Alpine Interlude
Chapter One
Of Mountains, Rooms, And Apfelstrudel
Rosenberg, Lower Austria, summer 1933.
In attempting to describe Rosenberg, Friedrich and Edith's beautiful home in Lower Austria, possessed as it was of magnificent views northwards to the distant, soaring peaks of the snow-capped Alps, southwards to the spreading mossy green mantle of the Wienerwald - the Vienna Woods - and thence to the sparkling broad waters of the River Danube, one quickly ran out of superlatives. Something with which the Bransons and the Crawleys, who had come to stay here for the latter part of the summer of 1933 would have agreed.
For many, an Austrian schloss conjured up the image of a ruined medieval castle perched at an improbable height upon some desolate, snowbound, rocky crag. And although this was true enough of some, there were many which were mansions set at the heart of an aristocratic estate like Downton Abbey. And which existed too in what was now called the Irish Free State. Or rather they had until the early '20s when the majority of these, like Skerries House, the former home of the Bransons down in County Cork, had been burned to ground by the IRA either in the Irish War of Independence or else the Irish Civil War that had followed it. All would have been described as country houses and Rosenberg was one of these.
Built round a central courtyard, with massive, ochre coloured walls punctuated by regimented rows of double windows, nestling beneath a group of steeply sloping red tiled mansard roofs, peppered with chimney stacks, and with house martins nesting beneath the pediment above the main entrance. Within there was a succession of impressive state rooms, among them, the entrance hall with its double, curving, sweeping, marble staircase, quartet of gilded lanterns, decorative panels and medallions of sculpted plaster work. All of the succeeding suite of ground floor rooms in some way or other were plastered, panelled, gilded, and painted, with floors of polished wood, save of course for the flag stones paving both the hall and the ornate chapel, redolent of beeswax and the scent of pine logs, all kept warm in winter by large tiled stoves, the rooms sumptuously furnished, and which in their magnificence surpassed even Chatsworth House in Derbyshire and Castle Howard in Yorkshire, both of which were well known to Mary.
However, as Edith herself had been at pains to point out to her newly arrived guests, given the fact that Friedrich and she did very little by way of entertaining, indeed were often out in the Near East on yet another of their archaeological expeditions, while some of the state rooms here at Rosenberg, had been opened up especially, most of them were closed and shuttered, their furnishings swathed in dust sheets.
Not so, and much to the delight of Tom, the library which with its thousands of volumes, including a complete set of the Encyclopedia Britannica, rivalled that at Downton. With a laugh, Friedrich, in whom last year with their shared political views Tom had found a kindred spirit, knowing his Irish brother-in-law's abiding love for both books and the written word, duly proceeded to place the entire contents at Tom's disposal for the duration of his visit to Rosenberg.
Out on the sun drenched, stone flagged terrace, midst the mingled scents of lilac, rose, box, and lavender, Tom sighed contentedly, patted his stomach, lounged back in his wicker chair, and promptly closed his eyes.
"Ah, to be sure," he said, now deliberately lapsing into a thick Irish brogue, something which was guaranteed to make all of those, even the aristocratic Mary, seated out here on the terrace, laugh, "Edith, me darlin', that meal was absolutely delicious".
"I'm very glad that you enjoyed it. Frau Eder will be pleased". Edith dimpled with pleasure. Ever since June 1919, when she had first become properly acquainted with her younger sister's Irish fiancé, Edith had always had an exceedingly soft spot for her brother-in-law, Tom Branson.
"And the dessert, what did yous say it was called again?"
"Apfelstrudel," replied Edith. "It's darling Max's favourite. If you'd like another piece, I'm sure there's some left down in the kitchen. Would you like me to ask Frau Eder …"
"I'm sure Tom would, but if it's all the same to you, Edith, I'd much rather that you didn't!" laughed Sybil. Decidedly amused, she prodded her handsome husband gently in the stomach whereupon the Irishman opened one enquiring eye and then just as quickly closed it again. Eyes still shut, Tom grinned.
"Is that a polite, English way of saying that yous t'ink I'm fat?" he asked, now doing his best to contrive to sound aggrieved.
"No, not at all. I'm simply concerned to see that you don't become so. Especially after you more than did justice to the chocolate dessert served last night at dinner!" laughed Sybil.
"What? With yous and all the children to keep me on my toes? No chance of that, for sure!" Tom chuckled. Life was exceedingly good. Married to the woman he adored and with four healthy, boisterous children: Danny now thirteen, twelve year old Saiorse, seven year old Bobby the family joker whom everyone said was the splitting image of Tom, and lastly young Dermot born earlier this same year.
"So was it even better than the Italian dessert you enjoyed so much when we were all together in Florence? The … What was it again, Mary?" Sybil looked across at her elder sister, seeking some form of enlightenment, but none was forthcoming. Instead, Mary frowned then vigorously shook her head.
"Darling, I leave that sort of thing to our cook".
"Tiramisu," Friedrich smiled and winked at Sybil. "And, so it is said, made first for the Grand Duke Cosimo III in Siena towards the end of the seventeenth century".
Friedrich von Schönborn, Edith's erstwhile lover and, since last year when they had married in the English Church on the Via Maggio in Florence, now her husband, and the father of their two children, darling Max aged ten and dear little Kurt born earlier this same year seemingly thankfully free of the haemophilia from which Max suffered and for which there was no cure, was someone who was possessed of a seemingly infinite store of all manner of unexpected knowledge. Not only academic and historical as was only be expected of someone who was an archaeologist as well as a member of the renowned Archaeological Institute in Vienna, but also the arcane and the obscure, and who, without any trace of conceit upon his part, could always be relied upon to provide a helpful answer to the most esoteric of questions.
Mary turned her head away so that the others should not see her frown.
The existence of Edith's lover, let alone the fact that she had given birth to a child back in 1922, had come as something of a revelation to both the Crawleys and the Bransons. As it turned out, Friedrich and Mary were themselves already acquainted and which, when they met again after an interval of some twenty years had proven a shock for each of them.
Mary had not recognised Friedrich at first, at least not from the handful of grainy, sepia coloured photographs which Edith had shown them in the salle d'attente in distant Calais, while they had all been waiting to board the Rome Express, This earlier familiarity between Friedrich and Mary stemmed from a chance encounter at a splendid ball held at the Austro-Hungarian Embassy in London, where Friedrich had then been serving in the capacity of a Military Attachė on the eve of the Great War, or as Matthew had put it, when he had learned of their meeting, before the Flood.
Fortunately, what could well have proved an extremely difficult situation had been overcome, although Mary still remained wary of Friedrich. The more so since it had transpired that he knew the elder brother of the decidedly deceased Pamuk and therefore presumably what it was that had transpired between the now long dead young Turkish diplomat and the then Lady Mary Crawley. Of equal concern to Mary was just what, in the intervening years, Friedrich might have said about her to Edith. After all, as no doubt both of the Crawley sisters readily would have conceded, neither was especially fond of the other. Of course these days, they met up but infrequently and when they did thankfully Sybil was on hand to keep the peace between her feuding sisters.
Which was why, earlier this same year, after Edith had given birth to young Kurt, and then Sybil to Dermot, when the invitation had been extended both to the Bransons and the Crawleys to come and stay here at Rosenberg for part of the summer, Mary had been somewhat reticent about agreeing to accept it. This and the fact that, from the photographs she had seen of Rosenberg, it was self-evident that the splendours of Friedrich and Edith's home quite eclipsed those of Downton Abbey, the ancestral seat of the Crawleys.
Then there had been the small matter of that diamond tiara, matching necklace, and ear rings, which Friedrich had given to Edith to mark the birth of their son, darling little Max, of whom, it must be said, Mary was inordinately fond. When Robert had been born, true to form Matthew had marked the birth of his son rather less expensively by placing a simple stone carved with the date and the boy's initials on the gable of the newly restored barn at Home Farm! What was more, Edith's magnificent set of jewels clearly outshone those which Mary herself had inherited by right when she had become the countless of Grantham following the death of her father in 1931.
And, of course, the political situation in Austria remained precarious making a visit here at this time perhaps unwise. Back in March, in an attempt to stabilise matters the diminutive Chancellor, Engelbert Dollfuss, had closed down the country's parliament, turned Austria into a one party state, and was now running the country by emergency decree. A disgraceful state of affairs and something which, following the arrival of the Bransons and the Crawleys, had drawn several pithy comments in private from Friedrich. Meanwhile in neighbouring Germany some seven months earlier, in January, Herr Hitler, whom both Matthew and Tom referred to contemptuously as a jumped up little corporal, had become Chancellor there.
Nonetheless, Mary's affection for young Max was genuine enough.
It stemmed from something which had happened last year when, at the villa in the Fiesole Hills, Mary's quick thinking had undoubtedly saved the life of her young nephew. Max had tripped and fallen headlong down a flight of marble steps and had it not been for Mary who without a thought for her own safety had placed herself directly in the path of the falling boy, darling Max, a haemophiliac, would have been killed.
And it was because of Mary's undoubted love for Max that when Matthew quietly pointed out to his wife that if they did not accept Friedrich and Edith's kind invitation to stay at Rosenberg no-one would be more upset than young Max who having learned that his English and Irish cousins were not coming to stay after all would be quite inconsolable, that Mary relented. Thereafter, the necessary arrangements were duly put in hand by the capable, albeit condescending Barrow. Of course, if Mary had had her way, Barrow would have been dismissed long ere since but there was no denying that as successor to the aged Carson, Thomas Barrow was punctillious in his performance of his duties as the butler of Downton Abbey: Matthew putting down his wife's intense dislike of the dark haired, saturnine Barrow as nothing more than the fact that he was not Carson. Of course, had the earl of Grantham been aware of the nature of, and the reason for, Barrow's annual trip to the flesh pots of Berlin, then Matthew might well have thought differently.
The Bransons had crossed the Irish Sea from Dublin to Liverpool on board the British and Irish Steam Packet Company ship the Innisfallen, then travelled by train first to Downton and thereafter in the company of the Crawleys up to London where all they spent the night at the Hotel Russell close to the British Museum. Then on to Dover on board the Golden Arrow and across the English Channel by steamer to Calais. Thence by way of Paris and Strasbourg crossing over the border into Germany, passing through Munich, and so into Austria on board the eastbound Orient Express bound for far distant Istanbul; the Bransons and the Crawleys leaving the express at the Westbahnhof in Vienna where, having changed to a local train, they and their luggage were met at the wayside station at St. Johann by a pair of motors sent for the purpose by Friedrich and Edith and so conveyed to Rosenberg.
A moment later Matthew now appeared on the terrace from the lawn below. He was closely followed by a bevy of excited children led by Danny Branson, his cousins Robert Crawley aged twelve, and ten year old Max Schönborn whom Danny and Robert had both met for the very first time only last summer, and who since then when, as now, they were all together, were utterly inseparable, so much so that the three boys had been dubbed collectively by their parents "The Three Musketeers"; their camaraderie the result of a shared experience last summer when they had found themselves stranded at the remote railway station of St. Jean de Maurienne high in the French Alps.
In their wake came young Bobby Branson and ten year old Simon Crawley clutching his teddy bear Oscar upon whom these days he kept a very close eye, the more so since the previous summer when, on board the Rome Express, "kidnapped" by both Danny and Robert, Simon's beloved bear had been put "on trial" for all manner of heinous "crimes" and duly sentenced to death by hanging and dismemberment: the entire "legal" proceedings relayed gleefully by the two elder boys to Simon and Bobby, through the keyhole of the locked door between their respective sleeping compartments. Behind the boys there came Saiorse, Danny and Bobby's sister, and last but by no means least, Fritz, Max's beloved dachshund, the little dog's claws clicking noisily on the sun baked flagstones of the terrace.
Slightly perspiring, eyeing the jug of ice cold lemonade standing on the table, Matthew nodded his approval.
"I think I'm about ready for some of that". Having poured himself a glass, Matthew sank down wearily in the nearest empty chair. "Yes, yes, boys, I promise! We'll play another game of cricket later this afternoon". Catching sight of Tom snoozing beside him, Matthew smiled. "That is, after your dear old Uncle Tom has finished his afternoon nap".
"Less of the old, if you please!" mumbled Tom.
"Grand, for sure, Uncle Matthew," laughed Danny.
"What shall we do now?" asked Bobby.
Simon shrugged.
"Search me!"
"I know, why don't we all go down to the stream and try and tickle the trout," suggested Robert.
"Yes!" This from Max. He was not at all sure what Rob meant by what he had just said but it sounded fun.
"Let's not". Saiorse scowled.
"Have it your own way, sis".
Saiorse glared at Danny.
"I will!"
She folded her arms and, when quite certain that Ma wasn't looking, promptly stuck out her tongue. Not of course that it made any difference as a moment later, followed by a barking Fritz, the five boys were heading off back down the steps of the terrace.
"Max, don't run so fast!" called his mother. Not that Max seemed to have heard her but even if he had, he certainly didn't take any notice. Instead, the constraints long placed upon him by his haemophilia presently forgotten, just like any healthy ten year old boy, sunburned, happy, and carefree, running like the wind, Max led his cousins across the new mown grass, heady with the rich smells of hay, clover, and lucerne, towards the distant stream.
Saiorse continued to glower at the retreating forms of the five boys.
While she had a very soft spot for her young Austrian cousin Max, Saiorse had no finer feelings whatsoever for her English cousin Robert, the eldest of Uncle Matthew and Aunt Mary's three children; partly on account of the fact that whenever Robert and her adored elder brother Danny were together, Saiorse found herself excluded from their games. Now, whether this was actually true or just a perception on her part, Saiorse never stopped to think. Not, of course, that that she had much time for her brother Bobby either who, as far as Saiorse was concerned, was just as thick as thieves with Robert's younger brother, Simon. As for Rebecca, Saiorse's youngest Crawley cousin, well she only liked playing with her dolls; Saiorse had no time for her whatsoever. And just now, Uncle Matthew hadn't helped at all; referring to "the boys" as if she herself wasn't even there!
"I really think I should look in on Dermot". Sybil rose slowly from her chair. "Saiorse, darling, do you want to come?"
Without turning round, Saiorse shook her head, rested her elbows on the balustrade of the terrace, and silently plotted how best to exact her revenge.
"And I should do the same with Kurt," voiced Edith who, now likewise having risen to her feet, linked arms with her younger sister. Her own eyes closed, Mary smiled. There was something to be said for having a nanny after all. Especially now …
But before Sybil or Edith had taken more than a few steps towards the house, Kleist, the elderly butler appeared out on the terrace to announce in a sonorous tone the arrival here at Rosenberg of unexpected visitors.
Author's Note:
Engelbert Dollfuss was indeed diminutive and stood but 4 feet 11 inches in height. In the Viennese coffee houses of the period a small black coffee was nicknamed a "Dollfuss"; black being the colour of the Chancellor's own political party.
Adolf Hitler had been sworn in as Chancellor of Germany in January 1933. Following the Reichstag fire and the passing of the Reichstag Fire Decree and the Enabling Act by the time of the Bransons' and the Crawleys' visit to Rosenberg, Germany was effectively a de facto legal dictatorship.
In fact Matthew and Tom were mistaken about Herr Hitler's rank. During the Great War he served as a Gefreiter - lance corporal – in the Bavarian Army.
Built in 1930, the Innisfallen was later sunk by a mine in the River Mersey in December 1940 during WWII.
Introduced by the Southern Railway in May 1929, and running between London Victoria and Dover, The Golden Arrow was a luxury Pullman train. It ceased running in 1972.
Search me an English idiom and a customary response when one does not know the answer to a question.