I had been given pears and other things by men both younger and better-looking, but as he looked at me — offering the pear, but allowing by the faint lift of his eyebrows that I might reject it if I wished — a gate shut behind me with a perceptible click. The gate led to other relationships, marriage, the whole intensely agreeable world of erotic dalliance.
I confess I was both resentful and shaken, for what can be more conventional than the situation of a personable young dressmaker and her high-born ‘protector’? Lightness, skill, good manners, laughter and compatibility are the ingredients of such an affair, and all these we had brought to bear on our relationship. And then he handed me this pear…
The first effect of this realization was a violent jealousy. It was not so much other women that I feared, or even his wife. What I was jealous of was quite simply Gernot’s unknown life. Perhaps jealousy isn’t the right word — I was consumed by a passionate curiosity; a desperate need to know where he lived, what paths he trod, what he saw from his windows.
It was a kind of madness and it gave me no peace. So one day when I knew the family was absent, I went in secret to Uferding.
It was a day in midsummer but misty, grey and sad. I took the train and then a cab which set me down by one of the side entrances.
The gate, splendidly carved with the von Lindenberg griffons, stood open; there was no one to be seen. I walked in, my heart thumping, passing between rows of ornate statues: of the Sabine women, their marble legs hanging from the shoulders of their seducers, of Hercules draped in pythons…
The path widened to accommodate a fountain of the kind I had yearned for when I first came to Madensky Square: three tiers, Poseidon with bulging pectorals, nymphs…
And this was only the side entrance!
Next came a series of ornamental grottos and then a group of statues which I approached with caution, and rightly, for as I passed a jet of water from the hat of a cavalier narrowly missed my shoulder. I’ve never been very amused by these jokey Wasserspiele. I’m always too aware of the work of some poor dressmaker or milliner ruined to provide a few moments of amusement for the jaded hosts.
I was approaching the east wing of the schloss now: yellow stucco, green shutters… and a first-floor verandah with a pergola on which I instantly saw Gernot breakfasting with the high born Elise… buttering her croissant, handing her a pear. My pear…
The sun had begun to pierce the mist. Rounding the side of the house, I came upon smooth lawns stretching away towards verdant and rather bosomy hills — and in formal flower beds, a mass of pink begonias which spelled out, unmistakably, the words: LONG LIVE THE KAISER.
I must say I was terribly surprised. It would be Elise, of course, who had given instructions to the gardener, yet I had to face the fact that my lover’s home was disconcertingly different from anything that I had imagined.
Passing an orangery with cages of singing birds and tubs of exotic lilies, I made my way up the terrace steps towards the front of the house.
And now I was accosted. A steward of some sort, responsible-looking and soberly dressed, approached and asked if I had an appointment to look over the house.
‘No, I haven’t. But if it were possible…?’
My hand went to my purse; his stretched discreetly in my direction.
‘Aye. The family’s away. Only the public rooms, of course.’
He led me up a flight of steps into a domed entrance hall with a painted ceiling of swirling and richly endowed muses. Everything in the house was pretty, Italianate, and held no surprises.
Upstairs there were more salons, and in the main bedroom a gigantic bed dripping with brocade, the legs carved into the shape of writhing and grimacing Turks under the heel of the Austrian conquerors.
‘Prince Eugene slept here,’ said the steward. ‘The family use it only on state occasions.’
This I could believe. But what was a state occasion? Had the midwife held up a squealing new-born child beside the carved posts of helmeted Habsburgs and said to Gernot’s parents: ‘It’s a boy!’? Would he die in this monstrosity, my austere and ironic lover?
On the way out I looked at the stables and these too surprised me. I knew nothing about horses then, but I was aware that Gernot’s life, like that of most soldiers, was largely lived on horseback.
But again I’d imagined it wrong. There were only three horses, two of them obviously carriage horses, and one which looked at me gently over the top of the door: a white horse with tender eyes. Not an Arab, I thought, nor a Lipizzaner — its back was very broad and its neck short — yet it carried Gernot and I spoke to it and stroked its nose: this quiet, domestic-looking horse who spent so much more time with my lover than I.
I said nothing to Gernot about my visit to Uferding for many months. But once when we had a whole night together, I told him that I had been to see his home.
‘Good God! When?’
‘Last summer. The syringa was in blossom.’ I smiled. ‘And the begonias.’
‘Begonias? Those little handkerchiefy things in primary colours? I didn’t know we had any.’
‘There was a whole lot of them, in writing. LONG LIVE THE KAISER, they said.’
He came and sat down beside me on the bed. The cigar was in full flight and he was grinning. Did you like it? My home?’
I don’t think I hesitated even for a second. I spoke enthusiastically of the verandah where it must be so pleasant to breakfast, and the bed with the writhing Turks in which, or so I understood, he had been born.
‘Ah, yes, the bed… It’s entirely honeycombed with mouse nests, the mattress. But go on; I’m really very interested in your reactions.’
I was by now a little hurt by Gernot’s evident amusement, but I went on to describe my visit to the stables, my communion with his horse.
‘My horse? Yes, of course… Do tell me what you thought of my horse.’
‘I thought it was very nice. Very gentle and peaceful. I suppose I was a bit surprised because — Gernot, what is the matter?’
His mirth was now so extreme that he was compelled to abandon his cigar. ‘Yes, a very gentle horse indeed. A milk float would strain the poor beast, though he sometimes carries their mother-in-law round the park. She has very bad rheumatism, poor lady.’ He bent over me, his eyes tender. ‘I’m glad you’re so stupid, my dear sweet love. When I first saw you, so wild and distraught in the forest, I was overwhelmed by your capacity for grief. Then when I met you again in the Herrengasse modelling that dress, I thought you were the loveliest, most poised creature I had ever seen. Since then you’ve given me two years of utter delight and to be honest I was getting nervous. The fates can’t mean me to have this paragon, I thought: not a scarred, flawed, ageing bloke like me. But now that I know you are superbly and overwhelmingly foolish, I feel much better.’
‘Why? Why am I stupid?’
He decided to explain. ‘Do you really imagine, my darling idiot, that I would allow anyone in my employ to write LONG LIVE THE KAISER in begonias? Or anything else, come to that? Quite apart from the fact that the poor gentleman could serve his country best by dying as quickly as possible. Or that I would house all those ludicrous statues — and I never breakfast on verandahs because of the wasps.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘You went to Schloss Uferding. It belongs to my cousin and he’s let it to a man from Wiener Neustadt who makes saucepans. A very good fellow — and patriotic, as you see. The horse is for his mother-in-law: an undemanding animal. I’m so glad you didn’t like the place. It’s a sort of joke; quite well done, I suppose, and we liked the funny fountains when we were children. I haven’t been there for years. It’s Burg Uferding that is my home.’