Christine and the Princess

LITTLE by little one learns of the full extent of the caste system in old Vienna. Christine, who for a year and a half has served as my cook, has acquainted me with at least one of its phases.

After fifteen years of apprenticeship, and nine years as the head cook in the German Embassy, Christine ranks, at the age of forty, as one of the best cooks in Vienna. When Christine was sixteen, her mistress exchanged her for a maid in the kitchen of the Schwarzenberg Palace; and after that, at intervals, for maids from the most renowned kitchens of the Viennese aristocracy. In a few years, she had assembled a knowledge of the culinary systems and tricks of a dozen establishments.

Her one drawback is her pride of position. Only a war and a revolution could have brought her to my modest kitchen. Even yet she cannot go to the open market and bargain for Karfiol with a score of common maids. She must still frequent the best shops, as of old, and give the shopkeeper ten deca out of every kilo of butter. Often I have remonstrated with her, but to no purpose. ‘The gnädige Frau doesn’t understand. The storekeepers know me. If I did n’t come to them, or if I did n’t give them their Trinkgeld, every cook in town would know it. My old friends would n’t associate with me. I am willing to leave the gnädige Frau, if my work doesn’t please her; but if I stay, I must go on as I have been going on.’

Her blue eyes look straight into mine, and I know that she means what she says. I am constantly torn, these days, between the worry over the increasingly high cost of living and the love of my quiet, efficient, perfectly trained servant. ‘If I could go to America with the gnädige Frau,’ she tells me repeatedly, ‘everything would be different. There you have a real republic. Here we have none. There I could begin over; but here everybody knows me, and if I did not do as I always have done, I would be disgraced.’

Although Christine insists upon upholding and enforcing the traditions of her own caste, she rejoices in the downfall and humiliations of the aristocracy. She is interested in this halb echt Austrian Republic, and lauds the work of the Municipal Renting Office, in its conversion of private palaces into apartments for the people.

‘Palaces of one hundred and fifty rooms are no longer used by half a dozen nobles,’ she says, ‘ while hundreds of people walk the streets, or sleep in old cars, or under wagons. A prince himself can have only two rooms, and,’ she adds triumphantly, ‘a cousin of mine lives in a suite of rooms once occupied by an idle Grand Duke. There are three beds for the children, and a kitchen stove, in the gold and white salon. I was there myself the other night, and I found die Kinder eating Würste und Kraut. The stiff room was gemütlich jetzt, Gott sei Dank !’

I fully appreciate Christine’s point of view. In Vienna, the thing that constantly wears upon one’s sympathies is the justice in the position of contending classes. Later on, when the new era has more nearly perfected itself, it will be for the betterment of all. Now, my greatest sympathy is for the middle class and for the suffering old aristocrat.

I number among my friends in Vienna a most interesting old Princess. A few days ago she telephoned that she would be glad to take tea with us that afternoon, adding, ‘Please call for me, as I have sold my horses, and cabs are far too expensive for a Viennese.’

At half-past three, my niece Anne and I called at her castle, a rambling old pile, which dates from the year 1500. From its upper windows can be seen the tower of the Capuchin Church where the Hapsburgs lie at rest.

The Princess has shared the common lot of the aristocrats. One by one, the stately salons, the music-room, the ballroom, the banquet-hall, the chambers with their canopied beds, — rooms about which a thousand memories twine, — have been given to strangers. To-day we found her in her only remaining salon, with a lifelong accumulation of treasures piled high on couches, tables, and chairs.

‘Forgive the confusion,’ she said, ‘but this wretched Government has taken my other salons. Some American moved in this morning; and as these things are too precious to be stored, sold, or given away, I must find a place for them. God grant that I shall not have to sell them! ’

There were presents from every king in Europe; and what the Princess prizes much more, mementos from authors, artists, and musicians. From the adjoining salon we heard a jolly waltz and much laughter.

‘I can’t bear it,’ cried the Princess. ‘Come, let us go.’

She rang, and her butler entered. He assisted the Princess with her wraps and fastened the fur collar closely about her throat. She was a most interesting figure, in her long seal mantle and oldfashioned, close-fitting cap. Though small, she carries her head high, and walks with much dignity.

Leaning on the arm of Fritz, she went down the long stairway, with its worn stone steps, across the courtyard, and through the big doors that have been guarded these hundreds of years by great stone lions.

‘Good-bye, Fritz,’ said the Princess gently, as they reached the automobile.

He bent low and kissed her hand.

‘Ah, Fritz and I have suffered and grown old together,’ she said as we rode away. ‘That abominable creature, the present-day servant, he detests.’

When we reached home, we had a tea such as the Viennese dote upon: cold ham, chicken sandwiches, and delicious Viennese cakes. It was half-past six o’clock when we rose from the table.

‘ I am having a delightful time,’ said the Princess, as she settled herself in an easy chair before the big Nuremberg stove, ‘a delightful time. If you will permit me, I will remain to your evening meal. May I have the chauffeur call for me at eleven?’

Now it happened that day that the regular routine of our household had been broken into. At half-past two we had been invited to a bountiful dinner given by an American friend, so I had told Christine that we would consider the half-past five tea our supper. However, I assured the Princess that we should be delighted to have her remain. I went out to interview the cook.

‘Christine has gone out,’ said Bettina, the maid. ‘You said, gnädige Frau, that there was n’t to be any dinner, and Christine has locked up all the food except my supper and has taken the keys.'

‘I will take the Princess to the hotel, Bettina.’ I said.

When I went back to the living-room I found my guest talking of old days to Anne.

‘Princess,’I ventured, as she paused to light her cigarette, ‘have you ever dined at the grill in the New Bristol?’

‘No, indeed. The Bristol was very fine in the old days. Now it is full of war profiteers, the nouveaux riches, the ‘schiebers/ with their loud voices. The poor Viennese, who can’t afford to tip lavishly, get shabby service. I never will humiliate myself by going to such a place.’

A moment after this tirade, she was again absorbed in reminiscence.

Anne listened with delight, while I sat pondering, trying to find a way out of my dilemma. I was just about to confess to the Princess, when Bettina succeeded in getting Christine on the telephone, and called her home.

‘Christine,’ I said, ‘at nine serve us a light supper; omelette with mushrooms, toast and marmalade, a compote perhaps — something simple.’

Christine gasped: then her eyes fairly popped with surprise and indignation. Usually, when walking, she comes down hard on her heels; now she walked on the balls of her feet several times around the dining-room table before answering.

‘Gnädige Frau, your guest is a Princess. Many a time I have cooked dinners when she was a guest in palaces, but never before have I been told to serve the Princess with omelette and compote.’

‘ Christine, the Princess tells me she dines at two o’clock. We shall have a simple supper, as we always do when we have dinner at that hour.’

Christine bowed and went out, but as the door closed, I heard her say indignantly: ‘Omelette mit Pilzen und Compote für eine Prinzessin, das geht doch nicht.’

Our flat is rented from a Madame Müller, an old Viennese. Madame is very fond of her household treasures, and I promised to guard them well. There is an unwritten law that the Maria Theresa dinner-service is not to be used.

When Bettina announced the dinner, I found to my surprise that the rare old dishes with their quaint rosebuds graced the table, also Madame’s best linen, china, silver, and glass. I had invited John and Mary Skinner, from Cleveland, Ohio, to take dinner with us on the morrow. As our meal progressed, I decided that John and Mary would eat omelette and compote. The simple supper I had planned turned out to be what should have been my Sunday dinner, and even more.

The Princess lingered long over her food, praising the delicately browned chicken and hot biscuits. She exclaimed over the American salad, and was pleased when her favorite wine appeared.

‘Who is your cook?’she demanded; ‘these biscuit taste like those I used to have in the home of the Baronin von L—, when she was in the German Embassy. She had a famous cook— Christine.’

When I assured her that the biscuit were Christine’s own, she clapped her hands like a pleased child.

‘To see Christine will be a glimpse of the dear past. Please call her in.’

Christine appeared, as always immaculately dressed, an imposing and important figure in the world of Viennese cooks. As she crossed the room to greet the Princess, I remembered her defiant words concerning all aristocrats, her delight in their humiliation, and I wondered how she would conduct herself.

There was no hesitation about Christine: she fell on her knees and kissed the delicate aristocratic old hand again and again, murmuring between the kisses of her unfailing love of and longing for the personages whom she had served in the past under the old régime. They mingled their tears, the Princess and the cook.