A Song for Summer

All this had made his feet very sore, and then there had been the Art: the Secessionist building which was near a rather messy food market and the Kunsthistorisches Museum which was deeply inspiring, but the marble floors were surprisingly hard and the lavatories difficult to find.

But he had kept the best-known sights for Ellen, who had arrived that morning and was standing patiently beside him, looking cool in her cream linen dress, as they waited to go into the crypt of the Capuchin church where the Hapsburg Emperors were buried. Or rather their bodies were buried--their hearts and organs were elsewhere, as he had

explained to Ellen, and fitting them in was going to be a problem. Peering at his Baedeker, worrying, Kendrick felt Ellen's cool touch on his arm and realised that the guide had come and they were moving down into the vaults with their heavy, ornate marble sarcophagi.

The Emperor Franz Joseph ... his unfortunate wife, the lovely Sissi, assassinated by an anarchist on Lake Geneva ... their son, the Crown Prince Rudoll, dead by his own hand at Mayerling ...

Moving past the gloomy opulence of the tombs, Ellen found one she liked.

"Look, Kendrick! This one isn't an emperor or an empress! It's a governess-- Maria Theresa's governess.

The Empress loved her so much she was allowed to be buried here even though she wasn't royal. So if a governess, why not a cook? Perhaps I shall end up in the vaults at Windsor!"

Ellen had not wanted to come to Vienna, but now she was here she was determined to enjoy herself.

The weather was glorious, the city was beautiful--there could be no better place to forget Marek, who would be sailing away now to a new life. She had been foolish, attaching so much importance to a flirtation and the courtesy of a kiss, but she did not intend to become a victim. "One has a choice," she had told herself--and she had chosen healing and happiness, if not immediately, then soon.

Their next tour, that of the Private Apartments in the Hofburg, revealed the Royal Treasure Chest containing a number of priceless objects of surprising ugliness and a suite of claustrophobic apartments characterised by a total lack of bathrooms. As they came out into the Michaeler Platz, Kendrick, peering at his guide book, said that they just had time to make their way to the house where Hugo Wolf had written the Mòrike Lieder.

"Look--it's in this little street here--we take the first left and then the first right--"'

"Kendrick, you go and see the house where Hugo Wolf wrote the Mòrike Lieder, but I'm going to Demels to have a large coffee and eat Indiancrkrapftn and study their patisserie."

A terrible conflict raged in Kendrick's breast. To leave Ellen whom he loved so much even for half an hour was hard--but to miss Hugo

Wolf's house which the guide book particularly recommended was hard too.

"Remember you've got a whole day after I've gone. I have to go back tomorrow."

"Very well, I'll come with you," said Kendrick and limped with her towards Demels, where he was rewarded by Ellen's face as she gazed at the counter, her eyes moving from the intricate lattice of the Linzertorte, to the baroque magnificence of the layered chocolate cakes, and back to the Schaumrollen, fat and soft as puppies. And even Kendrick took pleasure in seeing the eclairs they had chosen wheeled away by attendents, as if to a select nursing home, to be injected with fresh whipped cream.

It was as she poured a second cup of the marvellous coffee that Ellen said: "Don't you think we ought to call at a chemist's and see if we can get a proper dressing for your foot? It's going to be really painful for you trying to dance with that blister."

She was looking forward to the ball--the orchestra was sure to be good and even if she and Kendrick danced very little she would enjoy watching the other people.

But to her surprise, Kendrick coloured up and put down his cup. He had not meant to reveal his delightful surprise till they were back in the hotel, but this was as good a moment as any.

"Ellen, we're not going to a ball," he said, leaning across to her. "We're going somewhere much more exciting. Somewhere absolutely special."

"And where is that?"' A slight foreboding touched Ellen.

"The opera!" said Kendrick happily.

"The Vienna State Opera! We're going to see Rosenkavalier--and guess who is singing the leading role."

"Who?"' asked Ellen obediently--but the foreboding had, so to speak, settled in.

"Brigitta Seefeld! Her interpretation is absolutely legendary. She's marvellous; remember I wrote to you about her, about the songs Altenburg wrote for her. I can't tell you what a miracle it was getting the tickets. Everyone in Vienna will be there." And suddenly seeing something in her face: "You're pleased, aren't you? You wouldn't rather have gone to a ball?"'

She lifted her head. "No, no,