The Edelweiss Waltz
She slipped back into the ballroom quietly, joining Max where he stood at the edge of the dance floor, and hoping her absence hadn't been noticed. "Champagne," she murmured, lunging for the nearest waiter. Elsa didn't usually drink much at parties – a girl needed to keep her wits about her on evenings like this, and she was too proud of her figure to waste the calories. But she was shaken, badly shaken, by what had just happened upstairs, in the governess' bedroom.
Had she overplayed her hand? Elsa had only meant to rattle the girl, not drive her away from the villa. It was a rare but grave miscalculation on her part. Now that it was too late, Elsa realized that she should have left well enough alone. Who knew what Georg might say or do if his harmless-enough crush were forced out into the open?
And now even Max was going on and on about the little governess, something about her influence over Georg. How had things gotten so out of hand? Six weeks ago, when Georg had invited her to Salzburg, she was sure that, at last, he was going to propose marriage to her. But within hours of their arrival at the villa, things had somehow gone awry, and they'd never really been right since.
Elsa was terribly fond of Georg. And that was all he needed to know, she told herself sternly. They understood each other. They became friends because theyd shared a secret: neither one of them would ever be able to fall in love again, not the way they'd been with their late spouses. It had taken her months to admit, even to herself, that she might be falling in love with this remarkable man after all. She could never let him know, of course: his sense of honor would prevent him from marrying someone whose love he could never return. But with the exception of that slip the day by the lake – and he'd admitted she'd brought meaning back into his life, that was something, wasn't it? - she'd done everything right so far.
And then, as though to make an even greater mockery of her misery, the orchestra struck up a waltz, and there it was: that melody, the same one he'd played for them several weeks ago in the salon, the night she'd begged him to hold this damned party. Until that night, Elsa hadn't even known he could play the guitar, and the next thing she knew, his deep warm voice had floated through the air like a caress. She couldn't forget the way his gaze had lingered on his governess – and it couldn't have been clearer that when he sent a nod her way a moment later, it was out of polite obligation.
That melody was a reminder that she'd seen the problem called Fraulein Maria weeks ago, possibly even before his children's puppet show, but she'd been overconfident and had failed to head it off. Was it too late now, after the scene on the terrace earlier tonight? Another miscalculation: she ought to have acted breezily unconcerned when she'd come upon her Captain entwined with his governess – oh, God, the sight of them! – but she'd been unable to bite back a barbed remark or two. At least the only spectators had been his children. The only people to bear witness to Elsa Schrader's humiliation.
She would not stand for it, Elsa decided. She and Georg had come through too much, these last two years, for things to fall apart now. Her eyes searched the crowd while her mind raced, thinking about how to make the best of this latest turn of events. With the little Fraulein gone, surely she and Georg could recapture the easy warmth they'd always had between them. It would just take some effort, that was all, and Elsa Schrader was a very determined woman. Her husband had said once, only half-joking, that if Elsa had been Emperor, the War would have turned out differently.
Suddenly, Elsa found herself wishing that she could be anywhere except this party. If only she could be alone with Georg, just the two of them, sharing a brandy after dinner in her sitting room in Vienna. She should have been in her element tonight, dressed in a beautiful gown, greeting the cream of society, escorted by a man she l- Well. She had won the skirmish with the little governess, at least. So why did she feel so defeated?
The music grew louder, swelling to fill the room, taunting Elsa with a summer full of memories she'd rather forget. She desperately needed the reassurance of his arms around her. Forcing a smile on her face, she handed her glass to Max and swept across the room, taking comfort in the way Georg turned, as though he'd been expecting her. He seemed to hesitate for a moment, but finally, as she drank in his warm blue gaze, she felt his gloved fingers spread across her back as he moved her into the waltz. One turn, and then another, and then, although she couldn't have explained why – maybe it was something in his touch – she knew.
Everything had changed. Nothing would ever be the same.
OoOoOoOoOo
Think, man, think, Georg told himself. To the outside observer, he was chatting casually with his guests, but in truth, his thoughts were scattered in a thousand directions at once; his heart was racing and he could feel sweat trickling down his back.
Twenty years ago, he was famous – notorious, even – for his fearlessness, his ability to stay cool under fire. Bombs might be exploding at his feet, planted firmly on the deck of a crippled ship, but Georg von Trapp never lost focus. He could calmly analyze his opponent's strategy and plot the surprise moves that would rapidly put him and his crew on the offensive once more.
And now here he was, in a glittering ballroom packed with nothing more threatening than a few dozen vapid aristocrats, and he was flummoxed. Completely out of his depth, brought to his knees by a girl. A girl, barely half his age, who didn't even know which fork to use at dinner. Who had stumbled into his life dressed in a burlap bag and a firefighter's helmet. And who, he had to admit to himself, had set things right between him and his children. Who had drawn him into the charmed circle she'd created with music and games and fresh air and laughter and-.
She was insufferably wholesome. Undeniably entertaining. Delightful, even, in a rustic sort of way – and that was all, he'd barked at Max's gentle inquiries; he didn't want to admit to his growing fascination with her lithe figure, her sparkling blue gaze, her lush mouth and her angelic voice. In the last week or two, it had gotten more and more difficult to push aside his thoughts of her, no matter how many times he'd reminded himself: she is promised to God. She is half your age. She is promised to God. She is half your age. She is promised to God. She is half your age.
Whatever had possessed him to do it- not only to breach protocol and ask her to dance, but to allow himself to be captured by that innocent gaze, her pink cheeks, and that mouth? That mouth! That kind of temptation was for young men, boys who hadn't yet learned to think with their brains instead of their hearts or other body parts. It had started innocently enough – he was just seeking out some fresh air and a moment or two of quiet; he didn't think he could stand another moment of idle gossip and heavy perfume. And could he be blamed, really, for wanting to check on his children, to know if they were enjoying the party?
It wasn't entirely his fault. He hated parties like this, and had indulged Agathe's infrequent desires to hold them because – well, because there wasn't anything he wouldn't have done for her. But this party was different. He'd resented it from the start. He couldn't help feeling that Elsa had trapped him into it, in fact, but he'd given into her suggestion out of guilt, knowing that he'd ignored her that night, the very same night he'd held a guitar and sung for the first time in four years.
The little governess was behind that, too; he had found himself unable to resist her smiling plea that he give into his children and sing. He was surprised, how pleasurable how joyful, really, it was, to coax that melody from the guitar, to feel his voice open up and grow stronger, to harmonize with his daughter.
Tonight, once he came upon the charming scene – Fraulein Maria teaching Kurt to dance, with his children gathered round – the urge to join them was overwhelming. Memories of childhood summers in the country, dancing with girls from the village, laughing and whirling in the evening air... The next thing he'd known, he was reaching for the governess' hand. Within the first few steps, he had felt the stirrings of desire.
"Don't you agree, Georg?" asked Baroness Ebberfield , and he shook himself back to the present, giving the older woman a noncommittal response.
Then he heard it – the first strains of that lovely, infernal melody, the same one he'd played the night of the puppet show, now rearranged into a grand waltz. In shock, he turned toward the orchestra, only to see Elsa approaching, reaching for him. Automatically, out of courtesy, he forced a smile onto his face and took her into his arms.
His mother had told him that when she was a girl, the waltz was considered mildly indecent, suitable only for married or engaged couples. In his mind, he could hear Agathe, teasing him mercilessly about his two left feet, how waltzing with him should merit hazard pay. But here he was, waltzing with Elsa, moving comfortably across the floor. There was nothing indecent about it, no passion in it at all, but she made it easy to waltz, in fact, she'd made the last two years easy. Even pleasant, at times, with her silvery laugh, and their uncomplicated camaraderie. He'd started the summer firmly set on marrying her, and he wasn't going to let a momentary distraction take him off course. He could feel the ring burning a hole in his pocket; if he gave it to Elsa tonight, surely that would put him firmly back in control of his feelings. Wouldn't it?
But how could he marry Elsa when, after all these years, something had caught fire in him again? There was no denying it. It hadn't even been a waltz with the little governess – only a folk dance. Yet out there on the terrace, he had felt as though he was soaring, the two of them headed straight for the stars. He had wanted to sweep the young woman into his arms, crush her mouth to his, hold the length of his body against hers.
Thoroughly unnerved as he was, he'd managed to brush off Elsa's teasing and, later, to pretend indifference about Max's dinner invitation to Maria – Fraulein Maria, he corrected himself. Guilt washed over him – he hadn't needed the hurt bewilderment on her face to know how rude he'd been to her. He'd have to seek her out before dinner, apologize, ask her forgiveness, ask her to -.
The truth was, he could barely wait to explain himself to her. At that moment, Georg knew.
Everything had changed. Nothing would ever be the same.
OoOoOoOoOo
Maria stood perfectly still, her eyes sweeping the foyer to be sure that no one would witness her departure. But the vast space was deserted, now that the guests were enjoying one last dance or a drink before dinner was served. As quietly as possible, she slipped down the last few steps and propped the note on the table. How long, she wondered, would it be before someone saw it? Before they noticed she was gone? She was startled by the appearance of the girl who stared back at her from the huge mirror that hung over the table: so pale that her freckles stood out like charcoal on show, her eyes suspiciously swollen.
She scurried back up the stairs, picked up her things, and turned to take a last look at everything she was saying goodbye to. The last three months had been the happiest of her life, and the villa was the closest she'd ever come to a real home. Funny, to think of how overwhelmed she'd been that first day, by the vast space lined with marble and crystal, the sunlight gleaming off gilded surfaces, soft, rich textures everywhere, and her chilly, imperious employer.
Maria looked up, toward the nursery. That first day, the seven of them had come bursting out into the hallway and marched in formation to meet her. No, wait, it had been six of them - Brigitta had come wandering through later, hadn't she? The marching and the whistles - right away she knew there was a sad story to be told about this family, and she had asked God for His help in setting things right. How she wished she could say goodbye to the children, and offer an explanation, but there was no explanation she could give them. What would she say? I came here on God's errand and have fallen in love with your father?
Next, she looked toward the ballroom. The first time she'd seen him, framed by the ballroom doors, she'd been so intimidated. But later, despite all the differences between them, they seemed to understand each other, somehow. Baroness Schrader had been right. At some point - when did it start? The day he'd come back from Vienna? The night of the puppet show? – Maria had let herself fall in love with him. He occupied her thoughts almost constantly throughout the day, and had begun to invade her dreams at night. She felt her cheeks turn red at the memory of those dreams, and of what had happened tonight when she had danced in his arms. She had been terribly frightened and unbearably excited all at once.
Was that? – she strained to hear the orchestra, and then she wished she hadn't. Although it was arranged as a grand waltz, underneath, it was only the simple folksong he'd played for them that night. How silly she'd been, to think he'd been playing that song for her! Now that Maria understood his true interest in her, the melody mocked her, the way it was made rich by lush strings, like the luxury that surrounded her but she'd never be a part of.
She stood just inside the front door, knowing it was time to go, letting memories of the last three months flood over her one last time. Marta's hand slipping trustingly in hers; Louisa creeping into her bed with a whispered secret to share; Kurt's smiling face at breakfast; Friedrich triumphing over a tricky math problem. The Captain winking knowingly at her over breakfast, turning up by the lake for an afternoon swim, joining her for a stroll after dinner.
She knew that she wouldn't really be able to move on with her life until she forced those memories fade away. How long would that take? Not a month. Not even a year, she was sure. Maybe never. But she'd have to learn to forget. She'd been happy at the Abbey before all of this had happened. Nonnberg had been her home, her family. And she could be happy there again. Couldn't she?
Her throat closed suddenly, and her eyes burned with unshed tears. But now wasn't the time for tears. She had to get back to the Abbey first. Opening the door, she turned to take one last, longing look at all she was leaving behind. It was then that Maria knew, with complete certainty.
Everything had changed. Nothing would ever be the same.
OoOoOoOoOo
I have always loved the brief scene in TSOM, just before the intermission, when the Captain and Elsa waltz to the Edelweiss melody. I love the instability of it: a moment when they are both trying desperately to get back to normal, and Maria is fleeing for the safety of the Abbey she once knew as home, but we know (and they probably know it too) that nothing can ever really be the same. We've had many amazing discussions about this moment on Proboards, and I was especially inspired by some chats with charleybec on the subject which I gratefully acknowledge. The "Maria" part of this story is adapted from something I published earlier on Proboards for another purpose. And …. I don't own anything about TSOM!