finer arts, I see, Mr. Truman.” He turned and looked into the bright smiling face of the captivating young American woman, Emily James. He pulled himself back from his reverie.
“Miss James, isn’t it?” he said. “From Amherst, Massachusetts.”
She looked pleased that he had remembered her name, and nodded. “You are good with names, I see,” she said. “And places.”
How could I not remember ? he felt like saying. “I love the quiet of museums, ” he said. “They quiet the restless soul.” He was quoting one of the Haze’s favorite remarks.
“ Quiet the restless soul ,” she repeated with a smile. “That is Byron, I believe.”
“Actually, I was quoting a beloved old mentor,” Wheeler said, still not fully recovered from the surprise of running into her. He had nearly forgotten how disarming he found this young woman’s manner of looking one straight in the eye, the way her blue eyes gained intensity as she spoke to him, and the flush that came to her cheeks. “But I don’t know where he got it,” he said, musing on the words. He paused. “I thought you were on your way to Schonbrunn Palace with your friends.”
“Group indecision,” she said quickly. “It was a short trip. We turned around almost as soon as we got there. And I decided to come here by myself, to have time for contemplation.”
“I am sorry to disturb that.”
“Oh no, Mr. Truman,” she said enthusiastically. “It was I who broke into your contemplation.” Wheeler noted that she was blushing.
“I am glad for it,” he said. “Either way. Is this your first time in this museum?”
“I have come here a lot, alone,” she said. “I too find museums very restful and a chance to collect myself. This one is very good. It was the emperors’ and made public only in the middle of this century.” She looked at the collection of watercolors in front of Wheeler. “I find these exquisite,” she said. “They were a gift for the collection of watercolors and drawings by Austrian artists given to Rudolf and his bride, the Princess Stephanie, on their marriage sixteen years ago. You see the two of them pictured there—” She pointed. “And there.” She pointed to one entitled Defregger , a charmingly colorful work of Rudolf and Stephanie in a rustic cabin. “I find it absolutely exhilarating that the arts abound so in this country.”
“They really are quite exquisite,” Wheeler said, leaning down to examine the watercolors more closely.
“They are,” she said, seized by an involuntary frown. “But it reminds one of the awful tragedy of Mayerling. I suppose we will never know the full story.”
The Haze told all of his boys the facts of the Mayerling tragedy each year, on January 30, the day in 1889, that in the grand bedroom of the royal hunting lodge, in the village of Mayerling, Crown Prince Rudolf, only son and male heir of the emperor, the hope of the future, took his own life and the life of a seventeen-year-old courtesan. “Rudolf shot the light-headed baroness first,” Wheeler remembered his mentor intoning, “then he went downstairs for drink and companionship, then six or eight hours later returned to the upstairs room and shot himself in the head.”
“I suppose not, Miss James,” Wheeler said.
A look of great sadness came onto her face. “It was absolutely devastating for this lighthearted country. Just imagine the heir to the throne, the very future of the empire doing this—” She paused without being able to say the word. Then she shook her head. “I keep thinking of his mother, the great and beautiful empress. To lose a son this way—” She paused again, overcome by the gravity. “To lose a son any way at all. Simply awful.”
A silence fell between them. “I suppose that is the reason for museums, ” Wheeler said lightly, to change the mood. “They allow us to relive poignant moments.”
“Do you have museums out in California?” She smiled this time to restore
“Miss James, isn’t it?” he said. “From Amherst, Massachusetts.”
She looked pleased that he had remembered her name, and nodded. “You are good with names, I see,” she said. “And places.”
How could I not remember ? he felt like saying. “I love the quiet of museums, ” he said. “They quiet the restless soul.” He was quoting one of the Haze’s favorite remarks.
“ Quiet the restless soul ,” she repeated with a smile. “That is Byron, I believe.”
“Actually, I was quoting a beloved old mentor,” Wheeler said, still not fully recovered from the surprise of running into her. He had nearly forgotten how disarming he found this young woman’s manner of looking one straight in the eye, the way her blue eyes gained intensity as she spoke to him, and the flush that came to her cheeks. “But I don’t know where he got it,” he said, musing on the words. He paused. “I thought you were on your way to Schonbrunn Palace with your friends.”
“Group indecision,” she said quickly. “It was a short trip. We turned around almost as soon as we got there. And I decided to come here by myself, to have time for contemplation.”
“I am sorry to disturb that.”
“Oh no, Mr. Truman,” she said enthusiastically. “It was I who broke into your contemplation.” Wheeler noted that she was blushing.
“I am glad for it,” he said. “Either way. Is this your first time in this museum?”
“I have come here a lot, alone,” she said. “I too find museums very restful and a chance to collect myself. This one is very good. It was the emperors’ and made public only in the middle of this century.” She looked at the collection of watercolors in front of Wheeler. “I find these exquisite,” she said. “They were a gift for the collection of watercolors and drawings by Austrian artists given to Rudolf and his bride, the Princess Stephanie, on their marriage sixteen years ago. You see the two of them pictured there—” She pointed. “And there.” She pointed to one entitled Defregger , a charmingly colorful work of Rudolf and Stephanie in a rustic cabin. “I find it absolutely exhilarating that the arts abound so in this country.”
“They really are quite exquisite,” Wheeler said, leaning down to examine the watercolors more closely.
“They are,” she said, seized by an involuntary frown. “But it reminds one of the awful tragedy of Mayerling. I suppose we will never know the full story.”
The Haze told all of his boys the facts of the Mayerling tragedy each year, on January 30, the day in 1889, that in the grand bedroom of the royal hunting lodge, in the village of Mayerling, Crown Prince Rudolf, only son and male heir of the emperor, the hope of the future, took his own life and the life of a seventeen-year-old courtesan. “Rudolf shot the light-headed baroness first,” Wheeler remembered his mentor intoning, “then he went downstairs for drink and companionship, then six or eight hours later returned to the upstairs room and shot himself in the head.”
“I suppose not, Miss James,” Wheeler said.
A look of great sadness came onto her face. “It was absolutely devastating for this lighthearted country. Just imagine the heir to the throne, the very future of the empire doing this—” She paused without being able to say the word. Then she shook her head. “I keep thinking of his mother, the great and beautiful empress. To lose a son this way—” She paused again, overcome by the gravity. “To lose a son any way at all. Simply awful.”
A silence fell between them. “I suppose that is the reason for museums, ” Wheeler said lightly, to change the mood. “They allow us to relive poignant moments.”
“Do you have museums out in California?” She smiled this time to restore
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