Authors: Eleanor Farnes
“This
is
a beautiful chalet, Geoffrey,” she said, “in quite the loveliest place you could have chosen.”
“Come and share it with me,” he said promptly.
“Almost I’m tempted to.”
“Can’t I say s
o
mething to make the temptation too strong for you to resist?”
“I don’t know,” she smiled at him. “Can you?”
“It escapes me at the moment—unless telling you that I love you again will do?”
“It seems such a heaven-sent chance,” she said, “but I couldn’t marry you simply for your chalet, could I?”
“I don’t mind what you marry
me for, as long as you do it,
”
said Geoffrey. “I have a feeling that, once you do it, it is done for good, and I feel sure we could make a success of it
.
”
“No, it wouldn’t be fair to you; but I have considered it Geoffrey, because it often looks to me as if I may be out of a job.”
“Does that mean you’ll go back to England?”
“Well
...
that’s another thing. Dorothy got herself into such a state thinking that her mother wanted to take her away—probably back to one of those boarding schools again—that I promised I’d stay with her. So you see my predicament
.
”
“I don’t see a predicament,” he said. “You marry me, and everything is solved. We live here, visiting Dorothy all the time she is at the rest centre, and then she joins us here; or, if she is strong enough to go to school, she goes to a school in the mountains where her health will thrive. Simple, isn’t it?”
“So simple that there must be a catch; and you don’t see the catch, Geoffrey. A wife who doesn’t love you as you deserve to be loved.”
“But perhaps she would.”
“Then we should wait and find out
.
”
“But you haven’t time to wait.”
“Unless I find another job. Don’t you know of anybody who wants a secretary, Geoffrey?”
“Yes,
”
he said promptly, “I do.”
“Nonsense.”
“Yes. I need somebody to type my orgies of blood.”
“You’ve always typed them before.”
“And loathed it. Simply loathed it, Celia. What I want is to dictate them to a dictaphone, and then let somebody else wrestle with the typewriter; or even write them out in longhand for her.”
“You’re just trying to make a job for me, and I can’t allow that, you know. But all the same, you are very kind and I do appreciate it
.
”
“Kind—rubbish. I want you to marry me, Celia. Look,
I’ll give you a little longer grace, and then I shall demand an answer. Only make it the right one, won’t you?”
“I’ll try to make it the right one for both of us,” she s
aid.
They walked slowly back to the hotel. Geoffrey tucked his arm behind hers and they went companionably, in step. The
night
was very soft and clear and starlit. Celia thought, as she leaned contentedly against him: “We could often do this if we were married.” And it suggested to her a gentle and friendly state, but it brought her no thrill, no promise of
ecstasy
.
Before they came to the hotel, Geoffrey took both her
hands a
nd kissed them. He would walk a little longer, he said, so she went alone across the courtyard and into the hotel,
thinking
of all he had said to her. There was no sign of Kurt or Anneliese, and Celia went straight up to her room.
CHAPTER
TEN
Once again,
Kurt and Anneliese were getting into his car, to set off on a journey, and this time, several people were gathered round it, to wish them goodbye. There were Anneliese’s father and mother, and one of her brothers. There was Rudi, showing no outward sign of resenting the snubs he had received from Anneliese, and there was also Andr
e
, who had most infuriatingly monopolized Kurt for almost the whole of this short visit, and was still here, at the bitter end, to say goodbye.
Rudi was saying to Anneliese, at one side of the car: “If you cannot manage to come again soon, Liese, may I come to the Rotihorn? I have to leave soon.”
“I’m always busy at the Rotihorn—it would be of little use.
”
“But we would have some time to be together.”
“It would be a waste of your holiday. Oh, Mutti, did you pack the new blouse for me?”
“Yes, Liebchen, it is in your bag.”
Andre, at the other side of the car, was
saying;
“It can be done, but nobody can say it would be easy. Winter conditions are so unpredictable. I don’t know if it would be wise—but, if you decide on it, let me know—and I will be in on it, too.”
“The worst of the summer season,” said Kurt, “is that it takes all one’s time. I’m not in as good
tr
aining
as I would like to be. I’ll get in a few minor
climbs
and
get myself in condition.”
“You’re never out of condition, my dear fellow
. Is
Crindle still at your hotel?”
“Yes. He is buying a chalet near me—a little
higher
up
the mountain.”
“He would be a good third, I think, for the attempt
.
”
“Yes, he’s sound. We’ll think about it.”
“Good luck on those minor climbs of yours.” For to Andre and Kurt, climbs were called minor ones, that to anybody else would be
terrif
ying,
There were last messages, goodbyes, and the car moved off. Anneliese waved for the last time, settled herself comfortably next to Kurt, and said, on a sigh:
“Well, I think Mutti had a happy anniversary, don’t
you?”
“Yes. I was pleased to see her so much better. But why do you sigh, Anneliese?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” she replied, sighing again. “I don’t find visits home very satisfactory these days.”
“What, with such a nice family?”
“It isn’t the family. It’s Rudi.”
Kurt was silent.
Anneliese said suddenly, as if she had been
tr
ying to retr
ain
an outburst and now would try no longer:
“I get so tired of everybody’s attitude about Rudi. Why will they persist in looking upon him as a poor injured innocent, and me as a heartless monster? Why does everybody try to bludgeon me into doing something I do not want to do?”
Kurt was still silent.
“
You, too, Kurt Whenever any mention is made of Rudi and myself, or of anything connected with us, I can feel that you are on his side. Why? Why? Why?”
“Like everybody else, I am sorry for the young man.”
“Why sorry for him? Why not sorry for me?”
“
I suppose we are all sorry for Rudi because his years of devotion meet with the cruellest snubs.”
“If he were half a man, he would have ceased to bother about me years ago. If I were a man, I would have found somebody else to take the place of a woman who scorned me.
”
“Would you, Anneliese? If you loved the woman, as he loves you?”
She was silent thinking how she loved Kurt, and wondering if she could ever put anybody else in his place.
“I
think,
” said Kurt, “if you had really
w
anted to get rid of Rudi, you could have done it You have never been definite, you have only been unkind.”
“And you,” said Anneliese, “don’t like that?”
“No,” he said. “I don’t like that
.
”
“
I suppose I ought to show the womanly virtues, be soft to him, kind, regretful? Or do you think I should be submissive to my family—allow
them
to make a marriage for me—and marry Rudi to please them and him? Withou
t
love.”
He did not answer, and she went on:
“Is one obliged to marry because one is loved? How is it, then, that you have stayed so long unmarried? Has nobody loved you in all this time? Perhaps some woman’s heart has broken for you, and yet you are thirty-four and unmarried—is that not unkind? Why is it all right for you, Kurt, and yet I am to marry Rudi simply to console him?”
“I am not specially advocating that you should marry him; but I do say, stop torturing him.”
There was a long silence then; and at last Anneliese broke it, in a weary, disillusioned voice:
“Perhaps,” she said, “I torture him because I am tortured myself. Perhaps, because I am frustrated, I am not able to give him any happiness.”
Kurt said:
“Are you not happy in your work, Anneliese?”
“You know I am. Happy, yet unhappy. Happy, yet a prisoner. Unhappy, but hugging my chains.”
“My dear,” he said, “you are overtired and you have been annoyed by this reunion. I felt it all the time. Why don’t you lean back and rest? You could sleep all the way to the Rotihorn if you liked.”
He was putting her off again, she thought. He knew she was annoyed because Andre, with his talk of mountains and climbing, had monopolized Kurt’s time; he knew she was now about to unburden herself, or to make things embarrassing for him. He was quietly telling her not to, but why? Because he, himself, had no particular use for her? Or because he was still so sorry for Rudi, and would not trespass on what he considered another man’s territory?
She went over the brief holiday in her mind. They had talked a good deal of business on the way to Zurich; generally discussing plans for the three hotels for the next year, debating certain alterations in the Bellevue. Kurt had
been
lively and interesting, and she had been pleased that he confided so much in her. They had reached home in the afternoon, and Anneliese had been caught up in the preparations for the anniversary dinner, set to arranging the flowers and folding the napkins into various shapes. Kurt had gone out with Anneliese’s father, they had fallen in with Andr
e
, who was a guest for dinner, and they had all come together. From then on, it had been impossible to prise the three men apart
.
Kurt and Andr
e
were in that first fine flush of enthusiasm about plans for a new climb, and Anneliese’s father, now well past his mountaineering days, was as enthusiastic in his role of listener, encourager and guide. There had been no need for Andr
e
to stay the night—he did not live far away and he had a fast American car; but they had stayed up so late talking, that he had easily been persuaded to stay, and the talk of mountains had continued the next morning. They had then driven out to Andr
e
’s house, pored over maps and photographs, and returned late for luncheon. Mutti, of course, had
smiled
indulgently. Neither Kurt, nor Andr
e
could do any wrong where she was concerned. Kurt she had always looked upon as another son, and Andr
e
, who paid court to her
dashingly
and gaily, could have represented the loves of her youth, the romance that was now past.
Rudi had been faithful as ever. He was not a climber, and was not caught up in these plans of the mountaineers. He had stayed by Anneliese’s side, until she began to invent errands to take him away. He had brought her a diamond brooch to wear in her lapel—a truly beautiful thing; and she had accepted it because she hated to hurt him. (She did not see that she was only kind to Rudi when it included being kind to herself.) No doubt Kurt would have said that that was encouraging him. Kurt would have insisted she give it back. It would be better not to mention it to
Kurt.
S
o that Anneliese returned to the
Rotihorn
in a frame of
mind
that was not very amiable, and if Celia had waited on that evening, she would not have seen a
radiance bey
ond bearing. She would have seen a tired, frustrated Anneliese; and a thoughtful, abstracted Kurt
.
These four people, Kurt, Anneliese, Celia and Geoffrey went their separate ways, their paths interwoven, crossing and recrossing, but, for the most part, unaware of the part they were to play to each other. Anneliese, loving Kurt, felt that she made no headway. The cold voice of reason told her that, had he any leanings towards her, they would have evinced themselves by now; yet the voice of inclination still insisted that he was leaving the field clear for Rudi, regardless of his own desires. Geoffrey, seeing his field comparatively clear, could wait with good grace for Celia’s decision, inclined to believe it would be a favorable one; consulting her about the decorations in his chalet, in the hope (and sometimes the belief) that she would be living in it. Kurt, his feet sure on the way he meant to take, saw no need for hurry; but saw, with dismay, that Anneliese was reaching some kind of breaking-point, and wondering what he could best do to help her. Celia was in a quandary, becoming more and more convinced that the reasonable thing to do was to marry Geoffrey; yet the honest t
hing
to do was to stand on her own feet until this question of her love for Kurt was resolved. It would not do to marry one man, while hankering after another.
When the time came when Celia had a whole day free, she determined to keep it jealously to herself. She had ventured very little alone, and she had a desire to fend for herself. She would take the little-used footpath across the foothills to Faulho
rn
, carrying her food and a Thermos flask of tea in a small rucksack, living a beautiful secluded day in the mountains. She wore strong, sensible shoes, a skirt and fine sweater, and carried a thin mackintosh in her rucksack. It was a sparkling day, iridescent, seeming to be charged with its own life-giving properties. Celia herself seemed to draw vitality from it and from the mountain air. She found, too, that
she
could now swing up the hillside without getting quickly tired. She had adapted herself a little to this different kind of countryside.
She had climbed to the top of the green hills, and her path now lay along the top of this little range, twisting and turning, rising and falling, now a little track in the soft green grass, now a rough way among boulders and stones.
Far below her, to her left, ran a silver stream; to her right, beyond the green hills, rose the crags of the mountains. All round her, the cows moved gently over the pasture, ringing their bells in a sweet discord.
She walked, scrambled and climbed. She stopped to admire views, to rest a little, to eat her lunch, walking between these times, slowly wearying, yet feeling a rising exultation, a rising happiness. It was a magnificent walk, unfolding before her scenes of great beauty, and she felt sorry that she had not had more time to do this. She tried to
tim
e
her walk to bring her back to the hotel by dinner
time,
knowing she could easily be a little late and not wanting to be on the mountains after dusk.
She was returning by the same route. She was scrambling down a stony gorge when she first saw the other figure on the loneliness of the panorama. It was the figure of a
man,
rather heavily loaded with a big rucksack; and as their paths began slowly to converge, she saw that he was in climbing kit, with heavy boots, heavily studded, and long lengths of rope. He wore the plus-four type of trousers with long, thick socks, and a windjammer jacket. His felt hat was of the kind worn by the Alpine guides. It was when he apparently caught sight of her and stood still, that she suddenly realized that it was Kurt. His pose took her
back
at once to that first meeting on the mountain, when she had looked back to see him outlined against the sky. She hesitated, wondering if he would prefer to go on without her, but it seemed that he was waiting for her to catch up, so she went ahead, and they drew closer and closer until they were within speaking distance.
“So,” he said, “we have been occupied in the same way.”
“I hardly think so,” called back Celia.
They together. She saw now that he looked extremely tired. His trousers were torn in one place, and there was a three-cornered tear in the sleeve of his j
ac
ke
t
. There was also a scratch down one side of his face, which had bled a little. She wondered if he knew about it.
He smiled at her. It was a friendly smile, and Celia smiled delightedly back. It seemed to her that he was always a different person on the mountains.
“Where have you been?” he asked.
“
To Faulho
rn
.”
“Ah. A lovely walk. You were out all day?”
“Yes, it was a lovely, beautiful day.”
“No rain?”
“No, but I heard thunder several times.”
“Yes, there was a storm in the mountains. I was wet through but have dried again.”
They walked on.
“Is there anything to eat in that rucksack of yours?” he asked, after a while.