“Now, Kathy,” he said decisively, when he had approved her bedroom and adjoining modern 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 cheerfuclass="underline" “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 Schönbrunn.
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!”