IIITHE FAIRY PLAY
Between officers’ cotillons and opera,thés dansantsand military concerts at the Stadt Park, Patsy sandwiched conscientious layers of sight-seeing. I am not of those who follow Baedeker (even in a shame-faced brown linen cover), but I dutifully accompanied her to the gallery and the royal stables, and to worship before Maria Theresa’s emeralds in the Treasury. At the Rathaus I balked—nothing except rice pudding is as depressing to me as a town-hall; when it came to the Natural History Museum I was tepid also. And from that time forth Patsy—with the irrepressible superiority that belongs to born sightseers and to people who take cold baths—announced that she would take the maid.
I thought this a philanthropic idea, and for several reasons worthy of encouragement. So Patsy and the red-cheekedmädlembarked on a heavy sea of churches, themädlmunching apples under rose-windows, while Patsy inspected the pulpit. A week had been spent in this innocent diversion, when the dire news came to us that themädlhad been taken to a hospital with peritonitis. The sour-faced spinster who succeeded her Patsy would have none of. “Ishall go alone to see the engravings,” she announced firmly.
I resigned myself to accompany her; but when we reached the Albertina Burg I was persuaded to take “a tiny stroll” into the Graben, and return for Patsy in half an hour. There seemed nothing out of bounds in this, as the library where Archduke Albert housed his engravings, like most libraries, is sternly shunned by all but the semi-defunct and care-takers. It shares the usual old court with the usual old palaces of mediæval Austrian nobility; and I waited at the gate till Patsy had entered the open square, hesitated a moment before the several doors confronting her, and finally followed sedately in the wake of some Americans—past a pompous gold-lace porter—into the first door on the right. The rest of the story is hers.
She walked leisurely up some shallow stairs, without noticing at first that the Americans had stayed behind to converse with the porter; and that finally they went out instead of following her above. She did think the porter was rather elaborate for a library, said Patsy, but in Austria he didn’t seem extraordinary. The staircase was, however; and she wondered why Baedeker had passed it by. Beautifully carved in white marble, it was carpeted with old Turkish rugs and hung with splendid portraits of the Hapsburgs, and—at the landings—with charming old French clocks.
Patsy admired all these treasures at length, serenely ignoring another and still more imposingguard who scrutinized her sharply as he passed. She has a way with guards, has Patsy; they are generally reduced to becoming humility, no matter how arrogantly they start in. This one stalked on downstairs, leaving her to proceed on her way upward. She was still searching Baedeker for the key to the interesting portraits, and also to the whereabouts of the famous engravings—as yet nowhere to be seen.
According to the guide-book, these should be “in two long rows above the book-cases”; and “one should sit down at the small tables provided for inspecting them, as the crowd of tourists makes it difficult to see the drawings satisfactorily.” This was puzzling. Patsy, now in solitary possession of the large room at the head of the stairs, saw neither engravings nor tables nor tourists. She was quite alone in the centre of the beautiful empty apartment.
She looked at the Louis Quinze furniture, at the gorgeous onyx table set with miniatures; at the impressive portrait of Maria Theresa over the mantelpiece, and several autographed pictures of kings. Baedeker said nothing of all this. It occurred to Patsy then that it must have been the reception-room of the late Archduke, and that the engravings were probably on the floor above. But, before going on, she paused in one of the gold and grey chairs for a moment, further to admire the exquisite room.
While she sat there, she was startled by the sudden appearance of two footmen, in the same grey and gold livery of the porter downstairs. They showed no signs of surprise at her presence, however,but mumbled obsequious greetings and backed into the room beyond. Hardly had they disappeared when another installment of flunkies came in, carrying great trays of food; they too, at sight of Patsy, bent as low as they could under the circumstances—but she now was thrown into a tumult of trepidation. When the door into the other room was opened again, she had a glimpse of a great round table laid with gold plate and crystal andsèvres; grand high-backed chairs surrounded it, and more Hapsburg portraits lined the walls.
Patsy gasped with terror and astonishment. At last it dawned on her that she was in the wrong place!
She caught up her furs and the miserable guide-book, and started towards the door. Only to suffer still worse fright, when she was confronted there by a tall man in uniform; who in most courteous French insisted on her staying to lunch. He was young and had black hair and blue eyes (I will not vouch for the authenticity of these details, as Patsy just then saw all uniforms possessed of black hair and blue eyes); and it was hard to be stiff with him. But she managed to explain with some dignity that she had come to the Albertina to see the engravings, but had evidently entered the wrong door; that she deeply regretted the intrusion, which she begged this gentleman to excuse, and that she must forthwith find her uncle who was waiting in the court below.
I wasn’t, but that is beside the story. The blue eyes of the young man being as keen as most Austrians’ at a second glance, he realized his own mistake,and apologized in turn; hastening to add that mademoiselle could not intrude in this house, as it was honoured by her presence, and that she and her esteemed uncle would be welcome whenever they might be gracious enough to visit it. He begged leave to accompany her downstairs and, as Patsy could hardly refuse, she went with him—“knees wobbling, and my heart still in my mouth, Uncle Peter! When the glum old porter saw us, he all but went into catalepsy; and bowed to the ground, while the nice uniformed man was talking fast to him in German.
“Then he—the nice man—kissed my hand, and held the door for me himself, and said all the polite things over again. I was feeling relieved by this time, so I thought I might smile when I saidAu revoir, and begged pardon once more for my stupidity. I stole a last look too at that lovely staircase and the fierce old portraits; and now, Uncle Peter, I want to get Captain Max and find out directly whose they are!”
Captain Max was inclined to be what Patsy calls “starchy” over the affair. “Gray uniform—blue eyes—black hair?” he repeated tersely. “And the door was the first on the right, in the Albertina Palace?”
Patsy nodded. Suspense overpowered her speech.
“Then it was Salvator, brother of Archduke Ferdinand, the heir to the throne. He was probably having one of his famous little luncheons in the Archduke’s palace.” And Captain Max scowled darkly, first at Patsy, then at me. He thinks, poorenamoured young man, I should have a guardian, myself.
“Then I was in the Archduke Ferdinand’s palace?” cried Patsy. “But why was I allowed? Where were all the guards and things? I might have had a bomb in my muff!”
“We don’t have suffragettes in Austria,” said Captain Max loftily. “And the Heir is what you say ‘strong’ for democracy. He has fewer servants than anybody. Those that he has were probably getting Salvator’s luncheon ready!”
A look I well know came into Patsy’s limpid eyes. “It looked like a very nice luncheon,” said she; “I wish now that I’d stayed.”
Thehauptmanncoloured furiously. Then all at once he laughed. “You will have a chance to tell him so,” he said blandly, “when you make your curtsey to him at the ball next week!”
Really, he is not so bad, this young man for whom I opened the door.
The ball was the famousMetternich Redoute, given every year, during Carnival, by the old Countess who was Austrian ambassadress at the court of the third Napoleon. Each year she names hermasqueby a different fantasy and, once it is announced, excitement runs high over costumes, head-dress, etc. This winter it wasMeeresgrund, “The Bottom-Of-The-Sea Ball,” and the shops along the Graben and Kärtnerstrasse displayed seductive ropes of coral, glittering fish-skins, pearls and golden seaweed—all the heart of mermaid could desire. The one topic ofconversation at parties, between acts at the opera, and in the boudoir at home, closeted with anxious maids, was: what shall her costume be for theMeeresgrund?
It must be something original, somethingchic(that word that is almost more Viennese than French), something beautiful and costly—for does not Royalty open the ball? Patsy’s Titian head all but turned grey during the racking period of indecision. When finally with impressive secrecy she and the recoveredmädlhad spirited her disguise behind locked doors, there was still a tantalizing week before the great event. I did what I could to assuage impatience, in the way of opera tickets, concerts and a performance of Duse.
Over the actress Patsy went as mad as any Viennese; and even I cried a mildbravoor two. Curious, how the sight of a charming woman playing a captivating part, likeLa Locandiera, has the effect of opening one’s mouth, and making one emit strange sounds! The same thing happened to me at the Sunday-morning concert of theMännergesangverein—it looks like a Sanskrit idiom, but it is a simple society of simple Viennese business-men, clubbed together to sing a delightful two hours on an occasional Sabbath morning. They make no pretense at high art, but are fated (by birth and every instinct) to achieve it; and when they stand up, two hundred strong, and roll out the majestic phrases of Beethoven’s “Hymn of Praise,” it is time for even a moth-eaten mere relative to make a fool of himself.
I behaved better at opera. If there is any behaviourin one, opera will bring it out. In Vienna, I mean, of course; not in New York or Paris or Covent Garden, where manners and clothes to beau faitmust beau minimum—and where the real performance is mannequin parade, by the great jewellers and dressmakers. In Vienna, opera-goers have the unique custom of going to hear opera. They arrive on time; or if they do not they wait outside in the corridor till the end of the first act. The conclusion is drawn by the audience in general, that it is present to hear and see what is going on up on the stage; any interruption to this, whether of whispering or rattled programmes, is rudely hissed. While one who attempts to leave or to approach his seat after the first note of the overture has been sounded finds himself detained with greater force than fondness. The rare premise is entertained that opera is designed to furnish music, and that the music is worth hearing. It does not seem to occur to anyone to dispute this by leaving before the final note is struck, and the final curtain falls. To the New Yorker especially, thirsting for his champagne and lobster, this must be a diverting system.
But the New Yorker has probably disdained Vienna opera altogether as too cheap to be worth anything. The best seats in the house are only three dollars, while excellent places may be had for half that price, and the students and enthusiasts up in the gallery pay a sixth of it. Officers come off better still: in the circular pit reserved for them, though they have to stand, these servants of the Emperor pay the ImperialOpera only eightyhellers(eight-pence). Of course there is a goodly show of uniforms all over the house as well; and, with the pretty toilettes of the women, the audience is a gay and attractive one. Though the horseshoe is only about half the size of the New York Metropolitan Opera, there is a comfortable intimacy in its rich gold and scarlet loges; besides (the one elegance the Metropolitan lacks) the quartered trappings of the royal box.
This last is often occupied by one or another of the Archdukes and their wives, and several times a year the Emperor himself is present. Then it is gala performance, and all ladies who attend must be in light evening frocks; gentlemen, of course, in the regulation claw-hammer. It is somewhat disconcerting to see—as I did for the first time—this fashionable assembly extract from its coat pockets a generous ham sandwich, and begin to eat it before the curtain goes up; also to watch the rows of elegant ladies and gentlemen waiting their turn in line at the refreshment bar between acts, and to behold the enthusiasm with which they devour large cheese cakes and beer. The fact is that opera in Vienna begins so early—seven o’clock, as a rule—few people have a chance to dine before they leave home; and they are far too sensible to sit hungry through a long performance, or to satisfy their appetite surreptitiously, as Anglo-Saxons would. They want food, and they go and get it—in as frank quantity as they desire. I have seen our charming Frau Gräfin dispose of as many as nine ham sandwiches in the course of an evening, calmlywhisking the crumbs from her white satin gown meanwhile.
It is superfluous to speak of the all-satisfying delight of the music itself at the Imperial Opera. No one who has seen Weingartner conduct needs to have it described. For no one who has not seen him can it be described. Sufficient to say that the merits of the piece are not left in the hands of a quartet of fabulously paid principals, or to the luxurious detail of extravagant mounting; but that every voice in the chorus, every inconspicuous instrument of the orchestra, is planned and trained and worked into anensembleas perfect as a master ear can make it. And thebravosthat resound at the end of each act are the sure token of the master’s success; for nowhere is there a more critical or a more appreciative opera audience than in Vienna.
This is true of theVolksoperaas well as of the Imperial. Though at the “People’s Opera” the lighter pieces are given for half the price charged at the more pretentious house, the lower middle class who attend them are no less musically trained and difficult to satisfy.
But while every class demands and is given high excellence in classical music, it is in the operette that they unconsciously recognize and worship the true soul of Vienna. As far removed from English musical comedy as caviar from candy, this sparkling, rippling, dashing whirl of airs and waltzes seems to catch up the familiar types out of the streets and cafés, ballrooms and boudoirs, and present them hereon the stageen masse. In place of the musical comedy milkmaid, with her Louis heels and pink satin décolleté, we have the well-known students andgrisettes,grandes damesand varnished oldnoceursseen in the Graben every day. They wear real clothes, and say real things, and make real mistakes—all to the most entrancing music Franz Lehar or Leo Fall can contrive; and the result is a madness of delight on the part of the audience, such as comes only when people are shownthemselves.
Shocking? Yes, frequently. The Viennese and their operettes that reflect them are apt to shock many a conventional-minded foreigner. They even shock themselves sometimes—but excuse the episode a minute later. For they are quick to forgive, and are not over-particular as to morals, if the person eschewing them be gay, attractive and clever. Hence the heroes and heroines of their operettes are audacious to a degree somewhat startling to the uninitiated in Viennese life.
But they make up for it inverveand brilliancy. See them dash through three acts of wit and lightning movement—with all their liveliness they never romp; hear them sing their complicated, racing songs, without a fault; watch them whirl and glide in the heady waltz—laughing, dancing, singing all at once, and perfectly. Shocking? you cry, pounding your cane to bits in time with the tune. Piffle!
It does not do to say this to Patsy. But Patsy, happily, understands very little German; so that I was able to indulge my vice for operettes with heruncurbed. Patsy’s thoughts were all on theMeeresgrund. As we intended to leave Vienna the day after that, it may without fantasy be supposed that some of her less well-behaved thoughts left the bottom of the sea for a certain skating rink, where she had learned the guiding value of blue eyes and black hair. But outwardly everything was concentrated on the Redoute.
I am not a spiteful person, but I was inclined to gloat when the momentous night arrived, and Patsy, in her shimmering costume, confronted our good Countess. American youth settled its score, I think. For the good lady—herself marvellous in lobster pink and a white wig—flew to Patsy, kissed her on both cheeks, and cried: “Aber!It is of an enchantment, a loveliness of fairies,wunderbar!”
And, if I do say it who had no part in the creation, she was right. Patsy stood before us as a fisher girl, her filmy golden nets caught over her shoulders and round the waist with glistening crabs and little brilliant lizards. In contrast with the other women present and their elaborate headgear, the witch had let down her rippling auburn curls to fall in simple glory to her waist. Her cheeks were softly flushed, and her big yellow-brown eyes were shining as she asked demurely, “Do you like me, Uncle Peter?”
I was not too dazzled to forget it was not I actually being asked. But as Captain Max maintained absolute silence—that most ominous of answers!—Ireplied with nice restraint that I found her charming. And we entered the ball.
It was a vast hall surrounded by shallow galleries, and at the far end a platform arranged in the style of a royal drawing-room. In the ballroom itself great ropes of seaweed and ruddy coral hung pendant down the blue-green walls; mammoth shells of palest pink held the mermaids’ chaperones; a fairy ship twinkled one entire side of the hall with favors and fancies awaiting the dance of the sirens; while at every nook and corner lustrous crinkled pearls gleamed forth light.
The glassy floor pool in the midst of all this fantasy was crowded with Neptunes and nereids, water sprites, lovely white chiffon gulls, and Loreleis with their combs of gold. But they were very modern Loreleis, who kept their hair up in correct ondulation, and whose fascinations proved less irresistible than those of one little red-locked fisher girl. Like everybody else, she was masked, and flitted about the giant circle of the promenade with a tall Captain of the Guards in brilliant full-dress uniform. The Metternich Redoute is the one event of Carnival at which only the women appear in fancy dress. The officers and civilians, in sober garb, form a phalanx in the center of the room, whence they watch the gorgeous procession ofpromeneuses. For until the Court arrives everyone walks about and admires everyone else, while one of the two royal bands plays constantly. Laughing masked ladies, unknown to one another, exchange gay greetings; complimentsare bestowed and received in German, French, English, Spanish, Italian and Hungarian; while the familiar “du” is the rule of the evening.
All at once something electric passes over the chattering assembly. From a splendid shifting mass it divides into two solid lines, leaving a broad open space down the centre. The sprightly old hostess is in her place, the bands burst into the stirring chords of the national hymn—and the Court enters!
First the old Emperor with his two gentlemen of the Household: erect, fiercely handsome in his blue-gray uniform of the Hapsburgs glittering with orders. The young lieutenants who have spent the afternoon ridiculing his war policy, at sight of the well-known, grizzled head, forget their grievances and salute with a fervour. The old man, haughtily unconscious, passes on. Next comes the young Heir Apparent, with Archduchess Maria Annunziata—the Emperor’s niece and the first lady of the land—who wears Maria Theresa’s emeralds and a magnificent tiara overshadowing those of the ladies who follow her. But each of them, too, is ablaze with jewels, while for sheer beauty and distinction a more remarkable retinue of women could not be found.
There is the ruddy fairness of the German, the wild grace of the Slav, the rich olive and great dark eyes of the Hungarian, the chestnut hair and black brows of Lombardy: every type as it passes is sworn the loveliest—and then forsworn when the next comes by. The court ladies have confined their fantasy to the coiffure, and some of these headdresses are marvelsof ingenuity and elegance. Wigs are much favoured; white and high, and crowned with ships of jewels, or monster pearls, or nets of diamonds interwoven with every sort of precious stone. The archdukes and high officers, in their mere uniforms, for once are insignificant in the trail of this effulgence of their women; and Patsy did not even see her Prince Salvator till all of them were seated on the platform and the ball was formally begun.
Twelve young girls and men of the nobility open the dance with a quadrille, prescribed according to court etiquette, and marked by a quaint stateliness. The girls are dressed alike in simple frocks of white and silver, while the young men are in more or less elaborate uniform. After the quadrille, dancing is general, but the crowd is too great for it to be any pleasure at first. Not till after the Court has gone is there really room to move about in. Meanwhile, favoured personages are led to the Master of Ceremonies, and by him presented to Royalty on its dais.
Thanks to Countess H——, Patsy and I were permitted to pay homage; and even the severe old Emperor himself unbent to smile at the witch in her shimmering frock when she made herrévérence. There was a look about Patsy that night that a stone image must have melted to—a radiance at once so soft and so bright, no man could have resisted, or woman failed to understand. I can see her now, the colour deepening in her cheek as she made her curtsey to Archduke Salvator. Captain Max was just behind her, the Countess and I at one side.
The Archduke—who did have blue eyes and black hair—was about to return Patsy’s salutation with his bow of ceremony when suddenly he looked into her face. His own for a moment was a study. Then, gazing over her shoulder at Captain Max in his glowering magnificence, he inquired gravely: “And this, then, is the uncle?”
The rose swept Patsy’s cheek to her slender neck. For an instant she hesitated; then, looking straight at me instead of at the Archduke, she said sturdily: “This is the uncle’s nephew-to-be, and your Highness is the first one to learn of it.”
Of course the Countess turned faint, and all but forgot court etiquette in a frenzied hunt for her salts; and the Archduke kissed Patsy’s hand and shook Max’s, and amid a host of incoherent congratulations, discovered that he and Max belonged to the same regiment; and somehow we bowed ourselves out of the Presence and into the gallery again.
The Countess embraced Patsy, within shelter of a blue—pasteboard—grotto, and would have carried her off for a good cry, but Patsy turned to me. “Uncle Peter,” she swung to my arm with that destructive wheedlesomeness of hers, “Uncle Peter, youarepleased?”
Max, too, approached me with an anxiety that would have flattered a Pharaoh. “Patsy,” said I, admirably concealing my overwhelming surprise, “I have only one thing to say:youshall be the one to tell your mother!”
Of course she wasn’t. I knew from the first thatshe wouldn’t be; and I meekly endured the consequences. But all that is sequel. For the rest of the Redoute I sat with the Countess in the jaws of a papier mâché crocodile, and ate macaroons and discussed family pedigree; and Patsy and my nephew-elect fed off glances and waltzed till five in the morning. It was the most hectic evening of my two score years and ten.
When at last we left the bottom of the sea, gaiety was at its crest. The Court had departed long since, but nymphs and nereids whirled more madly than ever, Lorelies spun their lures with deeper cunning than before—now they were unmasked; and mere men were being drawn forever further and further into the giddy, gorgeous opalescence of the maze. In retrospect they seemed caught and clung to by the twining ropes of coral; mermaids and men alike enmeshed within the shining seaweed and pale, rosy shells—compassed, held about by the blue-green walls of their translucent prison. The pearly lights gleamed softer, the music of the sirens floated sweeter and more seductive on each wave, the water sprites and cloudy gulls circled and swam in wilder, lovelier haze.
And then—the wand of realism swept over them. They were a laughing, twirling crowd of Viennese, abandoned to the intoxication of their deity: the dance. Reckless, pleasure-mad, never flagging in pursuit of the evanescentjoie de vivre, they became all at once a band of extravagant, lovable children who had stayed up too late and ought to have been put to bed.
But I was always a doting uncle. I left them to their revel, and departed. I shall go back some day, for I have now in Vienna the gay, thegemütlich, a niece named Patsy—and it all came from choosing a train that arrived before breakfast!