The Enchanted Wanderer and Other Stories

At that hour, Vienna was also doing herself up: a heavy summer shower passed over and then suddenly a radiant sun began to sparkle in the perfectly blue sky. The beautiful city, having washed, looked still more beautiful.

The streets my guide led me along all seemed very elegant, but as we drew nearer to Leopoldstadt, their elegance became still more noticeable. The buildings were bigger, stronger, and more majestic. My guide stopped by one of them and said that this was the hotel I wanted.

We entered through a majestic archway into a vast hall, decorated in the Pompeian style. To the right and left of this hall were heavy doors of dark oak: the opposite wall was draped luxuriously in red cloth. In the middle of the hall stood a carriage hitched to a pair of live horses, and on the box sat a coachman.

This magnificent hall was simply nothing other than the “gateway.” We were standing under such “gates” as I had never yet seen either in Petersburg or in Paris.

To the right was the porter’s lodge. It was also remarkable; remarkable, too, was the magnificent porter himself, with his chamberlain’s figure: he sat there like a golden beetle displayed behind an enormous plate-glass window. He could see all around him. And next to him, for the sake of pomp or for some other convenience, stood three assistants, all of them wearing aglets. If the necessity arose of putting someone out or not letting him in, such a porter would not, of course, dirty his hands with it.

To my question, “Is my acquaintance here?”—one of the assistants replied: “She is,” and when I asked, “Might I see her?”—the assistant told the porter, who moved an eyebrow diplomatically and explained to me himself:

“Strictly speaking, I do not think it would be convenient for the princess to receive you now—a carriage has come for her, and her excellency is about to go for a ride. But if it is very necessary …”

“Yes,” I interrupted, “it is very necessary.”

“In that case, I ask you for a moment’s patience.”

It was clear that I had to do with a real diplomat and to argue over a moment’s patience would be out of place.

We bowed to each other.

The porter pushed an electric button on the table, before which stood his papal throne with its high gothic back, and, putting his ear to the receiver, explained to me after a moment:

“The princess is already coming downstairs.”

I stood waiting for her.

A moment later, my acquaintance appeared on the white marble steps, accompanied by her elderly Russian maid, Anna Fetisovna, long known to me, who plays a role in this little story. The princess met me with the sweet affability that had always distinguished her, and, saying that she was about to go for her after-dinner promenade, invited me to ride with her.

She wanted to show me the Prater. I had nothing against that, and we drove off: I beside the princess on the rear seat, and Anna Fetisovna facing us.

Contrary to what is maintained, that abroad everyone drives much more slowly than in Russia, we raced very quickly down the streets of Vienna. The horses were brisk and spirited, the coachman an expert at his trade. The Viennese drive a pair harnessed to the shafts as handsomely and deftly as the Poles do. Our coachmen don’t know how to drive like that. They’re very heavy and they fuss with the reins—they don’t have that free, ribbon-like movement and all that “elevation,” which there is so much of in the Krakower and the Viennese.

Before I could bat an eye, we were already in the Prater.

I am not going to make the slightest attempt to describe this park; I will tell only what is necessary for a proper elucidation of the coming scene.

I remind you that it was about five o’clock in the afternoon and just after a heavy rain. Fresh moisture still lay everywhere: the heavy gravel of the paths looked brown, clear drops sparkled on the leaves of the trees.

It was pretty damp, and I don’t know whether the dampness or the rather early hour was the reason for it, but all the best alleys of the park, along which we were driving, were completely deserted. At most we met some gardener in a jacket, with a rake and spade on his shoulder, and no one else; but my kind hostess remembered that, besides this, so to speak, fair part of the park, there was also a rough part, called the Kalbs-Prater or “Calf’s Park”—the place where the rough Viennese promenaded.

“They say it may be interesting,” said the princess, and she told the coachman at once to drive to the Kalbs-Prater.

The coachman turned left, called out his guttural “Hup,” snapped his whip, and it was as if the ground began to give way under us, we seemed to be going down somewhere, falling, as though dropping into a lower sphere.