The Vienna Melody (47 page)

The hall, which was packed to the roof, had been holding its breath. Now a storm of applause broke from the benches of the Christian Socialists and Greater Germany partisans. “Long live Seipel!” came the enthusiastic cries. But the left side of the hall, where the Social Democrats sat, was silent.

The speaker in the soutane stood there unmoved. His eyes, behind his strong, steel-rimmed glasses, never left his manuscript. When the noise had lasted too long to suit him he made a gesture with one hand to be allowed to go on speaking.

“He looks awfully interesting,” Martha Monica whispered.

“
Si
,” agreed Gaetano, who had been constantly looking around. Finally he seemed to have found what he was searching for.

“To whom were you waving, darling?” she inquired. Everything here was so awfully interesting.

“An acquaintance,” he replied, and told her to be quiet as the prelate was continuing his speech. When he concluded with the request to be authorized to accept the loans, the applause was renewed, and it became demonstrative when a left deputy rose. It was Renner, Seipel's predecessor, “
un porco socialista
” explained Gaetano to the girl; the Social Democrats, who took over the Government in 1918, had proved themselves utterly incapable since then, so he asserted in low tones. But now they were foaming at the mouth with rage and envy because a Catholic priest had succeeded where they had failed so lamentably. He waved again in the direction of the gallery.

“We know,” said the speaker for the opposition, “that as things are today, Austria has no future. We can just keep ourselves alive until the hour of liberation strikes; that is, until we as Germans can decide in favor of the state to which we belong by the nature of things. You are bartering the hopes our people have in the future. That's why I say we shall not vote with you. No, no, and again no!”

“What does he mean?” Martha Monica inquired.

“A union with Germany!” explained Gaetano contemptuously. “The criminal!”

Another speaker, for whom the Italian seemed to have an even greater antipathy, now held the floor; he was a certain Otto Bauer, so he told her, the intellectual leader of the Socialists who, after the death of Victor Adler, had decided to take on this “poisonous reptile.”

“With high treason we do not enter into discussion!” called this man. “So long as it is harmless we treat it with contempt. But when it becomes a menace we crush it!”

The hot agreement this provoked among the Socialists and the enraged bitterness on the Government benches was a drama Martha Monica drank in. To her it was incomparably more exciting than the most thrilling play. But the tumult which had broken out subsided the instant the man in the soutane rose from his seat.

“In reply to the remarks of the preceding speakers,” he said without gesture or emphasis, although his cheeks were tinged a darker hue, “may I offer for the consideration of the House the fact that policy represents concern for the
res publica
, as the Latins called the state”

“
Benissimo
!” Gaetano cried at the mention of the Latins, but immediately covered his diplomatic indiscretion with a slight cough.

“Concern for the
res publica
,” repeated the speaker, “and not for
res privata
, the affairs of a clique.”

A cry from the left, “Long live the republic, Monsignor Seipel!”

“To give the loudest cheer for the republic, Deputy Leuthner, is not so important as to do more work for it!” countered the prelate. “In these days, when an apocalyptic panorama of decay is unrolling before our horrified gaze, let us speak
sub specie aeternitatis
, under the aspect of eternity. The gentlemen of the opposition impute to me having bartered Austrian freedom abroad—”

“So you did!” some pne called.

“That I did not do, Deputy Ebeseder. In fact, that is more likely to be the fate of Austriah freedom if those who hope to see Austria absorbed into another country are given their way. Everywhere I have been assured that our freedom and our territorial integrity would be respected. But”—and here the speaker for the first time gave evidence of impatience—“should our neighbors be led to believe that certain unrest in Austria was constituting a menace to the peace of Europe—then, obviously, no one can say what will happen.”

In the silence which followed this warning the speaker sat down.

With unprecedented bitterness one deputy spoke out: “We hoped there would never be a St. Germain again! We don't believe, and never wished to believe, that a man elected from among the German Austrian people would be a party to the betrayal of his own nation. You, Herr Chancellor, are prepared to sell Austria's right to self-determination to our enemies in exchange for a few paltry millions. We Socialists cannot pardon this crime, the crime of high treason to our people and land! A crime committed by a man who calls himself a priest!”

“The beast!” murmured Gaetano, and in his indignation seized Martha Monica by the hand. But she had only been half listening, because she was so pleased with the fact that the wife of the Minister of Commerce had bowed to her first, and that handsome Prince Dietrichstein, who, now that titles were abolished, was called prince only in private, was making signs to her indicating that he was fascinated by her. How far she had risen since the time when Gaetano had stared at her so continuously at the Burgtheater. Now it was not one pair of eyes which were fixed on her but many, and the sensation of being stared at had long since ceased to be frightening and had become pleasant. She had often envied her sister-in-law Selma for being the focal point of attention. Now she could be it too. She smiled gratefully at Gaetano.

“Do you know him?” he asked.

He meant the embittered speaker. Of course she knew him; it was Herr Seitz, the Socialist mayor of Vienna, who rivalled popular Lueger as a man of the people. “He's so nice,” was her epithet for him as for most people, and she recalled the jingle made by the ironical Viennese:

 

Now let us see Bauer, Renner, and Seitz,

Show if they know how to put us to rights.

 

“A scamp!” Gaetano retorted. This time he spoke so loud that the Spanish diplomat on Martha Monica's left cleared his throat admonishingly and quickly asked his neighbor if she would like to go to the opening in the Raimund Theater this evening. They were giving one of the craziest plays, something they now called “expressionistic” a good friend of his, who had a part in it, had confided in him that in the second act the ladies—The rest he whispered into the girl's ear. For an instant she wondered whether she should be shocked. Then she laughed heartily. Why shouldn't one use risqué words? That was one more prejudice which these times had obliterated, and it was wonderful of these times to do it. Men spoke with you on equal terms; at last you were no longer the ‘weaker sex.'

“I should have loved to go,” she explained to the Spaniard. “But we are doing the grand tour tonight.” By that was meant going to as many night clubs as you could manage between 11
P.M.
and 7
A.M.
The Spaniard clearly recognized the cogency of her refusal but hoped to meet Martha Monica on her grand tour.

“An abyss is yawning at our feet and we act as though we were standing on firm ground,” someone said. “If we want to live we must see the abyss and build a bridge across it. If we want to be destroyed we shall cover our eyes and crash down into it.”

Was that the monsignor again? He was getting somewhat tiresome, according to Martha Monica, besides, with his ascetic austerity he made you think of a preacher. And what else did he want, anyway, now that he had so much money and every one would have enough? She no longer paid any attention to Monsignor Seipel. The charm of the novelty had worn off, and in any case she had an appointment at three at the hairdresser's. As her eyes strayed about, her attention was caught by an elegant woman who was watching her from the gallery. Ready to acknowledge one more look directed at her, Martha Monica smiled, but in that same instant the lady looked away. Immediately afterwards she discovered her brother Hans. Although she made every effort to attract his eye, she did not succeed. With his head resting on his hands, he was sitting on the stairs in the gallery. He reminded her of a little boy listening to his favorite story.

“There is Hans over there!” she told Gaetano.

“Where?” he asked in an unusually nervous manner.

She pointed him out.

“Not an agreeable person,” remarked Gaetano.

“You don't know each other well enough,” declared Hans's sister. “He's a darling.”

Later in the foyer she arranged to wait for Hans. It was ridiculous that he and Gaetano avoided each other; they really must make it up. Angel that he was, Gaetano had not the slightest objection to waiting in the crowded corridors. On the contrary, he was entertained by it. How many acquaintances he had! All sorts of fascinating people. He spoke to his colleagues from Sofia and Bucharest. And he chatted for a moment with that elegant woman. An Italian, he said, when Martha Monica asked her name. Then Hans came.

As he had seen the Italian from a distance, he was determined not to speak to Martha Monica. In his opinion this alluring gentleman would bear watching. Hans could not stand his troubadour ways, nor yet his half-comic mispronunciation of the language which appeared to be deliberate.

But Martha Monica would not allow him to get by. She literally took him by the hand. The Italian said, “How did you do?” and Martha Monica laughed somewhat nervously.

He was well, Hans said, but he must hurry. He was on his way to fetch Selma during the noon recess after her rehearsal at the Burgtheater. “Won't you come along?” he suggested to his sister.

The Italian made a negative gesture.

“I'm sorry, I have an appointment at the hairdresser's,” she replied. “But I could telephone and cancel it; then perhaps we could come—I mean Conte Corbellini and I. I should so like him to meet Selma. He will be delighted.”

“But not Selma,” Hans said. It slipped out. “What I mean is,” he said, correcting himself at once, “after rehearsals she is always a little nervous.”

“Your brother has funny manners,” the Italian told her with a perfect pronunciation. He laughed as he said it, and showed his dazzling white teeth.

“I'm sorry if I make that impression,” Hans said. “It wasn't my intention to insult you.”

“Of course not!” exclaimed Martha Monica. “You see, Gaetano is laughing!”

“Such people cannot possibly slight me,” said Conte Corbellini in a burst of sudden vehemence. “Not Herr Otto Bauer, nor Herr Seitz, nor Herr Alt.” He made no mistakes, as when he talked with Martha Monica, but spoke with perfect correctness.

Yet that was not what struck Martha Monica. It was the company with which he associated her brother and it led to the explanation, “You know, Hans, he can't stand the Sozis.”

“Good-bye, Mono,” Hans said. “I must be going now.” His meagre stock of patience had already been exhausted by the session of Parliament in which, according to his opinion, both parties left unmentioned the most essential things.

The Italian said loudly enough for Hans to hear, “Naturally his wife cannot possibly be enthusiastic about me. Someone who is so enthusiastic about Otto Bauer!”

Don't listen, said Hans to himself.

When he did not get the reaction he expected Conte Corbellini called after Hans, “I'm accustomed to being treated politely, you Sozi!” His otherwise melodious voice echoed sharply in the marble corridor.

Hans turned instantly round. He had never tolerated scorn. Two strides had brought him back to the Italian, when someone behind him remarked, “This gentleman has unclear ideas about immunity. It's valid in Parliament for deputies but not for diplomats. Why don't you say that to him, Hans? He has already shown by his exclamations that he doesn't clearly grasp where he is.”

Despite the rage which had driven the blood into his head, Hans recognized the speaker. It was someone he had not seen for a long time—Ebeseder, his schoolmate, who had, meanwhile, become a deputy.

The Italian turned contemptuously round. “I accept no instructions from Sozis, nor from people whose wives consort with Sozis—”

As Hans's arm shot vehemently forward it was quickly seized and forced down by Ebeseder's hands. “Quiet,” he said. “We're not going to give this gentleman the satisfaction of some free political advertisement. But it will afford me a juicy titbit when I question our Minister of Foreign Affairs on the subject of the functions of a military attaché of the Italian Government and ask whether we've already been so far sold out that people who are here to keep their mouths shut can open them so wide.”

This last he said to Hans as they approached the main staircase arm-in-arm. “How have you been keeping?” he asked. “I've heard about you indirectly from time to time. You seem to have remained a decent sort of chap.”

“What impertinence!”

“He's of no importance,” was Ebeseder's view. “We shall get rid of him and all his kind. You were at the session?”

“What does a man like that think he's doing?”

“Chancellor Seipel things he has saved Austria. Incidentally, do you believe that too?”

“A people cannot be saved by money. The insolent fellow!”

“Correct,” Ebeseder answered as they reached the entrance of the Social Democratic Club. “Perhaps we can get together some time?”

As Hans went out into the street the City Hall clock struck three. His thoughts were still in confusion. Seipel had not saved Austria. Selma was all for Otto Bauer. One, two, three, he could have stood in a meadow full of violets and shot at a man. For a long time he had held that against his father. But it does not depend on you. When he saw the Burgtheater Square, where he was to meet Selma, he changed again. You must not shoot at a man. It does depend on you.