“I know you are teasing, but I am serious. I think it would be far healthier for everyone if women were less cautious and more willing to express themselves.”
“Just between you and me,” Wheeler said, “I think women should vote.”
She gave him a suspicious sideways look. “Are you teasing again, Mr. Truman?” And she could see from his face that he was not. “Now, that
is
very modern. But not completely radical. I think women could make excellent choices about certain matters in politics, and perhaps we would not get into the problems we do in government with better choices being made all around. A married woman can always express her opinion through her husband’s vote. But what about all those women who do not intend to marry?”
“Are you among them, Miss James?”
“Oh heavens no,” she said quickly. “I am probably sounding very unconventional. I am not really. In fact, I am pathetically circumspect. It is just that this time in Vienna has done something to my natural reserve. It has been—” She paused, searching for the word. “—liberating.” Then she looked a little embarrassed for having chosen that particular one. “That is not too forward, is it?”
Wheeler laughed again. “I come from the Wild West, remember. Besides, it is very appropriate,” he said. “
Liberating
is a perfect word.”
As the carriage moved along the Franz-Joseph-Kai, beside the Danube Canal, she said suddenly, “There is the Hotel Metropole. We could stop in on the Clemenses some time. Wouldn’t you like to meet Mark Twain?”
The huge, fashionable Hotel Metropole, Mark Twain’s home for most of his time in Vienna, came into view. Wheeler watched it closely as it passed. The Hotel Metropole was not only the home of Mark Twain while he was in Vienna, but it would also become infamous. In 1938, when the Nazis took over Austria in the Anschluss, it became the headquarters of the Gestapo, and hence the most despised building in the city. In 1945, during the Allied bombing, the hated Nazi landmark received a couple of direct hits, and the site was later demolished.
“Do you know the Clemenses?” Wheeler asked.
“They are from Hartford, you know, which is not far from Amherst. They are here so that their daughter Clara, who is just my age, can study piano with Theodor Leschetizky. He’s quite famous, you know. Once I gave a speech in Hartford for the Daughters of the American Revolution, and Mr. Clemens was present.”
“That is very impressive,” Wheeler said. “You entertained the great entertainer.”
“Hardly that,” she said. “And I have played cello with Clara back home on a number of occasions, so we know each other, but I have yet to see her in Vienna. I have been thinking I must contact her.”
They fell silent for a moment, watching the hotel pass, and Wheeler smiled at the thought of paying an informal social call on Mark Twain.
They crossed the canal and came to the entrance of the famous park.
The Prater, one of the spectacles of Vienna, was the spacious 4,300-acre public park to the east of the old city, adjoining the Leopoldstadt. Once the private hunting estate for the imperial family, during the time of Mozart, the Emperor Joseph II donated it to the public trust. Its numerous outdoor and indoor restaurants, cafés, and gathering places were the scenes of celebrations and merriment during the full calendar year.
They had lunch at one of the many cafés and then went to the Giant Wheel. “This is quite the new thing to do,” Wheeler said. “We must go up.”
“Or see it at least,” she said. “It was built after an American design, you know. An English engineering firm, but after the design of the original Ferris wheel, made for the Chicago World’s Fair five years ago. It’s quite a feat.”
“You seem to know a good deal about it,” Wheeler said.
“I wanted to study engineering in college. But the ladies back home in Boston wouldn’t have approved. That, and a small problem,” she said, trying to look up at the imposing structure.
“And what would that be?”
“Fear of heights,” she said timidly. “It’s hard to be an engineer with that hindrance, so I studied literature and music.”
They stood in line for a time, and he bought tickets. She was looking up now at the top of the two-hundred-foot circular structure. “I suppose it is safe.”
“Well, Miss James,” he said, ushering her toward the wheel’s small stairway. “You have come to Vienna to be venturesome.”
She looked up again, then stopped frozen as they stepped toward the open door of the cabin. “Perhaps not this venturesome,” she said meekly. “It gives me a peculiar feeling in my stomach.”
“It should,” Wheeler teased. “If woman was intended to fly, God would have given her wings.”
“You are teasing,” she said and laid her hand ever so gently on his arm, for support. “You are far more worldly than I.” Wheeler looked at her face and could see that she had turned quite ashen. “I think I might faint,” she said in little more than a whisper.
“It is completely safe,” he said in the most reassuring tone he could muster, but he stood still and did not move forward until she was ready. “Midwestern American engineering. Thousands of trips up and down without a mishap.”
“I think it is not for all people.”
“We don’t have to, you know.” He took a beginning step away from the carriage door and felt a sudden pull from her hand.
“No,” she said abruptly. “I want to do it. I want you to take me.” It came out like a command.
Wheeler moved them both toward the open door. “All right, then. Just don’t look up.”
“No,” she said emphatically again. “I do not want to be controlled by my own silly fear. I shall look up, and you will guide me.”
“Very well,” Wheeler said, and she matched his step forward. The only residue of her terror was the hand on his arm that had changed from the most delicate grip to a viselike one.
“I do not wish to be fearful. It is a silly consequence of my upbringing.”
“Then take small steps,” Wheeler said with a patient voice. “Take small steps.” As they entered the carriage, Wheeler thought of the scene in the 1949 movie
The Third Man
when Joseph Cotten meets Orson Welles in this very wheel, a movie Miss James might see near the end of her life. As the Giant Wheel set into motion, there was an almost minuscule lurching. “What was that?” she said, jerking his arm.
“We just started up. It is very normal. I will let you know if anything untoward happens.”
After one half revolution, the cabin came to rest near the top of the wheel, rocking slightly. “What is it doing?” she said, her eyes wide with something very close to terror. Her hand had not relinquished its command of his arm.
“They are letting people on at the bottom side of the wheel,” he said, now patting the clutching hand. “It is still within the normal range.”
The cabin rocked gently and all of imperial Vienna lay out before them. “Is it meant to be this way then?”
“It is meant to be this way.” For a moment, he felt the soft warmth of her covering hand. She had calmed a bit.
“My heart has stopped racing.”
“Don’t forget to breathe,” he said calmly. “And don’t forget to look.” From the top of the Giant Wheel one could get a beautiful view of the old city just to the south. They were standing back from the window. As Wheeler leaned forward, he could feel her stiffen, then she looked up at him and smiled almost pathetically.
“One should not be afraid to approach the window, should one?”
“One should not,” Wheeler said. “Remember, small steps forward.” And together as in the first tentative step of a dance, they moved forward, until their faces were nearly pressed to the glass.
“You are very courageous,” Wheeler said.
“You have initiated me well.” Her grip on his arm loosened.
“Nothing to fear,” she said, obviously trying to be convincing. “This is nothing I have ever done before, but there is nothing to fear.”
“It would be a shame to allow such fears to interfere with the splendor of this view.” Wheeler gestured with his hand out toward the vista before them. The day was remarkably crisp and clear.
“One can see all the way to the Alps,” she said, her left hand now relaxed on his arm, and from it Wheeler could feel her warmth and an incredible softness. It saturated his arm and gave a warm tingling at the base of his neck.
For a moment, he was overcome by the sudden memory of the descriptions of this very scene that came from the Haze’s beloved Little Book. “City of music,” he said in a reverential whisper, as if to invoke the spirit of his great mentor.
She looked up at him, struck immediately by his tone. “That’s it, isn’t it?” she said softly. “City of music,” she said, matching his reverence. Then she paused and looked back at the vista. “You have such a power with summary, Mr. Truman. I must admit that I find it totally enchanting.”
“Most of the words you like I’ve borrowed.”
“Well, borrowed or not, they are enchanting nonetheless.”
The carriage lurch again was minuscule, and they began their downward movement. “What was that?” she said suddenly, her grip tightening on his arm.
“Normal range,” Wheeler said. “We’re descending.” He looked over at her, taking a hard look at her beautiful profile as she gazed out at nothing in particular through the large thick glass of the cabin. He was suddenly feeling guilty about having come this far and the thrill it brought.
“There is something I wish to tell you,” she said slowly, the words seeming to give Wheeler time. She paused, bolstering again, but her warm hand stayed unmoved and steady on his arm. “I have a second identity,” she said, and Wheeler had an almost uncontrollable urge to tell her to stop, but she went on. “It is a secret and a deceit that might shock you.” Wheeler held his breath, but said nothing. “I am here in Vienna on an assignment to write about music for a famous American newspaper.”
“Please tell me about it,” Wheeler said, and out poured the story of how a pseudonym was created in a college parlor and became a successful and controversial music critic for
The New York Times
.
“His modern ideas raised quite a stir,” she concluded.
Wheeler showed the trace of a smile, but he did not move. He closed his eyes for a moment and then looked over at her beautiful, elegant profile and noticed how this new wrinkle in her circumstance enhanced his feeling of affection for this independent young woman. “So you have gained some notoriety and are here to write, under an assumed name?” he said.
“Yes. I have already mailed two reviews and I am working on the third. But I have”—her free hand swept out over the broad vista out the carriage window—“distractions.”
“These articles you have written in a man’s voice are well known?” he asked.
“I fear they are,” she said, and Wheeler shook his head and remained silent for a moment, the news carrying with it a surprising and unexplainable weight.
“Are you shocked that a young lady would represent herself as a man?” she said.
“No,” Wheeler said quickly, grasping for equilibrium. “I am impressed. ”
“You aren’t shocked that a proper young lady would do such a thing?”
“No,” Wheeler repeated. “Not in the least. I am just concerned all of a sudden that I might be getting in the way of such a noble enterprise. A distraction.”
Relieved, she said, “Oh my, no. You are serving as my muse, if a man can serve in such a role.” And she laid her hand on his arm now in a way that brought to Wheeler a warm smile.
“If a woman can write as a man, I’m sure a man can serve as a muse. It seems only fair.”
She turned and her eyes said how much she did not want him to take offense. “You are not shocked then?” she said.
“Not in the least,” he said, working to make it come out lightly. “And besides, I have a great fondness for pen names.” He could see the enormous relief in her eyes as the cabin began moving again, toward earth, and her hand stayed, giving its warmth to his arm.
“You don’t think it too progressive?”
His smile broadened. “I do not,” he said. “In fact, I think it quite remarkable and impressive. Courageous even.”
“Oh,” she said with a great release of tension. “I am so glad.” She paused. “Now I need the courage to get it done. I fear I have run out of my small supply.”
Wheeler stopped and took a deep breath, trying his best to hide his concern for Dilly’s admonition. She seemed to sense nothing.
“I thank you,” she said as they exited the cabin of the Giant Wheel, her hand now back to resting delicately on his arm, “for guiding me past my fear of heights.”
“You are one who tries to do things all at once, I suspect,” Wheeler said, smiling.
“You are very observant,” she said. “That is my great flaw. I am too impulsive. I want things all at once. I need to remember—” She paused and thought for a moment, then returned Wheeler’s smile. “You have taught me to take small steps.”
“It is my greatest accomplishment since arriving in Vienna, I think. A great pleasure.”
“Will you still walk with me mornings by the canal then?” she said.
He stared into her beautiful smiling face and noticed once again the slight blush. “Starting tomorrow,” Wheeler said, quickly realizing that he was in too deep.
29
The Enormous Weight of History
At first, just as she had not told her new friend Mr. Truman about her male pseudonym, she had also not elaborated on her embarrassing meeting with Gustav Mahler. She felt that the information was private and perhaps pretentious, scandalous even. She had been thrilled to meet Herr Mahler, and regretted deeply the negative light her humiliating frailty cast on the incident, how it turned out to be an embarrassment far too complicated to explain to anyone. But now on her morning walk beside the Danube Canal with this strange man from San Francisco, now that the part about her
New York Times
notoriety was out of the bag, she began to feel that she might reveal the whole bundle.