The Vienna Melody (2 page)

Franz chose the cherry brandy. From where he sat he could see Sophie's face in the mirror. Her back was turned to him as she continued to work on her coiffure with two long-handled tortoise-shell brushes. Her white hair, beautifully soft and completely silvered, was her best feature. Her cheeks and mouth were so withered by age, so thin, pinched, and fleshless, that they barely existed any more.

“What's on your mind?” She spoke without expression, without the usual caressing smile which she liked to lavish on her elder nephew, Otto Eberhard.

Franz was not in the habit of beating about the bush. Diplomacy (and imagination too, alas!) was a sealed book to him. With him things had to proceed in a straightforward, simple way; anything else he considered fuss. Yet today he hesitated. He felt a chill.

“Don't you have the heat on any longer, Aunt Sophie?” he inquired.

“Is that what you came down at this hour in the morning to find out?” she retorted, in the loud tone of a person hard of hearing, as she shook her head over her nephew (as well as at a strand of silver hair pulled out by her vigorous brushing). “We don't have the heat on any longer. We don't use heat after Easter. Do you know what coal costs? One florin and eleven coppers! Do you still heat your apartment upstairs?”

“No—that is to say, yes,” he continued, increasingly disconcerted. How silly, he said to himself; I am almost afraid.

“Of course! The women up at your place must be kept warm, mustn't they? Drink your brandy if you're chilly,” she suggested dryly.

His uneasiness vanished as quickly as it had come. “That's why I'm here,” he admitted, “on account of the women.”

It was difficult to tell when the old lady's hearing was good and when it was not. There were times when she did not choose to hear.

“What's that?” she asked.

“I said that I came on account of the women,” he repeated.

“I already heard that nonsense,” she declared. “Only I don't think it's so amusing. At your age—”

“A man should marry. And that's just what I intend to do.”

“What?” she said again. She even forgot to slip a peppermint drop into her mouth, although she had prepared the excuse for it by a short cough.

“Imagine,” said Franz, “you've been urging it on me for so long, and at last I've brought myself to the point. I'm engaged.” There, he thought, I've said it, and how simple it was! He even believed he could detect the joyful effect of his news on the old lady, and he rubbed his hands together.

Sophie had laid down her brushes. She turned quickly around on her stool, looked him straight in the face, and said: “This is a surprise! When did it happen?”

“Oh … not long ago.”

“Well, I never! Do I know her?”

“Of course. It's Henriette.”

If it was joy that had brightened her face a moment ago there was no doubt that now something else darkened it. There was no disguising the fact, and Franz saw it. His anger flared, as it did so easily with him.

“Is there anything you are not pleased with?” he put in quickly.

Sophie sat bolt upright. “Henriette? You mean Henriette Stein?” she asked, this time almost in a whisper.

“I know only one Henriette.”

“The daughter of—” She did not finish her question. She was not even looking at her nephew now; her eyes had dropped to her white dressing gown, which was much too thin for such a cool morning.

“The daughter of Professor Stein of the University,” Franz went on in a sharp tone. His usual good humor had vanished. “The daughter of one of our greatest jurists, in case you don't happen to be aware of that fact,” he added aggressively.

“I'm quite aware of it.”

“The daughter of one of the finest men,” Franz continued in the same laudatory strain.

“Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!” croaked the parrot in the silence that fell.

“What does your brother say to this?” asked the old lady, and again her thin lips framed the words so softly.

“He doesn't know about it yet.”

“Doesn't know! Why not?”

“Because I wanted to tell you first.” Franz was not clever at lying. The flattery sounded insincere.

“He doesn't know about it yet,” Sophie repeated stubbornly. “Professor Stein is Jewish, isn't he?”

“He's been baptized. Why do you ask?”

“And who was her mother?” countered Sophie.

“Her maiden name was Aufreiter. She was more Catholic than you, Auntie.”

“Aufreiter,” said Sophie, and nodded deprecatingly. “Actress, wasn't she?”

“From the opera,” answered her nephew, with an effort at self-control. “She was an excellent singer. She died when Henriette was seven years old. You probably never knew her. You were living in Brünn in those days.”

Now the old lady was looking straight at him. “Oh, yes—I knew her. That is to say, I knew of her. One heard a lot about her.”

“That goes with being on the stage.”

“There was more to it than just that,” she insisted.

“Her daughter speaks of her with admiration. So does her husband. That should be enough. In any case, it's enough for me,” Franz flared up.

That was no way to
 
appease the old lady. She turned abruptly around, snatched up a comb, parted her beautiful thin hair with trembling fingers, and said with a tone of finality: “Of Jewish blood on her father's side. Her mother—but I'd rather not say the word. Listen to me! You say that I'm the first to learn of your engagement. Then let me be the first to warn you. You're no child. This is no schoolboy infatuation. You're nearly forty, and your children will be the ones to take over the firm made great by your father and grandfather. Never forget that!”

Quiet, now, said Franz to himself, clasping and unclasping his hands. What the old lady thinks of Henriette means nothing to me. But unfortunately half of the house belongs to her. “Have you had some bad experiences with Jewesses?” he asked in a suppressed voice. “Mother was Jewish when Father married her. Had you forgotten that?”

Although he did not speak in a loud tone, she heard every word. No, she had not forgotten. That was the point. Who had encouraged Gretl's marriage, with that scamp Paskiewicz? Julie. And why? Because he was a handsome creature. And who had pestered Franz's dear dead-and-gone father until he gave his consent to Pauline's marriage with the insufferable painter Drauffer? Julie. And for the same reason. If girls like Gretl and Pauline chased after men it was because of their mother's blood in their veins. The trouble with Franz was that he also had too much of that blood in him. What luck that Otto Eberhard took after his father!

“I'm aware of that,” the elderly spinster replied at length, “and I have no intention of belittling the memory of your dear mother. In her own way she was a good wife to your father.”

“In every way.”

“It was just that she had strange ideas about bringing up children. I can't say that results have justified her. Look at your sisters!”

“My sisters are getting along splendidly.”

“That's a matter of opinion.”

“My opinion, Auntie.”

“Tell me, Franz. In all Vienna is there no other woman besides Henriette Stein fit to be the wife of the head of the Alt Firm? Have you waited so long only in the end to find no one but her?”

Her nephew answered with such conviction that his rather coarse face lost its expression of displeasure and became almost radiant.

“If there's one thing I'm sure of, it's this! I've waited for Henriette, yes. But I don't want anyone else. No!”

The old lady had finished dressing her hair and put away her brushes and comb. “Then I must congratulate you,” she said after a moment of silence. And then, after another pause, she added, “When will you bring her to see me?”

“When would you like me to?”

“You know I'm always at home.”

“We'll come very soon,” he promised.

“I shall be very pleased,” was her reply.

“Thank you,” he said, and felt a little touched. Then, with his eyes on the window, he remarked: “Oh, yes, there's another little thing. I'd like to build a fourth story on our house. The plans have been drawn, and it can be done very simply while you're all away in the country. You've no objection, have you?”

“What?” she asked.

He repeated what he had said.

“What do you want a fourth floor for, Franz?”

“Because we want to live there.”

“Haven't you enough room on the third floor? Just the two of you?”

“The third doesn't suit us, Aunt Sophie.”

Now her voice rose. “Is that so? Why?”

“You know perfectly well. The rooms are either too small or too huge. You can't heat it. There are no bathrooms. Besides, the Annagasse is dark as pitch all winter long.”

“Please get my cane from over there.”

He handed her the ivory-handled cane. When he offered to help her get up she refused, took hold of her small dressing table, and pulled herself to her feet. It was only when she stood up that one could see how tall she really was.

In her thin dressing gown she walked a few steps beside the bed, past her prayer stool, up to the half-open window and back. Her steps were noiseless, they carried so little weight. Only the cane, which she set down firmly, made a sound. “Miss Stein must be very spoiled!” she exclaimed, and then repeated, “Very spoiled indeed!”

Franz laughed. “In any case, I'd like very much to spoil her,” he admitted.

Then the old lady stood still. “Your brother, Otto Eberhard, has often made me feel that I took the place of both your father and mother. You never have. But at least someone must say to you: ‘Franz, you are headed for disaster!'”

Her words were not severe. Fear and a slight, very slight, trace of suppressed tenderness were contained in them.

“It's sweet of you to be concerned about me,” he answered, “but it's quite unnecessary. I can assure you that there are no two people in all Vienna who will be happier than Henriette and I.”

“As you say,” replied Sophie. “You're in no hurry for my approval about the building, I suppose. As for the other, you don't care anyway.”

“But I do want your approval now!” he urged. “I have to apply to the City Building Commission for a permit. It will take them a long time to get through with all their fuss.”

“But this does not depend on me alone. Your brother and sisters have to give their consent. Each of them is a co-owner of your half of the property.”

“Naturally. But when you've agreed, the majority will be in favor,” he said, laying his cards on the table with his usual lack of diplomacy.

“I want first to talk the matter over with Otto Eberhard,” she concluded.

At that, Franz's sorely tried patience gave way. “You can talk to him as much as you like. You can decide anything you choose, for all I care,” he said, with a snap of his fingers. “As you mentioned a moment ago, I shall be forty in a few years. It's simply absurd that a thirty-six-year-old man should have to ask whether or not he can do this or that! The fourth story will be built. You can bank on that. Good-bye!”

With those final words he strode through the dining room, through the sitting room, where Cora sat with ruffled feathers on her brass rod, and on out into the vestibule.

“Thank you! Thank you!” the parrot screeched anxiously after him.

That much he heard. Of what the old lady said only the beginning reached his ears: “There is absolutely nothing absurd about discussing important matters with the few people who belong to you.” But when she raised her voice and called after him, “Grownups too make catastrophic mistakes,” he was already halfway down three steps leading into the cold passageway.

 

There were obstacles to be overcome before the fourth story could be built. The remarkable part of it was that they were presented by the people in the house than by outsiders. With his keen of actuality and advantages, Otto Eberhard realized at once he would do better to promote his brother's marriage than to oppose it. He weighed Aunt Sophie's objections, and as one of the most loyal adherents of the Christian Socialist party, he could hardly have been accused of being fascinated by Franz's choice. On the other hand, the fiancée's father, Professor Stein, was a man of importance, who would sooner or later be sure to take his place the Upper Chamber. His influence on the Minister of Justice was considerable, and the Public Prosecutor was subordinate to Minister. All in all, therefore, Otto Eberhard's objections were worth mentioning; so, after Franz had agreed that the equities in the property would not be disturbed and that he would bear all the costs of the construction himself, the family said amen.

But the City Building Commission, on the contrary, introduced formalities which drove impetuous Franz to distraction. They maintained that the equities in the house were by no means clearly established and demanded proper documents from each and every one of the co-owners which not only would include consent to the additional structure but would also offer incontrovertible and properly notarized proof of ownership. Subsequently the family lawyer, on his side, insisted on being provided with all the documents pertaining to the matter, either in original form or in notarized copies.

Thus Franz, who loathed official papers and official bureaus, was obliged to take up his abode for a full day in the Hall of Records while looking up all entries and deeds having a bearing on Number 10. And there was a plethora of them; the reason being that a building law established by Empress Maria Theresa required that any Viennese who built, bought, or inherited a house should produce “proof of eligibility.” This meant that all vital facts in the case had to be submitted to a so-called Housing Tribunal, a kind of supervisory organization which interfered in all matters and insisted on knowing everything.