CINDERELLA & HER SISTERS

A VIDEO/READING by the author...

A STAY WITH LADY PRITCHARD

1908

I

George finds himself stopping outside of Lady Pritchard’s house—the house he’s been staying in—and shifts the violin case he’s carrying to his left hand before opening the door and going inside. It’s a magnificent home, he readily admits to himself, with high gables, a freshly manicured and trimmed yard; the shutters and eaves newly painted, and furnishing carefully picked out and sorted through. All the same, George has been playing the role of the rather reluctant relative while staying in the house of Randolf and Lady Pritchard—his mother's cousin on her father's side—two people who prove determined to see that he’s invited to only the best homes in Vienna. Lady Pritchard informs him that they’ll be his chaperones while George is in Vienna, and there's little he has to say about it, not after what happened in Paris.

Randolf and Lady Pritchard are older, and therefore more aware, she tells him. George is a firm believer in the maxim that all the youth of the day abides by, that being: Anyone who’s older than forty, is too old to understand anything new. George is twenty-five; Randolf and Lady Pritchard are both forty-three. They have three boys ranging in age from seven to fourteen, and each is so characteristically removed from their parents as far as their personalities go, it's impossible for George to say which parent they resemble most. George likes to think it's his aunt—Lady Pritchard insists he call her Aunt Julia—because none of them have their father’s features.

George doesn’t consider Aunt Julia to be an attractive woman by any stretch of the imagination, and honestly believes she would’ve become the family's spinster aunt and greatest source of embarrassment if she hadn't been allowed to marry below her station. There were rumours he'd heard over the years of course, from other cousins: how poor Aunt Julia, pregnant, alone, and abandoned on all sides—except by George's mother naturally—insisted the father was Randolf. The family remained firm in their belief that her pregnancy was the result of a forced assault on Randolf's part; they couldn't imagine Aunt Julia willingly letting a man make love to her under any circumstances. It was “those circumstances” that held George's curiosity more than anything else about Aunt Julia.

Aunt Julia has large gaps between her top front four teeth, with thin lips drawn away from her mouth, so that her gums are always exposed whenever she smiles. Her face was more round than oval, with fat, pink cheeks, and a nose that looks flat with dark eyes that appear wide set under bushy, beetled eyebrows. Her hair’s short—too short for the width of her face, he thinks—and limp, hanging in front of her forehead where it rests above her thick eyebrows. She’s short, considerably overweight, and constantly complaining about her sore feet and a bad back. Her voice is high-pitched, lying somewhere between irritating, and galling, making one wish she wouldn’t express her opinions as often as she does because of the nasal qualities of her voice.

Her husband Randolf was an impoverished minor Austrian Count who went from bank clerk to branch manager within a year of marrying into the family. His was the ultimate sacrifice of dedication to one's career George thinks, but then, he knows nothing about the arrangements his father made on Julia's behalf — and why his father was involved George doesn’t even begin to understand. Upon his first sight of him, George thought Randolf had the feeble, endemic look of the typically downtrodden husband, if there was such a thing. He’s proven to be a man too afraid to speak his own mind; a man who feels more confident when he's not in his wife's presence. He’s unusually skinny though, and has no chin to speak of, which gives him an overbite that’s only distracted by the sizeable nose above it. He has a pencil-thin moustache and pince-nez glasses that balance on the end of his nose, defying all the known laws of physics. His hair has the colour and texture of stale bread, and while looking slack and wilted, he still combs it across an ever growing bald spot on the top of his head that seems to expand with each approaching year.

They do everything they can to entertain George, but neither one of them has actually traveled beyond the borders of their own lives—Randolf is from Tyrol, and Julia from Oxfordshire; Vienna is the farthest either one has been in their lives. They tell George of secret police, student dissidents, revolutionaries, and malcontents, making it sound as if the city never fully recovered from the riots of 1848—and then they tell him how the old Emperor, (affectionately referred to as Papa), wants to run the Empire like a totalitarian autocrat.

"You can't say that without knowing a little about the people," Randolf says quickly, looking at Julia to see if she agrees with what he's saying. She’s busy with her embroidery, and nods her head as if what he’s saying should be enough to convince George that Randolf knows what he's talking about.

"Randolf likes to think he has a finger on the pulse of the people," she says at last, looking up from her stitching with a beaming, gap-toothed grin. Randolf hooks his thumbs into his waistcoat and preens himself in front of her, just like a rooster in the yard, George thinks, like he’s full of a cocky self-assurance about himself.

"I'd think one would have to, given his line of business," George says with a note of diplomacy, and watches Randolf deflate like a child's balloon. He puts the violin case down and moves to the sideboard where he prepares to make himself a drink.

Randolf pulls on the bell-pull.

“We have servants for that,” he says, and George puts the glass down.

Randolf doesn't care much for George, or his wife’s side of the family, and feels somewhat sullen whenever George is about. George serves as a reminder of the deal Randolf struck with the man’s father fifteen years earlier. Still, Randolf can't see how George let himself be discovered in Paris as he did, and thinks less of him as a man because George contacted his father immediately. He feels, that as a musician and a man of the world, George should’ve been able to fend for himself and avoid whatever scandal was brewing. Julia, sensing her husband's dislike for George, and priding herself with the belief that she can read her husband as easily as she can her children, decides the best thing for her to do is to change the subject.

“The Emperor's Ball has been scheduled for next month,” she says in a matter-of-fact tone, disguising any of the excitement she might have felt at receiving an invitation. “Will you be attending?” She shifts uncomfortably in her chair, putting her embroidery down for a moment as she adjusts herself in the chair. She looks up at George with another gap-toothed smile.

"Does he usually attend to these balls himself?" George asks.

"Seldom," Randolf offers, and sees a look of consternation cross his wife's brow. He sits down silently, waiting for her to explain.

"He should be at this one. It's his Jubilee after all." She looks at Randolf, and says with a patient, conciliatory tone George finds irritating: "I know he doesn't usually stay very long at these things, but I did hear he was staying until at least ten o'clock," she adds with finality, readjusting herself once more as she picks up her needle and thread. She sounds more like a mother talking to her child than a wife discussing something with her husband, George thinks.

They’re in the library, and Gitta, their maid for the past nine years, enters and stands by the door. George looks at her and smiles briefly.

“Well, don’t just stand there, woman,” Randolf says. “What’s the cook made for lunch?”

“I don’t believe you asked for a serving today,” she says.

“So nothing, then?” he says, trying to sound brusque, but failing. “Then I’ll have a whiskey. George?”

“Yes, please, thank you,” he says, smiling at the woman.

“Perhaps some of yesterday’s soup?” Julia suggests and turns her attention back to George. “You really must attend,” she says, curling her fat legs under herself on the ottoman, and George nods. “I’m sure there’ll be more than enough ladies for you to choose from. You might even fall in love with—”

“I’ve no intention of falling in love, Auntie,” George laughs as he takes the glass of whiskey Gitta offers him. He smiles and nods his thanks.

"Nonsense," Julia says with a quick wave of her hand, "everyone wants to fall in love. We all fall in love," she goes on, looking at Randolf with her gap-toothed smile. George wonders if Randolf even loves his wife. He doubts if Randolf has a mistress, but he doesn't dismiss the idea either.

Everyone takes a lover at one time or another, he remembers his father saying after he rang him to tell him about the problem in Paris.

Randolf lights a cigarette and Julia stops her needlepoint long enough to look at him—upset that he'd light a cigarette while she’s in the room. It's something a gentleman waits with, she often says. Randolf offers a cigarette to George and smiles, as if a conspiracy exists between the two of them, with the end result being that Julia will finally leave the room. Tonight, Julia is determined to remain.

“There’s nothing quite like The Emperor's Ball,” she says, when Randolf and George settle back with their cigarettes and drinks. “Except maybe the smell of cigars drifting across the Great Gallery like a dreary London fog,” she says with a slow shake of her head, putting her needlework down and looking away dreamily for a moment as she adjusts herself again.

“But the music!” she says suddenly, and there’s a note of excitement in her voice. “It’s as if Strauss was directing the orchestras. Did you know they have two of them? Orchestras, I mean, not Strausses,” she adds with a laugh. “I mean, there used to be two Strausses—father and son—but that was a long time ago,” she goes on laughing. “But no, no, no! I mean two orchestras. Can you imagine that? There are two orchestras. One on each side of the Small Gallery—both of them set up in the two antechambers on opposite sides—and when they throw the glass doors open, the music seems to seep out. In the centre, there’s a plague of women waiting to dance—there’s always someone willing to dance with you. You can hardly get away from the music! And if you want to be alone with someone, well, you have to go near the orchestra pits for that, don’t you? When you get there, you see the men all decked out in their fancy dress uniforms—all of them outfitted in a rainbow of colours, with silken sashes and rattling sabres—watching the women and working up the nerve to approach them. It’s really quite the sight. The women are all dressed in long flowing silks and gowns, with jewelled tiaras, and necklaces studded with diamonds and pearls! The diamonds shine like the stars, and sparkle as they swirl across the dance floor, and the pearls? They look as bright and luminous as the brightest summer moon. Oh, it’s such a sight. The air’s ripe with the smell of talc, and expensive perfumes from Paris—and sweat! Oh, but what’s a Ball be without a good sweat, eh? The noise level picks up as the night carries on too—the voices, the music, the laughter—it does carry on!” she adds with another laugh.

“You make it sound exciting, Auntie,” George says dreamily, blowing a large cloud of smoke up toward the ceiling; he's swishing his drink in the bottom of his glass, watching it melt back down the sides and wishing she’d stop talking.

“It is exciting!” she laughs, and settles herself back down as she adjusts herself once more and takes up her needlepoint again.

“I'm sure he’s been to a Ball before,” Randolf says lazily, as if he’s forgotten whom he’s talking to. George looks at Julia and smiles.

“Usually, I’m in the band,” he says. “As a Quartet, we’ve been all across the Continent. We’ve even played in America.”

“Oh, that must have been an adventure! Did you see any cowboys? And the Indians. I hear so much about them.”

“No Indians,” he smiles. “But I was at the Czar’s Ball in Russia, three years ago,” George says quickly.

“You were in Moscow?” Julia asks, suddenly interested again.

“Petrograd.”

“Wasn’t there an uprising there of some sort? There was, I’m quite sure. Was that in Moscow, or Petersburg?” Randolf asks, taking a quick drink of his brandy and looking at his wife over the rim of the glass.

“The whole country’s a mess,” George says, with a slow smile. “I wouldn’t be surprised if it all came tumbling down one day. I think the war with Japan proved Russia’s not the sleeping bear everyone thinks it is. That was the last straw for a lot of people. I think that’s why there was such a large turnout in front of the Winter Palace.”

“And you were there?” Randolf asks, putting his cigarette out and swishing his brandy thoughtfully—though George doubts if Randolf has ever been as thoughtful as he tries to look.

“I didn’t see it happen, if that’s what you want to know,” George says, taking a last swallow of his whiskey, and wincing as it burns its way down his throat. “But I saw the snow the next morning. It was a ghastly sight. They still hadn’t cleaned up all the blood—they were in the process of doing it. They’re calling it “Bloody Sunday” now.”

“It does sounds ghastly,” Julia agrees, looking up from her needlepoint with a pained expression on her face as she shifts herself again.

“I’m not one to think about politics too much,” George tries explaining, thinking how doltish he’s making himself sound; banking and politics are bed mates, his father once told him, and the sooner he learned to accept that, the easier life will be for him. “I can only say that if these revolutionists get into power, the whole world will suffer,” George adds with a hint of finality.

“Revolutionaries are the bane of any good society; they’re like a cancer,” Randolf points out; probably thinking he sounds intelligent, George tells himself.

Julia looks up from her needlepoint and gives Randolf a look that tells him to let the subject drop. George knows from his father that Julia’s afraid of revolution and the change it stands for. She’s content to go on with life the way it is, his father explained; happy in her minimalist existence, thinking only about Paris and what the designers are bringing out for the fall season. She’s bringing her three children up with the same basic notion in mind, George realizes, and while they’re learning to speak German, English and French, read Latin, and have an understanding of the Classics, just as she does, there’s little else they know, or understand, about the world. That, Julia believes, is what makes a society strong: an understanding of the Classics. It is the fabric of life, to people like her. Change is a good thing, he heard her say once, but it’s better when it doesn’t affect her.

Change is just another word for confrontation, George reminds himself.

Randolf lights another cigarette and Julia stops her needlepoint long enough to look at him—upset that he’d light yet another cigarette while she’s still in the room. It’s something a gentleman waits with, as she often says, and Randolf offers a cigarette to George, who smiles, as if a conspiracy exists between the two of them with the end result being that Julia will finally leave the room. Tonight, Julia is determined to remain.

“Still, there’s nothing like The Emperor’s Ball,” she says, when Randolf and George settle back with their cigarettes and drinks.

“I’ll make a point of being there,” George smiles. “And not in the orchestra.”

“Oh good. I can’t wait for you to meet the Countess, and her girls,” she laughs. “And Baltazzi,” she adds. “You must meet Baltzzi!”