinese porcelain -"
"But Georg, what about Franzi? What ever will Franzi say, poor thing? Do you have a photo of her - the other girl, I mean?"
"The bowl's for your china cabinet - it's supposed to be a very rare old piece. The two vases are for Franzi. You're wrong, by the way. It's nothing to do with a girl."
Two weeks later, when Vienna was in the throes of revolution, Vit¬torin got news of Chernavyensk from a repatriated ex-prisoner who had spent the last part of his journey from Siberia on the running board of an overcrowded railway carriage. The place had been occupied by Czech legionnaires and Staff Captain Selyukov was camp commandant no longer. He had set off as soon as the Czechs marched in, presumably for Moscow, to offer his services to the Red Army, which was short of experienced officers. The former prisoner had caught a final glimpse of him at a small station on the Siberian border not far from Krasnoyarsk.
There could be no doubt that Selyukov's flight was a development of far-reaching importance. For the time being, Vit¬torin decided to inform no one but Emperger of this change in the status quo. A two-man steering committee, they would confer in private before taking the others into their confidence. They must await further reports and seek confirmation of the news. A station not far from Krasnoyarsk . . . Everything suggested that Moscow was Selyukov's final destination. This'll make Feuerstein sit up, Vit¬torin told himself. "You mean you're still in touch with Chernavyensk?" - "Of course I am, Feuerstein, what did you think? Naturally I've kept in touch with the camp - I took care of that. I hear everything that goes on there!" Even so, certain preliminary steps would have be taken without delay. It would be best if Feuerstein made some cash available at once. Then there was the matter of the passport and entry permit for Russia.
The revolution was a worrying feature. Were there any government departments in the present chaotic situation, and which one issued exit visas? He couldn't travel without a passport. Had railway traffic with Russia been maintained?
Vienna buzzed with the wildest rumours. Czech forces were planning to occupy the capital and the whole of Lower Austria. The Emperor had been arrested by revolutionary troops while trying to cross the Hungarian border. Wöllersdorf and Wiener Neustadt were in flames. A demented army driver raced through the streets in his car, urging people to go home and lock their doors. Fourteen thousand Serbs and Russians from the Siegmundsherberg POW camp were marching on Vienna, he yelled. Anyone in possession of firearms was to report to police headquarters.
The established facts were no less alarming. An assemblage of officers and other ranks had elected a nine-man soviet "to
do away with the hidebound bureaucracy and regimentation, cowardice and malevolence of the ruling classes". A captain in the Stockerau Rifles proposed the formation of a Red Guard but was shouted down; a corporal who couched the same demand in stronger language was applauded and hoisted shoulder-high. Gangs of coal-heavers and deserters looting warehouses and wagons at the Nordbahn freight yard seized an entire military supply train. Two hundred convicts took advantage of the general confusion to break out of Wöllersdorf Prison, and jewellers boarded up their window displays in a trice. A Czech battalion about to be disarmed at the Brigittenau marshalling yard offered resistance and attacked the station guard with hand grenades and machine-guns.
Tobacco and army blankets, knapsacks and shoe leather, cleaning materials and mess tins - all these commodities, of which unlimited supplies were obtainable from discharged soldiers, went down in price. By contrast, the cost of a small loaf of bread soared to fifteen kronen. The Food Office announced that the meat ration of a quarter-pound of meat per head per week could not be sustained because Czechoslovakia had imposed a ban on the export of foodstuffs. In street and tavern, people sang new words to an old tune:
Who's to govern the poor Viennese
now that Austria's down on her knees?
The Czechs know how best
to feather their nest,
and to hell with the poor Viennese!
Bogus military police patrols stopped soldiers and relieved them of their food and personal belongings, and gunfights broke out when they clashed with detachments of the Vienna garrison. It was nonetheless possible to discern isolated signs of an undiminished will to survive and faith in the future. A film poster advertising "The Princess of Berania, a Hymn to Love and Sorrow" rubbed shoulders with an official announcement stating that the nth Class Lottery would be in no way affected by "recent events", and newsboys still hawked special editions containing communiques from the Western Front: "Brisk artillery fire on both banks of the Meuse. Strong American forces have been brought to a standstill in the woods north of Boval."
Dr Emperger was busy sorting through his civilian wardrobe when Vit¬torin called on him. Dinner jacket, morning coat, fashionable pin-striped trousers, neckties, coloured shirts, an overcoat, a short fur sports jacket, and a brocaded silk waistcoat lay strewn around in picturesque confusion on the sofa and chairs. The room was filled with a penetrating stench of camphor and naphthalene. Arrayed on the desk in order of battle were oxfords, riding boots, pumps, lace-up boots, and galoshes.
Emperger greeted his former fellow prisoner of war with a badly crumpled officer's cap in his hand.
'Take a look at that!" he said. "There's gratitude for you. Two years in the trenches, two years in Siberia, and yesterday they repaid me by cutting the rosette off my cap. Callow youths, apprentices, budding clerks. Ah well, good riddance, no use crying over spilt milk. Have a seat, Vit¬torin - if you can find one, that is. You can see the state of this place. What shall I do with my greatcoat and uniform tunic? Do you think a costumier's would buy them off me? I'll throw in my Second-Class Silver. Who knows, some day it may be the height of fashion to go to a fancy-dress ball as an Austrian officer vintage nineteen-eighteen. Yes, my friend, this is a historic moment. Frau Wessely, when are you going to tidy up? I can't leave everything scattered around like this, for God's sake! Frau Wessely! She hasn't heard again, the old bitch. Do sit down, Vit¬torin. What brings you here?"
"I've had some important news," Vit¬torin said. "I wanted to discuss it privately first and sound you out before I officially inform the others. Listen to this: Selyukov isn't at Chernavy-ensk any longer. All the reports I've received in the last few days indicate that he's . . . what is it? Where are you off to?"
Emperger had scuttled out of the room.
"What's the matter with you, Frau Wessely?" Vit¬torin heard him shouting. "Why don't you come when I call you? When are you going to tidy up in there? The place is an absolute pigsty, and it's half-past five already. Let's see what you've brought. Is that all? Sardines, I told you, and liver pate. Surely you could have drummed up a slice or two of salami? I can't offer my guests turnip jam, for heaven's sake. Two bottles of curaqao and one of anisette, I said. Lump sugar, salami, sardines - yes, Portuguese will do, any kind you like as long as they're edible. Money? What, again? It's scandalous! I gave you some only this morning. What do you do with it all, chuck it out of the window?"
He returned out of breath.
"You must forgive me, Vit¬torin, I don't know whether I'm on my head or my heels. The apartment hasn't been aired yet, and I'm expecting guests this evening. I have to see to everything myself. Well, what about Selyukov? Let's have it."
Vit¬torin was thoroughly put out. He'd lost the urge to confide in one for whom news of Selyukov took second place to Curasao, lump sugar and sardines.
"I've received certain reports," he said curtly. "We must fix a meeting for tomorrow or the day after, no later — the matter's urgent. Kindly make the necessary arrangements."
"Tomorrow or the day after?" Emperger exclaimed. "Impossible! I'm dining with my boss tomorrow night, and the night after that I've got tickets for the opera. Days are no good — I don't have a moment to spare now I'm settling in at the bank. Maybe you'll have to do without me this time -no, wait a minute! Of course, that's the simplest solution! Feuerstein and the Professor are coming tonight. You must come too - you'll meet a few nice people. That's settled: half-past eight, quarter to nine. I'll look forward to seeing you then. We can sit on for a bit afterwards and discuss the matter. Sorry it never occurred to me to invite you in the first place."
"Fine," said Vit¬torin. "I'll come, and I'll also make it my business to let Kohout know."
Emperger seemed anything but pleasantly impressed by this suggestion.
"Kohout?" he said. "You intend to bring Kohout too? Well, if you think it's . . . Oh, all right, just as you please, I don't mind."
Vit¬torin rang Emperger's doorbell at a quarter to nine and was admitted by a manservant who worked by day as a cashier at the bank. Emperger greeted him in the hall.
"Ah, there you are," he said. "I told the others you were coming. It's only a small party, but a mixed one. Kohout's already here. A rum fellow, Kohout. He's brought some friend of his who spends the whole time swearing at the bourgeoisie - embarrassing, isn't it? I don't know what to do with the man. He uses the familiar form of address to Feuerstein, either because he's taken to him or as a mark of contempt. Hurry up and get your coat off. Heaven knows what's going on in there - they may be at each other's throats by now."
Vit¬torin entered the room with a vague premonition that he wouldn't cut a very elegant figure in his pre-war frock coat. There were at least a few familiar faces in sight, thank God. The Professor shook his hand. Feuerstein, sweating profusely in a cutaway far too tight for him, vainly endeavoured to rise. Kohout, who seemed thoroughly at home amid the tea things, sandwiches, and assorted liqueurs, delivered a species of military salute. Emperger made the introductions.
"Lieutenant Vit¬torin, another comrade from Chernavyensk. Vit¬torin, meet Fräulein Edith Hoffmann, who volunteered to play hostess but is, I regret to say, neglecting her duties. Ditti, kindly stop flirting with the Professor and look after my guests. The Financial Consultant's glass is empty and my friend Vit¬torin would like a cup of tea."
"I told you I was taking a break," the girl said petulantly. "Irene's standing in for me."
"Fräulein Irene Hamburger," Emperger pursued, introducing Vit¬torin to the girl in question. "Irene isn't making much of an effort either. What a trial these female helpmates are!" He moved on. "And this is Fräulein Bella Roth, an ornament to her sex, a connoisseur's delight. Stop scowling at me like that, Bella. You don't love me any more, I know - your heart belongs to another, don't deny it, and I can guess who the lucky man is. He came, he saw, he conquered, c'est tout. Dear God, this cigarette smoke! Shouldn't we open the window for a while? There, that's better. The rest of you can introduce
yourselves, can't you?"
Two young men rose and stated their names: Glaser, civil engineer, and Simitsch, fine arts student. The clean-shaven, elderly gentleman who was holding Bella Roth's hand - on the pretext of reading her palm - turned out to be the aforesaid financial consultant. Kohout's friend was wearing breeches, puttees, army boots, and a green woollen sweater under his uniform tunic.
"Comrade Blaschek, since yesterday a member of the Soldiers' Council," Kohout announced in a respectful tone. "Elected by a majority of one hundred and twenty-four votes. He's right in the thick of the Movement."
"Join us, Vit¬torin," called Feuerstein. "It's a regular treat to see you again." He turned to the fine arts student. "We were cell mates, so to speak, in a Siberian prison camp."
The soldiers' councillor leaned across the table. "How much time d'you do?" he demanded. I'm sorry?
"I asked how long you were in the pokey."
"Comrade Blaschek wants to know how long you spent in the prison camp," Kohout interpreted.
"Two years, if it's any business of yours," Feuerstein replied curtly.
"Two years, eh? Congratulations! They really put one over on you, the Russians did. Serves you right. Why d'you get yourself captured?"
"What a charming fellow," said Fräulein Hamburger. "Really sympathetic."
Kohout laughed. Feuerstein, who was essentially good-natured and eager to live in peace with everyone, rebutted the charge of cowardice in very moderate language.
"In the first place, esteemed comrade, I didn't 'get myself captured', as you put it. That's point one. Point two, I don't see why I should have to tolerate your -"
"Not captured?" cried the newly-elected soldiers' councillor. "Not captured? Go on! Did the Russians win you in a lottery or something?"
"That was a direct hit," the Professor observed admiringly. "Feuerstein, you're beaten. Lay down your arms."
"I can see something very interesting here," said the financial consultant, who still had hold of his lady companion's hand. "This line, with its numerous ramifications, is indicative of musical talent. The small indentation on the right suggests that you have an exceptionally passionate temperament. You're still trying to suppress it, but in vain: human nature will out.
