“How dreadful!” she said, in a pained voice.
“Yes,” he agreed, comfortably. “It’s wasn’t a good age in which to be poor.”
“And even now,” she went on, “I’ve seen signs of poverty here. As we came out, children barefoot, begging in the streets . . .”.
“There always have been, always will be beggars in Vienna. But it’s a city of love, laughter, and song. They’re quite happy.”
“I wonder,” she said slowly. “Can people be happy when they’re hungry? I was talking to the woman who came to do my room this morning—she speaks very good English. She’s a widow with four young children, her husband was killed in some trouble during the occupation, and I can tell you she’s had a fearful struggle, with the high cost of everything, just to keep her family alive.”
“Doesn’t that sound like the usual hard-luck story?”
“No, David, she’s a decent wee body and completely genuine.”
“Then you must give her something from your pocket money.”
“Oh, I have!”
The pleased exclamation made him glance at her sideways. After they left the airport, so that she should have something to spend, he had pressed a bunch of notes into her purse—probably some 1500 Austrian schillings, the equivalent of twenty pounds sterling.
“How much did you give her?”
She looked up at him rather timidly.
“All.”
“Oh, no, Kathy.” Then he burst out laughing. “What a little do-gooder you are. Parting with your entire fortune at one go.”
“I’m sure she’ll put it to good use.”
“Well, if it pleases you, it pleases me,” he said, still amused. “And one has to be liberal and a little crazy in Vienna. I love this city, Kathy—so much that it hurts me to see how quickly it is changing. You must take it all in now, my dear, for only too soon, like so many of the beautiful places of the world, it will be completely ruined. Just look at that horror on your right.” They were passing a tall new working-class apartment building. “That faceless nightmare of steel and concrete full of hundreds of little rooms like dog kennels has replaced a lovely old baroque house, a petit palais that was bulldozed down twelve months ago so they could stick up this—this penitentiary.”
“You don’t like it?”
“Who could?”
“But, David,” she took a full thoughtful breath, “the people who live in it will like it. They’ll have a sound roof over their heads and comfort too, heating, hot water, proper sanitary arrangements, and privacy. Isn’t that better than pigging it across a clothes-line?”
He frowned at her quizzically.
“Won’t they pig it in any case? But that’s not the point. What one resents is the destruction of beauty that’s going on all over the world. Tractors and trucks tearing about, gouging and rooting at the lovely monuments of the past, acres of jerry buildings springing up, all identical and all so drearily ugly. England is now swallowed up by dreary suburbs. Italy is full of factories. Why, even in Switzerland they’re crowding scores of tenements on to their loveliest lakeside sites—though not near me, thank God.”
“Yes, it’s a new world we have to live in,” she agreed, after a moment. “But that’s all the more reason to make the best of it. And to do our best to make it better.”
She looked at him inquiringly, as though anxious to know how he would answer her remark. But by this time they had reached the Ringstrasse, where lights were springing out and people beginning to leave their offices, congregating at the pavement cafés, talking, laughing, bringing a note of anticipation to the air. It was a fascinating hour and here, at least, there was nothing to offend his eye. As they slid easily through the evening traffic he drew near to her and, in the gathering dusk, passed his arm through hers.
“I’ve worn you out with lectures and arguments. You must rest in your room for an hour. Then we’ll go out to dinner.”
He had sensed that she was shy of going to Sacher’s, yet for her own sake decided he would take her there. With a little encouragement she would soon overcome her constraint: besides, at Sacher’s one need not dress. As eight o’clock struck on the clock of St Stephen’s he escorted her downstairs and out of the hotel. As the night was fine, they walked the short distance along Kärntnerstrasse. The glassed-in terrace of the restaurant was crowded but he had taken the precaution of making a discreet reservation in the little side room known as the Red Bar. He could see that his choice of table gave her confidence and, glancing across the menu, which he had been studying, his expression became reminiscent.
“I hope we’ll get something as nice as the fish you chose in Edinburgh. Our first meal together. I’ll never forget it. Tell me, do you like foie gras?”
“I don’t know.” She shook her head. “But I suppose I might.”
“Well, then, we’ll have it. With some Garnierter Rehrücken and Salzburger Nockerln to follow.” He gave the order, adding: “As we’re in Austria we must honour the country and drink a little Durnsteiner Katzensprung. It comes from the lovely Danube valley about fifty miles from here.”
The foie gras was brought, tenderly pink; he sniffed it delicately, assuring himself it was the real Strasbourg, adequately truffled, then ordered it served with raspberry sauce. When the wine was shown, sampled, approved and poured, he raised his glass.
“Let’s drink a little toast to ourselves.” Then, mildly, as she hesitated: “Remember, you promised to be human. I want to get you out of that dear little Scottish shell of yours.”
Obediently, though a trifle tremulously, she raised the long-stemmed glass, put her lips to the fragrant, amber liquid.
“It tastes like honey.”
“And is just as harmless. I think you know me by this time, Kathy.”
“Oh, I do, David. You’re so very nice.”
The venison was all he had expected, served with a savoury radish and apple sauce. He ate slowly, as was his custom, and with feeling, giving to each mouthful the respectful attention it deserved. In the adjoining alcove someone had begun to play softly on the piano, a Strauss waltz of course, but in this setting how right—charming, haunting, melodious.
“Isn’t this agreeable,” he murmured across the table. He loved to see the colour come and go in her fresh young cheeks. What a darling she was, arousing the best in his nature, bringing out all that was good in him.
The sweet, as he had hoped, proved to be a triumph. Reading her expression, at which he was not expert, he explained:
“It’s made almost entirely from fresh eggs and cream.”
“How many eggs?” she wondered.
He turned to the waiter.
“Herr Ober, how many eggs in Salzburger Nockerln?”
The man shrugged, but with politeness.
“So many, sir, you forget the number. If Madame wishes to make good Nockerln she must not count the eggs.”
Moray raised his eyebrows at Kathy across the table.
“We’ll have to start a poultry farm.”
She broke into a peal of laughter, like a schoolgirl.
“Oh, the poor hens, trying to keep up with that.”
Delighted with her unusual high spirits, he did not fail to notice that she offered no objection to his hint of their future association. Presently the bill arrived and, after a casual survey, he paid it with a note of high denomination, and tipped so lavishly as to produce a succession of bows, almost a royal progress.
As they came out of the restaurant they were met on the pavement by the usual outstretched hands—the match and paper flower sellers, the cripples, fake and genuine, the ragged old man with the wheezy accordion, the old women who now had nothing to sell but flattery. With the change from the bill he gave freely, indiscriminately, just to be rid of them; then, escaping towards the hotel, he was unexpectedly rewarded. She took his arm and of her own accord came close to him as they walked towards the Neuer Markt.