The Interpreter: A Tale of the War

  CHAPTER XXVII

  GHOSTS OF THE PAST

  Every one has heard of the gentleman who went to spend a fortnight atVienna in the prime of his youth, and died there at a ripe old age,having never afterwards been beyond the walls of the town. Though theclimate is allowed to be detestable, the heat of summer being aggravatedby a paucity of shade and a superabundance of dust, whilst the rigorouscold of winter is enhanced by the absence of fire-places and thescarcity of fuel; though the streets are narrow and the carriagesnumerous, the hotels always full, and the shops very dear; though thepolice is strict and officious to a degree, and its regulationstyrannical in the extreme; though every house, private as well aspublic, must be closed at ten o'clock, and a ball-giver or lady who"receives" must have a special permission from the Government,--yet,with all these drawbacks, no city in the world, not even lively Parisitself, seems so popular with pleasure-seekers as Vienna. There is agaiety in the very air of the town: a smiling, prosperous good-humourvisible on the countenances of its inhabitants, a picturesque beauty inthe houses, a splendid comfort in the shops, and a taste andmagnificence in the public buildings, which form a most attractive _toutensemble_.

  Then you lead a pleasant, cheerful, do-nothing sort of life. You haveyour coffee in bed, where you can also read a novel in perfect comfort,for German beds have no curtains to intercept the morning light, or makea bonfire of the nocturnal student. You perform an elaborate toilet(are not Vienna gloves the only good fits in the world?), and youbreakfast about noon in the _salon_ of some luxurious hotel, where youmay sit peradventure between an Austrian Field-Marshal, decorated with adozen or so of orders, and a Polish beauty, who counts captives by thehundred, and breaks hearts by the score. Neither will think itnecessary to avoid your neighbourhood as if you had confluent small-pox,and your eye as if you were a basilisk, simply because you have not hadthe advantage of their previous acquaintance. On the contrary, shouldthe courtesies of the table or any chance occurrence lead you to hazarda remark, you will find the warrior mild and benevolent, the beautyfrank and unaffected. Even should you wrap yourself up in your trulyBritish reserve, they will salute you when they depart; and people maysay what they will about the humbug and insincerity of mere politeness,but there can be no doubt that such graceful amenities help to oil thewheels of life. Then if you like to walk, have you not the Prater, withits fine old trees and magnificent red deer, and its endless range ofwoodland scenery, reminding you of your own Windsor forest at home; ifyou wish to drive, there is much beautiful country in the immediatevicinity of the town; or would you prefer a quiet chat in the friendlyintimacy of a morning visit, the Viennese ladies are the mostconversational and the most hospitable in the world. Then you dine athalf-past five, because the opera begins at seven, and with such a bandwho would miss the overture? Again, you enter a brilliant, well-lightedapartment, gay with well-dressed women and Austrian officers in theirhandsome uniforms, all full of politeness, _bonhommie_, and realkindness towards a stranger. Perhaps you occupy the next table toMeyerbeer, and you are more resolved than ever not to be too late. Atseven you enjoy the harmony of the blessed, at a moderate outlay thatwould hardly pay for your entrance half-price to a farce in a Londontheatre, and at ten o'clock your day is over, and you may seek yourcouch.

  I confess I liked Vienna very much. My intimacy with Victor gave me atonce an introduction into society, and my old acquaintance with theGerman language made me feel thoroughly at home amongst these frank andwarm-hearted people. It has always appeared to me that there is morehomely kindliness, more _heart_, and less straining after effect inGerman society than in any other with which I am acquainted. People areless artificial in Vienna than in Paris or in London, better satisfiedto be taken for what they really are, and not what they wish to be, moretolerant of strangers, and less occupied about themselves.

  I spent my days very happily. Victor had recovered his spirits, thoseconstitutional good spirits that in the young it requires so muchsuffering to damp, that once lost never return again. Valerie wascharming as ever, it may be a little more reserved than formerly, butall the more kind and considerate on that account; then when I weariedof society and longed for solitude and the indulgence of my ownreflections, could I not pace those glorious galleries of ancient art,and feast my eyes upon the masterpieces of Rubens or Franceschini, inthe Hotel Liechtenstein and the Belvedere? My father's blood ran in myveins, and although I had always lacked execution to become a painter,keenly and dearly could I appreciate the excellencies of the divine art.Ah! those Rubenses, I can see them now! the glorious athleticproportions of the men, heroes and champions every one; the soft,sensuous beauty of the women,--none of your angels, or goddesses, oridealities, but, better still, warm, breathing, loving, palpable women,the energy of action, the majesty of repose, the drawing, the colouring,but above all the honest manly sentiment that pervades every picture.The direct intention so truthfully carried out to bid the human form andthe human face express the passions and the feelings of the human heart.I could look at them for hours.

  Valerie used to laugh at me for what she called my new passion--mydevotion to art; the goddess whom I had so neglected in my childhood,when with my father's assistance I might have wooed and won from hersome scraps of favour and encouragement. One morning I prevailed onVictor and his sister to accompany me to the Hotel Liechtenstein, thereto inspect for the hundredth time what the Countess termed my "last andfatal attachment," a Venus and Adonis of Franceschini, before which Icould have spent many a long day, quenching the thirst of the eye. Itwas in my opinion the _chef-d'oeuvre_ of the master; and yet, taking itas a whole, there was no doubt it was far from a faultlessly-paintedpicture. The Adonis appeared to me stiffly and unskilfully drawn, as helay stretched in slumber, with his leash of hounds, undisturbed by thenymphs peering at him from behind a tree, or the fat golden-hairedCupids playing on the turf at his feet. All this part of the picture Ifancied cold and hard; but it was the Venus herself that seemed to methe impersonation of womanly beauty and womanly love. Emerging from acloud, with her blue draperies defining the rounded symmetry of herform, and leaving one exquisite foot bare, she is gazing on theprostrate hunter with an expression of unspeakable tenderness andself-abandonment, such as comes but once in a lifetime over woman'sface. One drooping hand carelessly lets an arrow slip through itsfingers, the other fondling a rosy Cupid on her knee, presses his cheekagainst her own, as though the love overflowing at her heart must needsfind relief in the caresses of her child.

  "It is my favourite picture of all I ever saw, except one," I remarkedto my two companions as we stopped to examine its merits; I to point outits beauties, they maliciously to enumerate its defects.

  "And that other?" asked Valerie, with her quick, sharp glance.

  "Is one you never saw," was my reply, as I thought of the "Dido" in theold dining-room at Beverley. "It is an Italian painting with manyfaults, and probably you would not admire it as much as I do."

  Valerie was not listening; her attention was fixed on a party ofstrangers at the other end of the room. "_Tenez, ce sont des Anglais_,"said she, with that intuitive perception of an islander which seems bornin all continental nations. I knew it before she spoke. The partystopped and turned round--two gentlemen and a lady. I only saw _her_;of all the faces, animate and inanimate, that looked downward withsmiles, or upward with admiration, in that crowded gallery, there wasbut one to me, and that one, was Constance Beverley's.

  I have a confused recollection of much hand-shaking and"How-do-you-do's?" and many expressions of wonder at our meeting_there_, of all places in the world, which did not strike me as so_very_ extraordinary after all. And Valerie was _so_ enchanted to makeMiss Beverley's acquaintance; she had heard so much of her from Victor,and it was so delightful they should all be together in Vienna just atthis gay time; and was as affectionate and demonstrative as woman alwaysis with her sister; and at the same time scanned her wi
th acomprehensive glance, which seemed to take in at once the charms of mindand body, the graces of nature and art, that constituted the weapons ofher competitor. For women are always more or less rivals; and with allher keenness of affections and natural softness of disposition, there isan unerring instinct implanted in the breast of every one of the gentlersex, which teaches her that her normal state is one of warfare with herkind--that "her hand is against every woman, and every woman's handagainst her."

  I dared not look in Miss Beverley's face as I shook her hand; I fanciedher voice was _harder_ than it used to be. I was sure her manner to _me_was as cold as the merest forms of politeness would admit. She tookVictor's arm, however, with an air of _empressement_ very foreign to thereserve which I remembered was so distinguishing a characteristic in herdemeanour. I heard her laughing at his remarks, and recalling to himscenes in London and elsewhere, which seemed to afford great amusementto themselves alone. Even Ropsley looked graver than usual, but maskedhis astonishment, or whatever it was, under a great show of civility toValerie, who received his attentions, as she did those of everystranger, with a degree of pleasure which it was not in her nature toconceal. Sir Harry fell to my share, and I have a vague recollection ofhis being more than ever patronising and paternal, and full of goodadvice and good wishes; but the treasures of his wisdom and his littleworldly sarcasms were wasted on a sadly heedless ear.

  I put him into his carriage, where _she_ was already seated. I venturedon one stolen look at the face that had been in my dreams, sleeping andwaking, for many a long day. It was pale and sad; but there was a hard,fixed expression that I did not recognise, and she never allowed hereyes to meet mine.

  How cold the snowy streets looked; and the dull grey sky, as we walkedhome to our hotel--Victor and Ropsley on either side of Valerie, whilstI followed, soberly and silently, in the rear.