Disclaimers, acknowledgements, notes, warnings, etc: Please see Chapter 01.
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The Sound of Music Chronicles
Part I
The Twelfth Governess
Chapter 02
A truth universally acknowledged
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"In all the famous love affairs
The lovers have to struggle.
In garret rooms away upstairs
The lovers starve and snuggle.
They're famous for misfortune which
They seem to have no fear of,
While lovers who are very rich
You very seldom hear of."
Rodgers & Hammerstein, How can love survive?
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"How great my grief, my joys how few,
Since first it was my fate to know thee!
- Have the slow years not brought to view
How great my grief, my joys how few,
Nor memory shaped old times anew,
Nor loving-kindness helped to show thee
How great my grief, my joys how few,
Since first it was my fate to know thee?"
Thomas Hardy
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"For God´s sake man, try to see it from my point of view: Austria wants her heroes to be knights in shinning armour, not grease-covered mechanics in a stinking tube who bob up from the bottom and assassinate passing ships. It simply isn´t what Maria-Theresien Ritters are supposed to be."
John Biggins, "A Sailor of Austria".
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Ever since the official mourning period was over, women paraded themselves in front of the Ritter von Trapp, Knight of the Order of Maria-Theresia. All of them were, at first, willing to rescue him from a lonely widowhood and mend his broken heart. As much as he hated it, he became a crusade for some of them. Oddly enough, his brooding air of a tortured hero seemed to appeal to the eligible females, rather than repel them. What made it worse is that he was the perfect catch, possessing a deadly combination of handsome looks, wealth, and the status of one of Austria's greatest naval heroes. The young ones were drawn to him because of his dangerous looks and his glorious military feats, the older, more sophisticated women were attracted by his dry wit, and his sarcastic sense of humor. In essence, he was too much for any woman in search of a husband to resist.
There was an assortment of women of every kind for him to choose from – horse faced heiresses, desperate spinsters, merry divorcées, virginal debutantes, grieving widows… He soon found that he could not stomach any of them, not even for what would be a marriage of convenience. Luckily, most of the ones who were paraded before him were not only absolutely inadequate - they usually disappeared after they heard about the seven children his wife had left him with.
There were also the matchmaking mothers to be dealt with… not to mention a matchmaking elderly aunt and a matchmaking mother in law. It was too much for him to stomach.
Agathe´s parents were alive and well, but while his father-in-law settled for a quiet existence in a small village in the Cornish coast, his mother-in-law, The Right Honourable Frances Whitehead made it her personal crusade to look after the interests of her beloved grandchildren. During her last visit, she began inquiring him, not so subtly, if he would consider taking another wife. She also made it clear that it would be, and it should be, a marriage of convenience, for the sake of her grandchildren only. It was something he could understand only too well – the idea of replacing Agathe with another woman in the heart of those who loved her was as unthinkable to her own mother as it was to him.
Another fierce advocate of a marriage of convenience was his elderly aunt, Alicia von Trapp, his father´s sister and the eldest member of his family. Considering herself the matriarch of the von Trapps, her concerns were of a different kind entirely. The matron feared that his seven children would not be enough to carry the family name to future generations, since there were only two male heirs among them. Apparently, according to her, he needed to produce more male sons! In his current state of mind, however, the very idea of producing more children was just as absurd as the idea of replacing Agathe in his heart. Moreover, he could barely control the seven he already had, what would he do with seven more?
Such was the state of his private affairs when two and a half years after he became a widower, Baron and Baroness Eberfeld, long time friends of his family, had invited him to a formal dinner party at their home in Vienna. But as soon as he crossed the threshold, their intention became clear – to introduce him officially to their 21 year old daughter, Pauline. The perspective annoyed him, but the Eberfelds had been friends of his family longer than he could remember. Refusing their invitation would be unthinkable.
Naturally, he was not interested in young virgins fresh out of exclusive boarding schools. Giggling debutantes who blushed every time he looked at them were extremely unattractive to him. His wife was as chaste as one would expect for a young woman of her station, but she had never been a giggling, blushing debutante, which was precisely what had drawn his attention to her in the first place. Instead, he was looking for a very specific combination of qualities in the woman who would become the second Baroness von Trapp – elegance, class, impeccable upbringing, and a good family name. These qualities would help her, and him, to guide his children into what the world expected of them, and, at the same time be a companion to him, matching his own wit and sophistication. No, she needed to be his equal in every sense of the word. Everything he thought would make his children happier.
As soon as the introductions were over, Pauline von Eberfeld had been sent to the piano, and an endless concert had begun, during which the young woman was supposed to dazzle him with her musical abilities.
However, there was no chance of that happening…
Georg armed himself with a glass of champagne. Undoubtedly, he would soon need it. He tried to shut his mind away from the music, thinking about other diversions that he could potentially look forward to that same evening. Not far away from there, his latest mistress waited for him, in a cloud of brightly colored silk and extravagant perfume. The thought brought a distasteful grimace to his firm lips, just before he drank all the content of that first champagne glass. He immediately reached for another one.
The Eberfelds must not be in their right mind, to consider him for their daughter. Or, at least, they were desperate for reasons that he did not care to find out. Pauline was young and beautiful, so fresh and untouched by the tragedies of life. No, she did not deserve someone like him.
"Ruining the lives of beautiful young heiresses, sending them to an early grave… that seems to be another one of my hidden talents," he thought distastefully, drowning his second glass of champagne. A third one was promptly served to him by a nearby waiter.
No, Pauline Eberfeld would be safe, at least from him. The poor little waif! As soon as she saw him, dark and brooding, she looked like all she wanted to do was to scurry back to the safety of her bedroom until the end of the evening. Her mother would not allow it, of course, and the girl seemed to be doing a supreme effort to keep her poise, as she had probably been told to do. Years of upbringing in an exclusive Swiss private school finally paid off for the girl. She was only betrayed by her nervousness the moment she started playing. The mistakes she made were atrocious, her trembling fingers refused to hit the right keys. Slowly, however, she gained confidence, as she forgot about his intimidating presence and concentrated on the music.
"There is a little hope for you after all, Pauline," he thought bitterly.
No, he was not dazzled by her performance, not by far, but he had to acknowledge that Pauline was a not bad musician. Quite the contrary, she was above average, in fact, just good enough to his well trained ears. She was no concert pianist, she was a Viennese debutante who played adequately, but when it came to music, he could be an insufferable critic, probably because his teachers had demanded so much of him as a child. The perfectionist in him started dissecting the girl's performance mercilessly, finding flaw with every musical phrase she produced in the piano.
"Untalented or not, she seemed to have caught the eye, the ear of Maximillian Detweiler," he noted, amused. With the corner of his eyes he saw the fiend, money signs shinning in his beady brown eyes.
"You old scum," he whispered softly, making a mock taste to the impresario from a distance. Max acknowledged it with a little bow and a smile.
In spite of his questionable methods, Georg could not help but to help a fond affection for the rascal. He would not have been able to accomplish all he had during the war without the help of two other men he knew since his days as a cadet in Fiume. Max Detweiler and Erik Drascher - two unique personalities that could not have been more different. Naturally, Drascher was not present at the Eberfelds that evening, but Max´s presence had triggered Georg´s memories of him.
Erik Drascher now lived not far away from Georg, in Salzburg´s famous Getreidegasse, where he owned a… well, he should call it an antique shop, for the sake of propriety. He was respectably married to the widow of a former conductor of the Vienna Philharmonic and answered to the ridiculously ordinary name of Hans Schneider. Yet, there was never anything ridiculous or remotely ordinary about Erik Drascher. He never knew exactly what his real nationality was, and later he would have every reason to doubt that it was even his real name. Undoubtedly, Drascher´s fierce loyalty to old Austria had always been unquestionable, considering his notorious career. He was simply the best torpedo man Georg ever had in his crew, and he would probably end by commanding his own boat one day – that is, if he did not have the strange habit of disappearing from time to time. Surprisingly, the Navy´s high command was extremely lenient with the man´s indiscipline, and Georg vaguely suspected why. His suspicions were confirmed the day when he and his crew received the mission to infiltrate Drascher – by then also a captain – behind the enemy lines. It turned out that his torpedo man was one a most notorious spy… It did not surprise Georg at all, quite the contrary, it explained a lot about the man. Under his command, it would be Drascher who always be able to get him that essential piece of equipment required for the submarine to stay afloat without going through all the intricate bureaucratic channels of the Imperial Navy.
If at sea Georg counted on Drascher´s ability to work around the Navy´s absurd bureaucracy, breaking more than a few rules whenever necessary. At land he had Maximillian Detweiler. Max´s methods were entirely different, of course, but just as effective. Never in the history of the Imperial Navy there had been a man more unsuited to join its ranks. Max Detweiler was simply unsuited for military life, but he was so clever that even his unsuitability was used as an advantage. Nowadays he was following his true vocation – he had become an artistic impresario, chasing promising artists all over Europe.
It seemed that Max´s selected target for the evening was Pauline Eberfeld. O-ho, but the girl´s parents would be scandalized if they only knew of the impresario´s intentions, but when it came to making money, Max knew no boundaries.
A wrong note made Georg wince and utter a low curse. It was a fine, grand piano, and it did not deserve such poor, amateurish treatment. At least Pauline´s obvious mistake had the power to discourage any ideas Max Detweiler could have for her. Shaking his head in disappointment, Max had simply walked away, to join Baron and Baroness Eberfeld, who listened to their daughter as if she was good enough to play a solo accompanied by the Philharmonic.
She wasn´t.
All he wanted to do was to march to that piano, tell that girl to step aside and show her how it was done, to treat the small audience with the proper way a Polonaise should be played. But if he did that, he would be breaking another one of his self-imposed vows – those fingers would never touch a piano keyboard again, there were just too many hurtful memories attached to music. His fingers itched, and he wiggled them, and that gave him a moment of respite. In all fairness, he did not think he could play that Polonaise more perfectly that Pauline Eberfeld had. They were stiff because of the lack of practice, and he would probably make a fool of himself if he tried. It would be terribly frustrating.
"So, what do you think?" a woman next to him whispered. It was obvious what the subject of her question was – Pauline Eberfeld. Whether the lady wanted to know his opinion about the girl´s musical talent or her suitability as a wife was another question, one he wasn´t remotely interested in answering.
She wanted to know what he thought… His smile was wicked.
"I think that I am not interested. I think that I have already corrupted my share of rich heiresses, thank you very much," he felt tempted to say, but only a low groan came out in response.
"Oh heavens, that was not very attractive," she said, teasingly.
She wasn´t offended by his rebuff, but immediately, he regretted it. Impoliteness was something that he abhorred in others, and his low opinion of himself would only increased if began to behave less like the gentleman he was.
"I do believe that Chopin himself couldn't have given a more… elongated concert himself," he replied, elegantly but sarcastically, in a tone that practically screamed his wish to be left alone. She disturbed him. Pauline Eberfeld irritated him. Chopin irritated him. He particularly disliked most pieces created by the Polish composer, finding his music overly sentimental. Agathe, on the other hand, used to love it. This was yet another reason why he should be annoyed that evening. Pauline Eberfeld could at least have chosen a different repertoire. A little Rachmaninoff or Debussy would have improved his mood a great deal, but perhaps she lacked the proper skills to play the Russian´s music and her tastes were much too conservative to fully enjoy the French composer.
The disturbing woman´s perfume now invaded his nostrils, telling him that she had not moved away. It was… oddly pleasant. Subtle and elegant, just enough to stir a man´s sense without being vulgar. Remembering Isabelle, the mistress who waited for him later that evening, he found yet another reason not to keep his appointment with her. He thought about how much he hated when women bathed themselves in those overly sweet fragrances. Agathe had been a notable exception, and now, surprisingly, this woman. No, this lady, because that was undoubtedly what she was. If he were not so weary tonight, he might even be interested in engaging in some polite conversation, but his mood was to dark for that. At least, Isabelle demanded very little of him apart from his skills as a lover, he would not have to play the brilliant conversationalist with her.
Which reminded him – it was time to put an end to their one-sided (from her part) conversation and leave the premises. Isabelle would not wait forever!
All things considered, under normal circumstances, sarcasm would be the only thing that would receive once he had made that decision. The next step would be a polite nod and a murmured excuse, and he would simply walk away.
Oh, but the lady was persistent. He should have realized that she was the kind that would not give up so easily.
"She is surprisingly good, isn´t she?"
"O-ho, I am sure the Philharmonic will not miss her," he sneered.
If that did not work, he would have to shock her to the core with some scandalous comment about being already late to see his French mistress. Yes, that should do it. He still dared not look at her, although now curiosity was urging him to.
"How cruel to the poor darling girl!"
Who was she?
Could she be an envious elderly cousin of young Pauline, eager to spread to the four winds that even the wealthy Eberfeld heiress had failed to catch the eye of the illustrious Captain von Trapp? Or a merry Viennese women who wanted him for himself, and would be willing to do her best to drive him away from Isabelle? Why was she so insisting, why hadn´t he manage to drive her away with his biting words?
It suddenly dawned upon him that perhaps she knew him. Indeed, her voice was vaguely familiar. Not one he had heard in the recent years, but in a long ago past, in a world that no longer existed.
He could not resist throwing her a quick, sideways glance.
Something about her stopped him from another planned rebuff. It was not her elegance or beauty, although one quick look told him that she possessed these in spades. She had silvery blonde hair that was elaborately arranged. Her dress was dark blue, and it fitted her elegant figure to perfection. Even the jewelry she wore seemed to have been carefully selected to create a perfect picture: the epitome of an aristocratic woman. But none of those things struck a chord in her memory – it was her voice, her perfume that made her more than familiar to him. He knew her from another time, another place. Where? When?
"Not now," he thought, grimacing, taking another sip of his champagne as he turned his attention back to Pauline Eberfeld. He was there to run from memories, and not to meet them, but they seemed to be chasing him relentlessly.
"I see," she continued, when he remained silent. "Well, at least I´ve tried. She was right about you, of course." He looked at her again, this time scowling, but he still did not speak, did not dare to ask her who had been right about him, because he was afraid he knew the answer only too well.
"You really don't remember me, do you?" she asked softly. "But in your case, I think I can find in my heart a reason to forgive you."
The memory came to him, and this time he was not able to stop it.
Elsa…