But now they were in the town and sweeping round the public garden with its high central fountain. Arturo drew up, was out in a flash to remove his uniform cap and open the car door. They mounted the steps towards the Kunsthaus.
“Some of my friends in the diplomatic corps may have come up from Bern for this affair. If it wouldn’t bore you, you might care to meet them.”
He was deeply pleased. Although not a snob—good heavens, no!—he liked meeting “the right people”.
“You are charming, Frida,” he murmured, with a sudden quick intimate glance.
Chapter Three
The party had been in progress for some time: the long hall was filled with noise and crushed human forms. Most of the notables of the canton were there, with many worthy burghers of Melsburg and those of the Festival artistes who had performed during the final week. These, alas, were mainly of the old brigade since, unlike the larger resorts of Montreux and Lucerne, Melsburg was not rich, and between sentiment and lack of funds, the committee fell back year after year upon familiar names and faces. Through the haze of cigarette smoke Moray made out the aged and decrepit figure of Flackmeister, who could barely totter to the podium, held together by his tight dress coat, green with the sweat of years beneath the arm holes. And over there stood Tuberose, the ’cellist, thin, tall as a beanpole, and, through long clasping of his instrument, very gone about the knees. He was talking to the superbly bosomed English contralto, Amy Rivers Fox-Finden. Well, it made no odds, Moray reflected, gaily edging his way into the crush with his companion, the applause at the concerts was always rapturous and prolonged, reminding him, much as he loved his neighbours, of row upon row of happy sheep flapping their front legs together.
They were served with a beverage of no known species, tepid, and swimming with fragments of melting ice. She did not drink hers, merely met his eye in a humorous communicative side glance which plainly said, “How wise you were, and how glad I am of your delicious tea”—almost, indeed, “and of you!” Then, with a gentle pressure of the elbow, she steered him across the room, introduced him first to the German, then to the Austrian minister. He did not fail to observe the affectionate respect with which each greeted her, nor her poise in turning away their compliments. As they moved off Moray was hailed exuberantly across the press by a sporty British type, all amiable plastic dentures and alcoholic eyeballs, dressed in a double-breasted, brass-buttoned blue blazer, baggy fawn trousers and scuffed suede shoes.
“So nice to see you, dear boy,” Archie Stench boomed, waving a glass of actual whisky. “Can’t move now. Keep the flag flying. I’ll be giving you a ring.”
His face clouding slightly, Moray gave a discouraging answering wave. He did not care for Stench, correspondent of the London Daily Echo, who also “on the side” did a weekly social column for the local Tageblatt—airy little items, often with a sting in the tail. Several times Moray had been stung.
Fortunately they were near the far end of the big room where, by the wide bay window, a group of their own particular friends had gathered. Here were demure Madame Ludin of the Europa Hof and her delicate husband, standing with Doctor Alpenstück, grave addict of the higher altitudes. Tall, erect, a noted yodeller in his youth, the worthy doctor never missed a Festival. Beyond, beside the ugly Courter sisters, at a round table from which, short-sightedly, she had cleared all the cocktail biscuits within reach, sat Gallie, the little old Russian Princess Galliatine, who was stone deaf and rarely spoke a word but went everywhere to eat, even to remove food expertly in the large cracked handbag she always carried, bulging from over-use, and containing papers proving her relationship with the famous Prince Yussapov, husband of the Tsar’s niece. A pale, limp little creature with a straggle of worn sable on her neck, whatever the past had done to her it had given her a smile of docile sweetness. Not altogether presentable perhaps—still, an authentic princess. A rather different figure occupied the centre of the group, Leonora Schutz-Spengler, and as they drew near Madame von Altishofer murmured humorously:
“We shall hear the full story of Leonora’s hunting trip.”
Pausing in the act of narration, Leonora had already acknowledged them with a brilliant smile. She was a vivacious little brunette from the Tessin, with a red laughing mouth, enterprising eyes and pretty teeth, who some years before had nibbled her way into the heart of Herman Schutz, the richest cheese exporter in Switzerland, a large, pallid, heavy man who seemed fashioned from his own product. Yet Leonora was herself worthy of affection, if only for her splendid and amusing parties, junketings which took place at her hilltop villa above the town, in a candlelit, red wood outbuilding, the walls bristling with contorted mammalian horns, amongst which scores of budgerigars flew, fluttered, perched and twittered while Leonora, wearing a paper hat, prodigally dispensed bortsch, melon soup, goulash, caviar, cheese blintzes, Pekin duck, truffles in port wine, and other exotic foods; before initiating wild and improbable games, all produced out of her own head.
Moray seldom gave much heed to Leonora’s excited ramblings, and his thoughts wandered as, speaking in French, she went on describing the trip from which she and her husband had just returned. Vaguely Moray had heard that Schutz, who late in life had developed ambitions as a jäger, was renting a shoot, somewhere in Hungary he believed.
Nevertheless, as Leonora irrepressibly continued, his ear was caught by certain phrases, and with a sharp tightening of his nerves, he began to listen with attention. She was not speaking of Hungary but describing a stretch of Highland countryside in terms which suddenly seemed to him familiar. Impossible: he must be mistaken. Yet as she proceeded, his strained suspicion grew. Now she was speaking of the road uphill from the estuary, of the view of the moor from the summit, the river rushing between the high walls of the corrie into the loch, the mountain dominating all. Suddenly he felt himself tremble, his heart turned over and began to beat rapidly. God, could he ever have imagined this turning up again, so unexpectedly. For she had named the mountain, and the river, and the loch, she named lastly the moor her husband had rented, and these utterly unforeseen words sent a painful shock of shame and apprehension through all his body.
Someone was asking her:
“How did you reach this outlandish place?”
“We went by the most fantastic railway—one narrow line, three trains a day—to an adorable little station with such a pretty name. They call it . . .”
He couldn’t bear to hear that name, yet he did hear it, and it brought back, though unspoken, the last unavoidable name of all. He turned, muttering some excuse, and moved off, only to discover Stench good-naturedly at his elbow.
“Not going already, dear boy? Or can’t you stand the weirdies any longer?”
Somehow he brushed him aside. In the foyer a draught of cool air revived him, brought some order to his confused mind. He mustn’t rush off like this, leaving Madame von Altishofer to return alone. He must wait, find a less crowded place—over there, beside that pillar, near the door. He hoped she would not stay long. Indeed, even as he moved to take up his new position she was beside him.
“My dear friend, you are ill.” She spoke with concern. “I saw you turn quite pale.”