‘Gosh,’ said Timothy, as we let ourselves out of the hotel again into the brilliant noisy square, and turned towards the Kärntnerstrasse, ‘I wish I was coming with you. I’ve always wanted to get inside the works of a circus, if that’s what you call them. You’ll promise to ring me up tomorrow night, won’t you, and tell me how you got on, and what’s happened?’
‘I promise – that is, if I know where to get hold of you.’
‘There’s that,’ he agreed. ‘Well, if father and Christl won’t have me, I’ll come with you. I really don’t feel you ought to be allowed to go all that way on your own! Are you sure you wouldn’t like me to come with you and buy the tickets and find out about the buses?’
‘I’d love you to. I might even hold you to that. And now, if we’re to get to Sacher’s in time, we’d better get a move on. Can you really eat another meal? I thought you were a bit rash with that Hühnerleberisotto at the Deutsches Haus.’
‘Good lord, that was hours ago!’ Timothy had quite recovered his buoyancy with the meal; he charged cheerfully along the crowded pavement, examining the contents of every shop window with such interest and enthusiasm that I began to wonder if we would ever reach our rendezvous. ‘What is this Sacher’s anyway? It sounds a bit dull, a hotel. Will there be music?’
‘I’ve no idea, but it certainly won’t be dull. Everyone who comes to Vienna ought to go there at least once. I believe it’s terribly glamorous, and it’s certainly typical of Old Vienna, you know, baroque and gilt and red plush and the good old days. It was started by Madame Sacher, ages ago, some time in the nineteenth century, and I believe it’s still fairly humming with the ghosts of archdukes and generals and all the Viennese high society at the time of the Hapsburgs. I think I even read something in a guide book about an archduke or something who went there for a bet in absolutely nothing whatever except his sword and maybe a few Orders.’
‘Bang on,’ said Timothy. ‘it sounds terrific. What would my mother say?’
Sacher’s Hotel was all that I had imagined, with its brilliantly lit scarlet and gold drawing-rooms, the Turkey carpets, the oils in their heavy frames, the mahogany and flowers and spacious last-century atmosphere of comfortable leisure. The Blue Bar, where we were to meet Graham Lacy and his lady, was a smallish intimate cave lined with blue brocade, and lit with such discretion that one almost needed a flashlight to find one’s drink. The champagne cocktails were about eight and sixpence a glass. Tim’s father produced these for the company with very much the air of one who was producing a bribe and trying not to show it. Christl, on the other hand, did her best to pretend that this was a perfectly ordinary occasion, and that she and Graham had champagne cocktails every evening. As, perhaps, they did.
Somewhat to my own surprise, I liked Christl. I don’t quite know what I had been expecting, a predatory Nordic blonde, perhaps, on the model of the one I had seen with Lewis. She was indeed a blonde, but not in the least predatory, at least to the outward eye. She was plump and pretty, and looked as if she would be more at home in the kitchen putting together an omelette for Graham, than sitting in the Blue Bar at Sacher’s, taking him for a champagne cocktail. She wore a blue dress, which exactly matched the colour of her eyes, and there were no rings on her hands. Timothy’s father was still recognisably the man I remembered, with the years and the weight added to the florid good looks, and the extra heartiness of manner added by the embarrassment of his son’s descent on his Viennese idyll with a presumably virtuous female companion.
That it was an idyll was not long in doubt. He was in love with the girl – she was some twenty years younger than he was – and he made it plain. He also (though to do him justice he tried not to) made it plain that Timothy’s appearance in Vienna at this moment was, to say the least of it, inopportune. By the time he had shepherded us through the dining-room for supper I saw with misgiving that resentment or insecurity had brought the sullen look back to Timothy’s face.
I saw that Christl was watching him, too; and saw the exact moment at which – while Graham was busy with the menu and the head waiter – she set herself deliberately to charm him. It was beautifully done, and was not too difficult, since she was not much older than he was, was very pretty, and had in full measure that warm, easy Viennese charm, which (as Vienna’s friends and enemies both agree) ‘sings the song you want to hear’. Before the wine was half down in our glasses, Timothy was looking entertained and flattered, and eating as if he had seen no food for a fortnight, while his father, also visibly relaxing, was able to devote himself to me.
He had already thanked me very pleasantly for accompanying Timothy across the Continent, and skated skilfully enough over the reason why he couldn’t offer his son his own hospitality that night. He asked now with civil indifference after Carmel’s health, and with equal indifference about that of my family, but it was soon obvious that he was curious to know what I was doing in Vienna, and just how Carmel had managed to involve me in her affairs, so I gathered that Timothy had said nothing to him in their brief telephone conversation.
‘Oh, I’m just on holiday,’ I said. ‘My husband was called away to Stockholm just as we were setting off for a holiday together, so I came on here myself, and he’ll be joining me soon.’
‘In Vienna?’
‘No, in Graz. We planned a motoring holiday in South Austria, and I’m going down there tomorrow myself. It was just luck that I happened to be heading this way at the same time as Timothy.’
‘Indeed,’ said Graham Lacy politely. ‘That should be delightful. Where were you planning to go?’
Since I had only that moment, so to speak, launched myself and Lewis on a motoring tour of Southern Austria, I naturally hadn’t the faintest idea. But I had had two years’ experience of the married woman’s way out of any difficulty. I said immediately: ‘Oh, I left all that to my husband. He’s worked out a route, and to be quite honest I can’t really remember exactly where he plans to go. I just sort of relax and go along with him.’
‘Ah, yes,’ said Graham Lacy, and then, to his son: ‘And what are your plans, Tim?’ Timothy, caught off guard by the direct question, swallowed, flushed, and said nothing. He had been listening to my string of lies with no betraying gleam of surprise, even perhaps, with amusement; but now, faced either with confessing that he had come to Vienna naturally expecting his father to take him in, or with himself inventing some spur-of-the-moment story, he was dumb. There was a painful pause.
I opened my mouth to say something, but Christl rushed into the pause, saying in her pretty, soft voice: ‘Well, of course, he has come to see Vienna! What else? Timmy’ – she said it charmingly, Timmee – ‘I wish I could show Vienna to you myself! There is so much to see, I should love to take you everywhere – all the places the tourists visit, the Hofburg, Schönbrunn, the Prater, Kahlenberg, and then all the places that the Viennese themselves go to – but I cannot, I am going out of Vienna tomorrow. I am so very disappointed, but you see I have promised; it is so many months since I have seen my parents, and they have been pressing me, and I have promised to go.’
‘But—’ began Graham Lacy.
She touched his hand, and he stopped obediently, but the look of surprise on his face was a dead give-away, and it was not difficult to interpret the look she gave him. It was quite obvious that she intended to clear herself out of Graham’s apartment with the greatest possible speed so that he would be free – indeed, obliged – to do the right thing by his son.
‘Well . . .’ began Graham Lacy. He cleared his throat. ‘Tomorrow’s Sunday, so I’ve a free day. What do you say, old man, shall I come along about eleven or so, and collect you and your stuff? Then after you’ve settled in we could go out and do some of the sights? I don’t have a great deal of time during the week, but you’ll soon find your own way about.’
Timothy’s glance went from one to the other. I realised that he had seen as much as I had. He was a little flushed, but he said composedly enough: ‘That’s terribly
nice of you, Daddy, but I won’t descend on you just yet. I’d actually planned to go south with Vanessa tomorrow.’
If Graham or Christl felt relief, they neither of them showed it. Graham said: ‘Indeed? It’s very nice of Mrs March to ask you, but if she and her husband are setting off for their tour, they’ll hardly want—’
‘We won’t be starting for a day or two,’ I said quickly, ‘I’m still not quite sure how soon Lewis will be able to join me, so I’ll have a bit of time to fill in before we set off. I’d love to have Tim with me.’
‘Don’t worry, I shan’t land myself on them,’ said Timothy cheerfully, and quite without irony. ‘In any case I’ve been planning to get down into Styria somehow and visit Piber, and see the Lipizzan stud there, so if Mrs March wants company, it’ll be killing two birds with one stone. If you don’t mind being called a bird in public, Vanessa?’
‘Delighted,’ I said.
‘Then,’ said young Mr Lacy calmly, ‘that’s settled. I’ll ring you up, Daddy, when I’m coming back to Vienna.’ And he turned his attention to the sweet trolley, from which he presently selected a quite enormous portion of Sachertorte, a rich and very sweet chocolate cake topped with whipped cream.
I had the strong impression that the company settled down to drink their coffee with a distinct air of relaxation and relief all round. When we finally left the dining-room, Timothy and his father vanished in perfect amity in the direction of the cloakroom, and, when they returned, I thought I could see from their differing expressions of satisfaction that Graham had ‘come through’ quite handsomely with funds, without his son’s having to resort to the blackmail he had threatened.
‘Well,’ said Graham, as we bade each other good night, ‘I hope you enjoy yourselves. Take care of Mrs March, won’t you, Timmy? And let me know when you’re coming back to Vienna. If only you’d thought to let me know this time . . .’ He added, awkwardly, ‘I’m afraid this has been a rather odd welcome to my long-lost son.’
The cliché, would-be jocular, fell rather sadly among the shadows of Vienna’s midnight pavement.
Timothy said cheerfully: ‘I’ll remember next time. And thanks for tonight, it’s been smashing.’
The Peugeot drove off. Timothy and I turned to walk back to our hotel.
‘Do you mind?’ he asked.
‘You know I don’t. I told you I’d be glad to have you. That, at least, wasn’t a lie . . . And talking of lies, we brushed through that pretty well, wouldn’t you say? She’s a nice girl, Tim.’
‘I know that. I did mind at first. I couldn’t help it. But I don’t now, not a bit.’ We were passing the lighted windows of Prachner’s bookshop: I saw that he had a look that I had not seen in him before, buoyant and clear and free. ‘After all,’ he said, ‘he’s got a perfect right to his own life, hasn’t he? You can’t hang on to people for ever. You’ve got to let them go.’
‘Of course,’ I said.
4
Ay, now I am in Arden; the more fool I. When I was at home I was in a better place; but travellers must be content.
Shakespeare: As You Like It
We drove into the village of Oberhausen at about five o’clock next day.
Now that Timothy was coming with me, I had abandoned my original plan of going by train to Bruck or Graz, and hiring a car from there. Moreover, it was Sunday, and I was not sure if such arrangements could be made on a Sunday afternoon. But in Vienna, it seemed, anything could be arranged at more or less any time, especially with the efficient and willing help of the desk staff of the Hotel am Stephansplatz.
So it came about that Timothy and I left Vienna in a hired Volkswagen shortly before noon next day, making our way out through the mercifully thin Sunday traffic with me at the wheel and Timothy, map on knee, guiding me with remarkable efficiency out along the Triester Strasse, past the car cemetery, and on to the Wiener Neustadt road.
It was a beautiful day. As we ran south-west from Vienna along the Autobahn the countryside, at first dull and scabbed with urban industry, began to lift itself by degrees from the flat monotony of the plain. Beyond Wiener Neustadt we found ourselves in a rolling landscape of forested slopes, green pastures, and romantic crags girdled by silver streams and crowned with castles.
It was a scene from the idylls rather than from romance, pastoral rather than Gothic. The valley bottoms were rich with crops, and the hayfields stretched golden right up to the spurs of the hills. Even when the road – magnificently engineered – began its twisting climb to the Semmering Pass, there was still nothing in the grand manner about the scenery; the great slopes of pine forest were only a shelter and a frame for the peaceful human picture below.
We ate at Semmering – a resort which, at four thousand feet, is sunny all winter and which now, in the height of summer, had air so dizzyingly clear as to make Timothy extra ravenous even by his standards, and to restore to me something of the appetite which had been taken away by the nervous tension that I hadn’t yet admitted, but which increased steadily as we neared the end of the journey.
We were on our way again by three, descending through more and more beautiful country till, a few kilometres beyond Bruck, we left the main road and its accompanying river, and turned up the valley of a tributary.
I pulled off the road on to a verge felted with pine needles.
‘You’ve got a licence, haven’t you, Tim? Would you like to drive?’
‘Love to,’ he said promptly. ‘Are you tired?’
‘A bit. It’s a bit over-concentrated, with the left-hand drive, and driving on the wrong side, and all the cars out for the Sunday afternoon stampede. I must say you were marvellous over the road signs. I hope I’ll do as well for you, or have you got your eye in by now?’
‘I think so,’ he said as we changed over. ‘It doesn’t look as if there’ll be much traffic up this little road, anyway.’
He took a few moments to examine the controls and play with the gear-box, and then we moved off. Not much to my surprise – I had long since ceased to underrate Timothy – he turned out to be a good driver, so that I was able to relax and think about what lay ahead of me, while I pretended for pride’s sake to be admiring the scenery.
This was not difficult. The road ran at first through pine trees with a widish tumbling stream to the right, then, rounding a green bluff, it began to climb, curling along under cliffs hollowed by quarries and heavily overhung by the forests above, while beside us the stream fell ever more steeply through a series of rapids, and on the far bank the rocks crowded in.
But soon we were out of the narrow defile into a wide placid basin girdled by hills. Here the road ran straighter, bounded to either side only by green meadows knee-deep in white and yellow flowers. Behind the meadows rose the hills; at first softly, furred with grass, their green curves framed by the pines which flowed downhill to fill every fold and crevice of the slopes, as if the high forest were crowding so thickly on the crests that it overflowed down every vein and runnel of the land below, like whipped cream running down the side of a pudding. At the upper limits of this dense crowded forest soared the cliffs again, shining escarpments of silver rock threaded in their turn by the white veins of falling water.
But these were still in no sense overpowering hills. They fell short of majesty, staying, as it were, on the periphery of vision, while the eye was held by the nearer landscape with its rolling, golden greens, and the cheerful domestic charm of the small houses that were clustered here and there round their churches and farms. The hay had been cut, and was drying, woven round its poles like dark gold flax round the spindles, while below it the shorn fields lay as smooth as plush. Here and there were shrines, like tiny churches cut off at the apse, with flowers in front of some painted statue, and martins wheeling in and out under the shingle roof. The village houses, too, were painted, the walls all washed with pink, or pale blue, or white, while every window had its window-box tumbling with petunias, geraniums, marguerites. Every house, it seemed, had its small o
rchard heavy with apples and peaches, and its apricot tree trained against the bright wall. Everything glittered, was rich, shone. The little village churches, humbly built of paint-washed plaster and roofed with wooden shingles, each thrust up a spire or an onion dome topped with a glittering gold weathercock. The cattle grazing peacefully in the fields were honey-coloured, and bore large, deep-ringing bells. The valley scene was so rich, so sunlit, and so peaceful, that the eye hardly strayed up to the rocks behind. They were only a background to this entrancing pastoral, painted in with the long shadows of late afternoon.
The first thing I saw, as we ran into the village of Oberhausen, was the poster, CIRCUS WAGNER, wrapped round a tree-trunk. The second was the circus itself in a field to the right of the road, a motley collection of tents, wagons and caravans, grouped in an orderly confusion round the big top.
Timothy slowed to a crawl as we both craned to see.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘they’re still here. That’s something, anyway. What are we going to do first?’
‘Go straight through and try to find the Gasthof. Didn’t the hall porter say it was at the far end of the village? Let’s find it, and get ourselves settled before we do anything else.’
‘OK.’
The village street closed in. It was narrow, with no pavements, apart from a foot or two of beaten dust which formed a verge to either side and which was separated from the road by trees. Here and there a gabled window, or a flight of steps, thrust out to the edge of the road, forcing the people to abandon the footpaths and walk among the traffic. This they did with the utmost casualness: in fact the road, being smoother walking, was fuller than the footways, as the slow aimless Sunday crowd strolled about it at will, crossing in front of the cars without a glance. Since (as in most Austrian villages) the use of the horn was forbidden, our progress was very slow and circumspect. Timothy’s pungent but perfectly cheerful running commentary was mercifully audible only to me.