VII.

VII.Like most modest, unassuming persons I am proud of a lot of things. Thus, without any boasting, I think I am fairly discreet. You may therefore imagine how astonished I felt when I found myself next morning in Mr. Doblana's studio, carefully rummaging his drawers in search of the manuscript of his balletGriseldis. I had an excuse: I was doing detective work, and the discreet detective is a type that has still to be invented. But you may believe me: I was unceasingly blushing.During the night I remembered a conversation which I had overheard by chance—please,donot forget that I am a discreet person—a conversation between Mr. Doblana and theHerr Graf. It had taken place the first time that I was admitted to the Round Table, and I have duly reported it in Chapter III.(I am absolutely distressed always to be obliged to refer the reader to previous chapters. It gives this story, which otherwise would be quite pleasant, an almost scientific appearance. But my unbounded inexperience in the art of writing must be taken into account.)This conversation then had mentioned the loss of one of Mr. Doblana's works. The name of the work was not stated, nor how it had been lost. A musical work may be lost otherwise than by the actual disappearance or destruction of its manuscript. A hostile report may mean its definite ruin. But once the idea had struck me that Mr. Doblana's strange calamity was indeed the loss of his manuscript, the recollection of that colloquy with theHerr Grafstrengthened my opinion. So I tried to make sure whetherGriseldisreally had disappeared.After I had made an hour's careful search, and inspected every paper, leaf by leaf, without finding the slightest trace of the manuscript, I decided that I was right. I further concluded that the horn-player was convinced of its having been stolen, and thiswith the help of his own daughter.As it had a considerable monetary value, he must have been very sore about the disappearance of his work. The simplest thing would of course have been to communicate with the police. But tied to a collaborator of so high a position as theHerr Grafhe could not well take such a step without consulting him. Clearly Doblana had not obtained his support, a prominent member of the Court having probably no desire for any business with the police. Thus the matter was at an end for my poor host. He had to remain quiet, and despair was his only consolation.But I at least was not compelled to have any consideration, and I wanted badly to free Mitzi from the suspicion which lay upon her. From what I knew, it was absolutely unjust. She had been lured into a journey, and her absence had been misused.By whom?Who was the thief?An examining magistrate must sometimes have a very uncomfortable feeling. For, if one has a preconceived idea in such a case, it is difficult to free oneself from it.I experienced this. In my mind Giulay was the main hinge on which the whole business turned. From the beginning I had conceived it so, and hard as I tried to get rid of this idea, it always came back to me: Giulay had sent the wire, in spite of his denial, knowing quite well that it would decide Mitzi to go to Salzburg. And Giulay did not like Mr. Doblana, as he had shown by attacking him in a tactless and violent way, without apparent reason, in the course of the evening at the Tobacco Pipe.The great difficulty for me consisted in the impossibility of talking about the whole affair to Mitzi. I held the man to be capable of any villainy. But there was no probability of getting Mitzi to divest herself of the prejudice she had in favour of the ugly Hungarian. If I had expressed but a little of my thoughts she would at once have accused me of wronging him, she would have resented it as an annoyance; and for no consideration would I wish to annoy her.So I kept my suppositions to myself. One point above all seemed to me important. The thief must have known not only that, on receipt of the telegram, Mitzi would hurry off to Salzburg, but also that Fanny wasabsent on a holiday. At one moment I suspected the plump servant girl of being Giulay's accomplice. What if her going to visit her dying mother had only been a feint? Suppose that she had returned in order to admit Giulay? However, I soon set aside this theory; Fanny was altogether devoted to Mitzi, and no consideration could have decided her to do such a treacherous thing.I asked both of them, Mitzi as well as Fanny, whether anybody had known that the latter would have a three days' holiday. As I did not want to tell them why I asked the question, they did not think as hard as I should have liked. They could not remember. And Mitzi who, of course, guessed that my inquiry was somehow connected with the great mystery, only wondered why I still worried over that old, half-forgotten affair.There is, as a matter of fact, a mistake into which readers of detective stories are generally enticed. It is to believe that the persons involved are doing nothing else but thinking of their case. They have no business, no trade nor profession, they have no friends to call upon, they have no letters to write, no plays to see, no books to read, they hardly ever rest, and they wash, dress, eat,and sleep only when it is necessary for the conduct of the case. This is all untrue; in reality, it happens quite otherwise. I am sure I was as interested in my case as any detective in his, yet I thought of it only occasionally, and I went on having my lessons with old Hammer as well as with Mr. Doblana and thinking of myMacbeth.When the horn-player first heard of my operatic ambitions, he said that it would be quite a good exercise, and that writing was the best way to learn how to do it. The opera would certainly not be performed, but that did not matter, as I was not working for money, being sufficiently well off without the paltry sums which I might earn in the form of royalties.With Hammer it was quite otherwise. He grew immediately enthusiastic. Enthusiasm was one of his principal features. My words, repeated rather parrot-like from what Bischoff had said to me, namely, that it would be "a tissue of terror, of trembling, of anxious forebodings and of dreadful silence," pleased the old organist specially. To say the truth, I had no proper idea of how this tissue was to be produced.Hammer told me that it always had beenhis ambition to write an opera, but that he never had been able to find a libretto which he had judged suitable for his particular talent."Bischoff has proposedMacbethto me too," he said. "But the objection that I believed myself unable to express the local colour was too great. I was afraid of failing in one of the most important points. This danger does not exist for a Scotchman like you.""But I am no Scotchman.""Isn't Hampstead in Scotland?" (He pronounced it Hampshtead with his undeniable Austrian accent.) "You told me, it was up North.""North London—and you must not tell that to a Londoner—they believe it is West.""I regret it for your sake. Have you any idea of Scotch folk tunes?""I knowAuld Lang Syne.""That is better. But I advise you, before you begin with the composition of your great work, to write a few Scotch songs as an exercise, like Wagner, who wrote a few songs as studies for hisTristan."The advice seemed good to me, and I composed fifteen Scotch songs as an exerciseforMacbethwhich, according to Mr. Doblana, was itself but an exercise for future operas. I chose them among the many lyrics, which exist in good metrical German translations, so that I had them ready in both languages. I wrote my songs in what seemed to me an incredibly short time at the rate of a song a day. Modest as I am, I must nevertheless confess that they are not bad, considering that I am ... no, that I was a British composer. British composers have been told so many times about their having no talent that they have come to believe it. But it is not true. We have quite as much heart and feeling and imagination as other nations. Only we have also the fog. Which means that we may be allowed to be born in our isles, but that we will do well to go and compose somewhere else. This is what by chance I had done. Thus it happened that my fifteen Scotch songs were quite possible, and one at least was good. But who would not have been inspired by Sir Walter's immortal words?"Breathes there the man, with soul so dead.Who never to himself hath saidThis is my own, my native land!Whose heart hath ne'er within him burn'd,As home his footsteps he hath turn'd,From wandering on a foreign strand!"These songs have never been printed, yet I am glad to have written them. They sleep in a drawer in a nice cosy house in Belsize Park. They sleep, but they are not dead. They live in my memory and remind me of the most beautiful day which was yet given me to live.Post.And an exceptionally big mail, containing three letters and a few papers. The "Illustrated London News," sent to me by an old aunt. They are full of war pictures which she forwards to me so that I may have an idea how things look in reality, as we in the trenches have certainly only a very vague idea of the aspect of the whole business.One of the letters is from a lady who signs Thirza Ellaline de Jones, and is addressed to my regimental number only."Dear Nº...," it runs, "if, as I suppose, you are a lonely soldier, I wish to inform you that I am willing to offer you my friendship, for I am myself a lonely maiden. I often think how awful it must be for you to have nobody to think of, andthat in your murderous business you are never relieved by that wonderful thought: 'It is for her that I do all these sanguinary deeds.'"I am of a romantic, passionate nature, and I am sure you ought to like exchanging ideas with me. My character is rather pessimistic, having thoroughly read Shopenower (sic!), yet I feel sure I could cheer you up. Besides, I think that our acquaintance, started under the fire of the guns, could after the war lead to a more pleasant union. I am scarcely of middle age, but I look much younger than I am, and I feel younger still. I do not enclose my photo, for I think that men who have gone through the serious business of war are not concerned with trifles. But I may add this: The war will not finish before every man is disabled. You will then be entitled to a pension. If it pleases you, you may now add to this the amount of my private income which is of £140 a year."Answer by return, and you will be a dear."Yours ever,"Thirza Ellaline de Jones."The letter is typewritten, and the traces of wax on the back show that it is reproduced from a stencil. What a mania!The second letter is from a firm, Levy and Levy, who offer the highest prices for souvenirs, especially for German helmets.And the third one is from home."My dear Patrick," writes the mater, "we are glad to hear that you are all right, and hope that you will endeavour to keep so. I strongly advise you to wear the same underclothing you are used to, namely, that of Doctor Lahmann. I would have sent you some, but I find that their place in Holborn has disappeared. They have probably been wound up by our Government, who do not see the difference between good and bad things. But I imagine that among the prisoners you take, you will find one able to procure from Germany whatever you want."I do not know on what mysterious business Bean is engaged. But she comes three times a week to town, all the way from Bedford. She says that what she does is a holy duty, which I think is rubbish.I suspect father of being in the secret and resent his hiding it from me. Still, I must say that she is as pretty as ever, even prettier. And also that old Dicks is making pots of money out of a big Government contract for tinned vegetables."I regret your enthusiasm over father's silly idea to upset you by having your Scottish march played in the middle of the battlefield, instead of leaving you quiet and cosy in your trench. I hope that you will soon send us good news. I remain your always loving"Mother."And dad joins a half sheet:"My darling boy,"Nothing could please me more than the thought that you have been happy for a moment, while hearing the 'Pibroch o' Donuil Dhu.' I am so busy that I have scarcely the time to write. I will only add to what your mother says, that a word to the wise will be sufficient. Bean is the dearest girl I know and will be quite well off. And between men I may say this: Iknow you used to object to her being so thin. She is growing plump now."A thousand kisses from your loving"Daniel Cooper."Bean plump, Bean growing actually plump! I confess that this opens perspectives I had not suspected. Still....You see, she is nine years my junior. And as I am twenty-nine (rather a ladylike age, isn't it?) you will be able to calculate that she is twenty. And I suppose that it is also twenty years since our respective respected parents regard us as betrothed. Yet, it has never been spoken out openly.Violet Dicks, commonly called Bean, is indeed pretty. She plays the piano a little, but with such apathy that I have always avoided listening to her other musical achievements, which consist in a little singing and a little concertina playing. However, I must say that there is something like mutual consent in my ignorance of her musical performances. She is very shy, not generally, but in matters musical, and would never dare to sing or to play to a composer, even to an abdicated one. She plays tennis,but is no good at bridge. She writes many unimportant letters, all exceedingly short, and never reads a book, nor anything else. She spends all her pocket-money on dragging her mother to London every time a new musical play comes on. She says she loathes them, but she is always hoping that there will one day be a good one. She is also interested in petty charities, bazaars, garden parties, and so on. And as far as it is possible with her, she is in love with me.But I do not think that hers is one of those great, magnificent loves we read of in books. She is more a vegetable than a flower; as a flower she is only a violet, as a vegetable only a bean. A green bean. A slender, green bean.Yet I have a certain tender feeling for her. I should not like her to suffer in the least. I feel myself quite capable of marrying her, and even of being a good husband to her, if it were absolutely necessary. On no account could I let her die from a broken heart. But then, I suppose it would not break.She is not, like Thirza Ellaline de Jones, of a romantic, passionate nature, nor doesshe even know that Schopenhauer ever existed. And if it were essential for a lonely soldier like me to exchange ideas with a female, I would rather do it with Bean who has none, than with Thirza Ellaline who has less. As for the reason why I do all these "sanguinary deeds," Thirza Ellaline must excuse me and mind her own business. There exists something which I should call the chastity of patriotic sentiment, and it would be immodest to divulge it.No, Thirza Ellaline, oh thou of the unphotographable face! In spite of thy private income of £140 (and I add, not because of Bean's income which is probably twenty times bigger, a fact that I could overlook if thou wert a little more photographable and a little less pessimistic) I saynayto thee. Nay—never!Whereas Bean... It is still: "not yet." But I confess that the idea of her has been growing lately somewhat more familiar. I do not know when, why, nor how that change began. That she wept when she heard the "Pibroch o' Donuil Dhu" performed by the band of the Salvation Army has but little to do with it. Weeping under such stresshas happened to more hardened people. Now there comes the news of her growing plump. But it comes as a mere abstraction, for I feel unable to imagine a flat pancake as a round dumpling. No, I don't know why, but there is now something in the word Bean—a meaning—which was not there before. It is but slight, yet it is. Still, can it ever grow as long as there lives the remembrance of another?Let me tell you how it occurred.I had finished those Scotch songs and was rather pleased with them. They were written to suit Mitzi's voice, and so one evening I played them to her. The one I preferred, namely, Scott's "Breathes there a man," was unfortunately the one which agreed least with her particular ability. But you ought to have heard her singing "My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here." There was such an ardent longing in her voice, such a desire of seeing again the mountains covered with snow and the "wild-hanging woods," and to hear oncemore the "loud-pouring torrents." It was all so true, so sincere. I made her sing it again and again. She appreciated Burns' words. She had only to think of the beautiful Austrian Alps which she knew so well. But she understood also my setting of the words. She sang it as I would have done it, had I had a voice and mastered the difficulty of controlling it. She sang it directly out of my own soul. Never was there such a comprehension, such a communion of feelings.She was standing behind me, a little to my right. Her pleasure in singing my song was equalled by mine at hearing her. When she had performed it eight or ten times I stopped at last. I was overcome with emotion.And suddenly I felt her hand caressing my hair.I trembled. I perceived something happening; a breath, so to say, a mere nothing. Joy and terror at once filled my heart. I gazed at her, and in the twilight I saw a tender smile around her lips. It made me feel out of breath, as if I had been walking too fast.I got up."Let us go out a little," I said, "the evening is wonderful."We went. Doblana was at the opera blowing his hard part in theMastersingers, which would keep him till nearly midnight, and we had two hours and a half before us. The streets were already empty, for Vienna is a town that goes to sleep very early, thanks to a twopenny fine imposed on each inhabitant who comes home after ten o'clock. The sky was clear and the moon looked like a round silver cake from which somebody had helped himself to a tiny slice of the crust. No stars were visible, but as we had gained the boulevard, the electric lamps growing smaller and smaller in the distance appeared like starry dust.We entered the municipal park. It was quite empty, and the right frame for romantic amours. For I knew by now into what our companionship little by little had grown. My heart was throbbing, hers probably too, and we felt that the park was an accomplice of the sentiments which were leading us along our walk.There are many cosy corners in that park. And each one of these corners isadorned with a statue. Before that of Schubert we halted. Why, I do not know, for it is not remarkable in any way. Yet we looked at it as if it had been the goal of our pilgrimage. We were as if transported. We were silent and gazed at Schubert as if he were something new and delightful, as if he were a new invention of the heart, enrapturing, transporting, fit to throw us into a sweet ecstasy. And yet he was only a fat gentleman in white marble, sitting in a chair and holding a conventional sheet of music paper in his hand.Suddenly Mitzi began to sing softly:"My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here..." and then the love that for months had been lying longingly at her door, and had voicelessly cherished her, the love, my love, broke forth. I caught her by the neck and bending my face down to her's I touched her lips, whispering:"I love you, Mitzi, I love you."Her eyes were closed and she kissed me back. Mine was a marvellous happiness, for I felt that I was her's, vanquished, beaten by her charm. My love was not a conquest, but a capitulation—and yet I was happy.And now, pity me, compassionate reader, for ... do you know how long my happiness was to last? Fate, cruel, inexorable fate, had allowed me one minute, one single minute. Then a devilish laughter, coming from some hidden corner in the shrubs, awoke me.Of the old guilds of Vienna one still exists. It is the Company of the Bootmakers. Originally established to afford aid to necessitous members of their trade, the Company by payment of large sums obtained various monopolies. In London there are bootsellers, dealers in boots, which are manufactured in big factories. In Vienna there are still bootmakers. Their Company having from entrance fees, fines, and so on, acquired some money which was employed in the purchase of land, became known, because of the rise in the value of property, to have amassed enormous wealth. The bootmakers are still divided into masters, companions, and apprentices; and so rich is the guild that to be an apprentice bootmaker is sometimes more advantageous than to be a master in another trade. So is the fact explained that you may see walking aboutin Vienna "bootmakers' lads" aged thirty or forty, very proud of their green aprons.These "lads" provide one of the many typical figures of Vienna. They are the naughty boys of that city. There is no mischief they will leave undone, if they see a possibility of its performance. There is no cheeky remark they will leave unsaid. They are wasps, and every day a new exploit, or a newbon motof a bootmakers' lad is told in Vienna.It was such a lad who came laughing at us out of the shrubbery. I could have thrown myself upon him and given him the thrashing he deserved. But I stopped when I saw him in the moonlight.He was a little man of about twenty-five. He was lame. He had black hair, a black moustache, and a pointed tuft of black beard on his chin, and with his mocking expression he reminded me of the Frenchman who at Salzburg had made room for ... Mitzi, of the conductor who had united me to ... Mitzi, and of the cabby who had brought me again to ... Mitzi.

Like most modest, unassuming persons I am proud of a lot of things. Thus, without any boasting, I think I am fairly discreet. You may therefore imagine how astonished I felt when I found myself next morning in Mr. Doblana's studio, carefully rummaging his drawers in search of the manuscript of his balletGriseldis. I had an excuse: I was doing detective work, and the discreet detective is a type that has still to be invented. But you may believe me: I was unceasingly blushing.

During the night I remembered a conversation which I had overheard by chance—please,donot forget that I am a discreet person—a conversation between Mr. Doblana and theHerr Graf. It had taken place the first time that I was admitted to the Round Table, and I have duly reported it in Chapter III.

(I am absolutely distressed always to be obliged to refer the reader to previous chapters. It gives this story, which otherwise would be quite pleasant, an almost scientific appearance. But my unbounded inexperience in the art of writing must be taken into account.)

This conversation then had mentioned the loss of one of Mr. Doblana's works. The name of the work was not stated, nor how it had been lost. A musical work may be lost otherwise than by the actual disappearance or destruction of its manuscript. A hostile report may mean its definite ruin. But once the idea had struck me that Mr. Doblana's strange calamity was indeed the loss of his manuscript, the recollection of that colloquy with theHerr Grafstrengthened my opinion. So I tried to make sure whetherGriseldisreally had disappeared.

After I had made an hour's careful search, and inspected every paper, leaf by leaf, without finding the slightest trace of the manuscript, I decided that I was right. I further concluded that the horn-player was convinced of its having been stolen, and thiswith the help of his own daughter.

As it had a considerable monetary value, he must have been very sore about the disappearance of his work. The simplest thing would of course have been to communicate with the police. But tied to a collaborator of so high a position as theHerr Grafhe could not well take such a step without consulting him. Clearly Doblana had not obtained his support, a prominent member of the Court having probably no desire for any business with the police. Thus the matter was at an end for my poor host. He had to remain quiet, and despair was his only consolation.

But I at least was not compelled to have any consideration, and I wanted badly to free Mitzi from the suspicion which lay upon her. From what I knew, it was absolutely unjust. She had been lured into a journey, and her absence had been misused.

By whom?

Who was the thief?

An examining magistrate must sometimes have a very uncomfortable feeling. For, if one has a preconceived idea in such a case, it is difficult to free oneself from it.I experienced this. In my mind Giulay was the main hinge on which the whole business turned. From the beginning I had conceived it so, and hard as I tried to get rid of this idea, it always came back to me: Giulay had sent the wire, in spite of his denial, knowing quite well that it would decide Mitzi to go to Salzburg. And Giulay did not like Mr. Doblana, as he had shown by attacking him in a tactless and violent way, without apparent reason, in the course of the evening at the Tobacco Pipe.

The great difficulty for me consisted in the impossibility of talking about the whole affair to Mitzi. I held the man to be capable of any villainy. But there was no probability of getting Mitzi to divest herself of the prejudice she had in favour of the ugly Hungarian. If I had expressed but a little of my thoughts she would at once have accused me of wronging him, she would have resented it as an annoyance; and for no consideration would I wish to annoy her.

So I kept my suppositions to myself. One point above all seemed to me important. The thief must have known not only that, on receipt of the telegram, Mitzi would hurry off to Salzburg, but also that Fanny wasabsent on a holiday. At one moment I suspected the plump servant girl of being Giulay's accomplice. What if her going to visit her dying mother had only been a feint? Suppose that she had returned in order to admit Giulay? However, I soon set aside this theory; Fanny was altogether devoted to Mitzi, and no consideration could have decided her to do such a treacherous thing.

I asked both of them, Mitzi as well as Fanny, whether anybody had known that the latter would have a three days' holiday. As I did not want to tell them why I asked the question, they did not think as hard as I should have liked. They could not remember. And Mitzi who, of course, guessed that my inquiry was somehow connected with the great mystery, only wondered why I still worried over that old, half-forgotten affair.

There is, as a matter of fact, a mistake into which readers of detective stories are generally enticed. It is to believe that the persons involved are doing nothing else but thinking of their case. They have no business, no trade nor profession, they have no friends to call upon, they have no letters to write, no plays to see, no books to read, they hardly ever rest, and they wash, dress, eat,and sleep only when it is necessary for the conduct of the case. This is all untrue; in reality, it happens quite otherwise. I am sure I was as interested in my case as any detective in his, yet I thought of it only occasionally, and I went on having my lessons with old Hammer as well as with Mr. Doblana and thinking of myMacbeth.

When the horn-player first heard of my operatic ambitions, he said that it would be quite a good exercise, and that writing was the best way to learn how to do it. The opera would certainly not be performed, but that did not matter, as I was not working for money, being sufficiently well off without the paltry sums which I might earn in the form of royalties.

With Hammer it was quite otherwise. He grew immediately enthusiastic. Enthusiasm was one of his principal features. My words, repeated rather parrot-like from what Bischoff had said to me, namely, that it would be "a tissue of terror, of trembling, of anxious forebodings and of dreadful silence," pleased the old organist specially. To say the truth, I had no proper idea of how this tissue was to be produced.

Hammer told me that it always had beenhis ambition to write an opera, but that he never had been able to find a libretto which he had judged suitable for his particular talent.

"Bischoff has proposedMacbethto me too," he said. "But the objection that I believed myself unable to express the local colour was too great. I was afraid of failing in one of the most important points. This danger does not exist for a Scotchman like you."

"But I am no Scotchman."

"Isn't Hampstead in Scotland?" (He pronounced it Hampshtead with his undeniable Austrian accent.) "You told me, it was up North."

"North London—and you must not tell that to a Londoner—they believe it is West."

"I regret it for your sake. Have you any idea of Scotch folk tunes?"

"I knowAuld Lang Syne."

"That is better. But I advise you, before you begin with the composition of your great work, to write a few Scotch songs as an exercise, like Wagner, who wrote a few songs as studies for hisTristan."

The advice seemed good to me, and I composed fifteen Scotch songs as an exerciseforMacbethwhich, according to Mr. Doblana, was itself but an exercise for future operas. I chose them among the many lyrics, which exist in good metrical German translations, so that I had them ready in both languages. I wrote my songs in what seemed to me an incredibly short time at the rate of a song a day. Modest as I am, I must nevertheless confess that they are not bad, considering that I am ... no, that I was a British composer. British composers have been told so many times about their having no talent that they have come to believe it. But it is not true. We have quite as much heart and feeling and imagination as other nations. Only we have also the fog. Which means that we may be allowed to be born in our isles, but that we will do well to go and compose somewhere else. This is what by chance I had done. Thus it happened that my fifteen Scotch songs were quite possible, and one at least was good. But who would not have been inspired by Sir Walter's immortal words?

"Breathes there the man, with soul so dead.Who never to himself hath said

This is my own, my native land!Whose heart hath ne'er within him burn'd,As home his footsteps he hath turn'd,

From wandering on a foreign strand!"

These songs have never been printed, yet I am glad to have written them. They sleep in a drawer in a nice cosy house in Belsize Park. They sleep, but they are not dead. They live in my memory and remind me of the most beautiful day which was yet given me to live.

Post.

And an exceptionally big mail, containing three letters and a few papers. The "Illustrated London News," sent to me by an old aunt. They are full of war pictures which she forwards to me so that I may have an idea how things look in reality, as we in the trenches have certainly only a very vague idea of the aspect of the whole business.

One of the letters is from a lady who signs Thirza Ellaline de Jones, and is addressed to my regimental number only.

"Dear Nº...," it runs, "if, as I suppose, you are a lonely soldier, I wish to inform you that I am willing to offer you my friendship, for I am myself a lonely maiden. I often think how awful it must be for you to have nobody to think of, andthat in your murderous business you are never relieved by that wonderful thought: 'It is for her that I do all these sanguinary deeds.'

"I am of a romantic, passionate nature, and I am sure you ought to like exchanging ideas with me. My character is rather pessimistic, having thoroughly read Shopenower (sic!), yet I feel sure I could cheer you up. Besides, I think that our acquaintance, started under the fire of the guns, could after the war lead to a more pleasant union. I am scarcely of middle age, but I look much younger than I am, and I feel younger still. I do not enclose my photo, for I think that men who have gone through the serious business of war are not concerned with trifles. But I may add this: The war will not finish before every man is disabled. You will then be entitled to a pension. If it pleases you, you may now add to this the amount of my private income which is of £140 a year.

"Answer by return, and you will be a dear.

"Yours ever,

"Thirza Ellaline de Jones."

The letter is typewritten, and the traces of wax on the back show that it is reproduced from a stencil. What a mania!

The second letter is from a firm, Levy and Levy, who offer the highest prices for souvenirs, especially for German helmets.

And the third one is from home.

"My dear Patrick," writes the mater, "we are glad to hear that you are all right, and hope that you will endeavour to keep so. I strongly advise you to wear the same underclothing you are used to, namely, that of Doctor Lahmann. I would have sent you some, but I find that their place in Holborn has disappeared. They have probably been wound up by our Government, who do not see the difference between good and bad things. But I imagine that among the prisoners you take, you will find one able to procure from Germany whatever you want.

"I do not know on what mysterious business Bean is engaged. But she comes three times a week to town, all the way from Bedford. She says that what she does is a holy duty, which I think is rubbish.I suspect father of being in the secret and resent his hiding it from me. Still, I must say that she is as pretty as ever, even prettier. And also that old Dicks is making pots of money out of a big Government contract for tinned vegetables.

"I regret your enthusiasm over father's silly idea to upset you by having your Scottish march played in the middle of the battlefield, instead of leaving you quiet and cosy in your trench. I hope that you will soon send us good news. I remain your always loving

"Mother."

And dad joins a half sheet:

"My darling boy,

"Nothing could please me more than the thought that you have been happy for a moment, while hearing the 'Pibroch o' Donuil Dhu.' I am so busy that I have scarcely the time to write. I will only add to what your mother says, that a word to the wise will be sufficient. Bean is the dearest girl I know and will be quite well off. And between men I may say this: Iknow you used to object to her being so thin. She is growing plump now.

"A thousand kisses from your loving

"Daniel Cooper."

Bean plump, Bean growing actually plump! I confess that this opens perspectives I had not suspected. Still....

You see, she is nine years my junior. And as I am twenty-nine (rather a ladylike age, isn't it?) you will be able to calculate that she is twenty. And I suppose that it is also twenty years since our respective respected parents regard us as betrothed. Yet, it has never been spoken out openly.

Violet Dicks, commonly called Bean, is indeed pretty. She plays the piano a little, but with such apathy that I have always avoided listening to her other musical achievements, which consist in a little singing and a little concertina playing. However, I must say that there is something like mutual consent in my ignorance of her musical performances. She is very shy, not generally, but in matters musical, and would never dare to sing or to play to a composer, even to an abdicated one. She plays tennis,but is no good at bridge. She writes many unimportant letters, all exceedingly short, and never reads a book, nor anything else. She spends all her pocket-money on dragging her mother to London every time a new musical play comes on. She says she loathes them, but she is always hoping that there will one day be a good one. She is also interested in petty charities, bazaars, garden parties, and so on. And as far as it is possible with her, she is in love with me.

But I do not think that hers is one of those great, magnificent loves we read of in books. She is more a vegetable than a flower; as a flower she is only a violet, as a vegetable only a bean. A green bean. A slender, green bean.

Yet I have a certain tender feeling for her. I should not like her to suffer in the least. I feel myself quite capable of marrying her, and even of being a good husband to her, if it were absolutely necessary. On no account could I let her die from a broken heart. But then, I suppose it would not break.

She is not, like Thirza Ellaline de Jones, of a romantic, passionate nature, nor doesshe even know that Schopenhauer ever existed. And if it were essential for a lonely soldier like me to exchange ideas with a female, I would rather do it with Bean who has none, than with Thirza Ellaline who has less. As for the reason why I do all these "sanguinary deeds," Thirza Ellaline must excuse me and mind her own business. There exists something which I should call the chastity of patriotic sentiment, and it would be immodest to divulge it.

No, Thirza Ellaline, oh thou of the unphotographable face! In spite of thy private income of £140 (and I add, not because of Bean's income which is probably twenty times bigger, a fact that I could overlook if thou wert a little more photographable and a little less pessimistic) I saynayto thee. Nay—never!

Whereas Bean... It is still: "not yet." But I confess that the idea of her has been growing lately somewhat more familiar. I do not know when, why, nor how that change began. That she wept when she heard the "Pibroch o' Donuil Dhu" performed by the band of the Salvation Army has but little to do with it. Weeping under such stresshas happened to more hardened people. Now there comes the news of her growing plump. But it comes as a mere abstraction, for I feel unable to imagine a flat pancake as a round dumpling. No, I don't know why, but there is now something in the word Bean—a meaning—which was not there before. It is but slight, yet it is. Still, can it ever grow as long as there lives the remembrance of another?

Let me tell you how it occurred.

I had finished those Scotch songs and was rather pleased with them. They were written to suit Mitzi's voice, and so one evening I played them to her. The one I preferred, namely, Scott's "Breathes there a man," was unfortunately the one which agreed least with her particular ability. But you ought to have heard her singing "My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here." There was such an ardent longing in her voice, such a desire of seeing again the mountains covered with snow and the "wild-hanging woods," and to hear oncemore the "loud-pouring torrents." It was all so true, so sincere. I made her sing it again and again. She appreciated Burns' words. She had only to think of the beautiful Austrian Alps which she knew so well. But she understood also my setting of the words. She sang it as I would have done it, had I had a voice and mastered the difficulty of controlling it. She sang it directly out of my own soul. Never was there such a comprehension, such a communion of feelings.

She was standing behind me, a little to my right. Her pleasure in singing my song was equalled by mine at hearing her. When she had performed it eight or ten times I stopped at last. I was overcome with emotion.

And suddenly I felt her hand caressing my hair.

I trembled. I perceived something happening; a breath, so to say, a mere nothing. Joy and terror at once filled my heart. I gazed at her, and in the twilight I saw a tender smile around her lips. It made me feel out of breath, as if I had been walking too fast.

I got up."Let us go out a little," I said, "the evening is wonderful."

We went. Doblana was at the opera blowing his hard part in theMastersingers, which would keep him till nearly midnight, and we had two hours and a half before us. The streets were already empty, for Vienna is a town that goes to sleep very early, thanks to a twopenny fine imposed on each inhabitant who comes home after ten o'clock. The sky was clear and the moon looked like a round silver cake from which somebody had helped himself to a tiny slice of the crust. No stars were visible, but as we had gained the boulevard, the electric lamps growing smaller and smaller in the distance appeared like starry dust.

We entered the municipal park. It was quite empty, and the right frame for romantic amours. For I knew by now into what our companionship little by little had grown. My heart was throbbing, hers probably too, and we felt that the park was an accomplice of the sentiments which were leading us along our walk.

There are many cosy corners in that park. And each one of these corners isadorned with a statue. Before that of Schubert we halted. Why, I do not know, for it is not remarkable in any way. Yet we looked at it as if it had been the goal of our pilgrimage. We were as if transported. We were silent and gazed at Schubert as if he were something new and delightful, as if he were a new invention of the heart, enrapturing, transporting, fit to throw us into a sweet ecstasy. And yet he was only a fat gentleman in white marble, sitting in a chair and holding a conventional sheet of music paper in his hand.

Suddenly Mitzi began to sing softly:

"My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here..." and then the love that for months had been lying longingly at her door, and had voicelessly cherished her, the love, my love, broke forth. I caught her by the neck and bending my face down to her's I touched her lips, whispering:

"I love you, Mitzi, I love you."

Her eyes were closed and she kissed me back. Mine was a marvellous happiness, for I felt that I was her's, vanquished, beaten by her charm. My love was not a conquest, but a capitulation—and yet I was happy.

And now, pity me, compassionate reader, for ... do you know how long my happiness was to last? Fate, cruel, inexorable fate, had allowed me one minute, one single minute. Then a devilish laughter, coming from some hidden corner in the shrubs, awoke me.

Of the old guilds of Vienna one still exists. It is the Company of the Bootmakers. Originally established to afford aid to necessitous members of their trade, the Company by payment of large sums obtained various monopolies. In London there are bootsellers, dealers in boots, which are manufactured in big factories. In Vienna there are still bootmakers. Their Company having from entrance fees, fines, and so on, acquired some money which was employed in the purchase of land, became known, because of the rise in the value of property, to have amassed enormous wealth. The bootmakers are still divided into masters, companions, and apprentices; and so rich is the guild that to be an apprentice bootmaker is sometimes more advantageous than to be a master in another trade. So is the fact explained that you may see walking aboutin Vienna "bootmakers' lads" aged thirty or forty, very proud of their green aprons.

These "lads" provide one of the many typical figures of Vienna. They are the naughty boys of that city. There is no mischief they will leave undone, if they see a possibility of its performance. There is no cheeky remark they will leave unsaid. They are wasps, and every day a new exploit, or a newbon motof a bootmakers' lad is told in Vienna.

It was such a lad who came laughing at us out of the shrubbery. I could have thrown myself upon him and given him the thrashing he deserved. But I stopped when I saw him in the moonlight.

He was a little man of about twenty-five. He was lame. He had black hair, a black moustache, and a pointed tuft of black beard on his chin, and with his mocking expression he reminded me of the Frenchman who at Salzburg had made room for ... Mitzi, of the conductor who had united me to ... Mitzi, and of the cabby who had brought me again to ... Mitzi.

VIII.My first idea had been to talk immediately to Mr. Doblana and inform him that I intended marrying his daughter. I told Mitzi this while we were going home through narrow, dark streets, as becomes thieves and lovers. But she objected. She was rather cool, the result probably of yonder bootmakers' lad's intervention."I know you love me," she said, "and always will. I too love you, but I don't know yet how to do it well. I cannot tell you what I feel. If you were at once to speak to father, either he would say yes, or he would say no, but in both cases you would have to leave our house at once. Father is no artist, he is a trader in music, and he is meanspirited as all tradespeople are. He does not understand love as artists do. He would only see the impropriety of yourstaying any longer with us. And I do not want to be lonely. I want you with me. Think only that I just found my heart. You do love me?"I wanted to take her in my arms, and to kiss her again. But although there was nobody in the street she prevented it."And you always will love me?" she asked once more."Always, Mitzi!" I said.And, my word, I am afraid that thisalwaysstill holds good a little.When we arrived at home Doblana was not yet in and Fanny had gone to bed. In the drawing-room, where a couple of hours before Mitzi had sung herself definitely into my heart, we halted. She looked at me, and I opened my arms; for a moment she laid her cheek against my shoulder, then she took my head between her hands and kissed me. It was very sweet ... but it lacked Schubert.Then she went into her room, and I into mine.It was she who the next day came to speak aboutMacbeth."You want me to playLady Macbeth?""Yes. Did you not ask me for somethingheroic? IsLady Macbethnot the woman who tries to be stronger than man and who breaks up from over-exertion? Can you imagine anything more prodigious?""What am I to do with her?" she asked again after a while. "I re-readMacbethlast night. She is terrible. Think only, she says that while her baby was smiling in her face she would have dashed its brains out, had she sworn to do it. I know that art can receive a new meaning from all successive generations, but how can a woman in this century of longing for peace speak words which were horrible even in those times of torture?"I was surprised at her question which filled me with great happiness. She had readMacbeththis very night. Was this not a wonderful proof of her love? And she had not read it superficially. Oh, what a happy man I was to be able to call such a girl my own!But how to answer her question was beyond me. All I could find to say was this:"You forget, Mitzi, that I will makeLady Macbetha beautiful, flexible cat in thefirst part, and a weak child in the second.""My dear," she declared, "I fear that that is rather an empty sentence, and that you are not at all sure what you are going to make her."I felt that her remark was just, and I resented her superiority a little. You see, I was a composer; and as a composer I believed that I need notthinkso very deeply, if only Ifeltprofoundly. I suppose that most composers share this opinion, which may be erroneous.Anyhow, I am sure that if I had been better at thinking (even at the cost of being less good at feeling) Mitzi would have preferred it. There were two Mitzis. The one was a very pretty, charming girl, yet probably somewhat insignificant. The other was an eminent artist, gifted in many respects. Instinctively it was the latter I loved. But to love a woman means to conquer her, not to be conquered. A superior woman wants to be vanquished by a more superior man. And I had capitulated already to the pretty girl. As for the artist, she simply annihilated me.(The reader must not believe that thesewar-like expressions are the result of my entrenched authorship. If I were to use the language which I have learned here I would have first to publish a trench dictionary. No—these expressions are only the result of newspaper reading.)Two days went by. Then Mr. Bischoff called upon me and, as he wanted a thousand crowns[1], he brought with him a detailed sketch of his libretto.Happily Doblana was absent, which enabled Mitzi to assist at our interview. I told Bischoff that it was my wish to see the rôle ofLady Macbethperformed by Miss Doblana, but that this must for the present remain a secret to her father, who objected to an artistic career for his daughter.Bischoff inclined his head without saying what he thought of my plan. Probably his conviction was that I was mad to confide my first work to a beginner, for this was what people generally believed. How many times have I been warned during the following months not to commit my opera to a "beginner"! But as it happened, thegreat actor found that this "beginner" knew very well what she wanted."I do not think, Mr. Bischoff," she said, "that your libretto is any good, and should it remain as it is, I will probably not undertake to create the part of the lady.""Oh!" answered Bischoff mockingly, "you have not yet been on the boards, and you already have a prima donna's caprices. You will make your way!""There is no use in talking like this," she exclaimed. "If nobody yet has thought of making a music drama ofMacbeththere are good reasons. By himself Macbeth is a dull, heavy character."Dear me! Bischoff's face!—You ought to have seen it. It was worth while. He took it personally—he out-shakespeared Shakespeare."You are a very young girl," he said at last, "to utter such criticism." And, turning to me: "I did not expect, when I came here, an adversary to whom I cannot speak as I should like to on account of her sex. It is most unfair.""Neither my sex," cried Mitzi, "nor my youth have anything to do with whatyou call my criticisms. At this moment I am no woman. I am but an artist, and as such I have the right to speak."I should have gladly given whatever money I had in my pocket to be somewhere else; yet this very thought reminded me of the fact that Bischoff would bear a little more of Mitzi's argument, as there was a cheque at the end of it.But while I pondered over these possibilities Mitzi was going on:"Yes, Mr. Bischoff, Macbeth is a dull, heavy person. He does not do anything by himself. The witches who show him his future do not influence him.""But,Fräulein, the witches are but a symbol of his ambitious ideas.""Never mind ... let us say then, that his ambitious ideas do not lead him into action. He must be dragged to it by his Lady. As a great criminal he is entirely overshadowed by her. Now, such a character may be interesting in a spoken tragedy, but not in music-drama. Further: Macduff is a typical tenor, and as such never interesting. Again, that fairy tale of Birnam wood coming to Dunsinane, do you think that it canimpress a modern public?""So you are against our scheme altogether?""Not in the least. But I want you to make aLady Macbethinstead of aMacbeth. The Lady is the one interesting person in the whole drama. I want you to cut out all that does not concern her directly. I suggest that you make the first scene of the prophesy of the three witches, which is a grand opening. Then must follow a first act where at the beginning the Lady induces Macbeth to commit the murder and where at the end the deed is done. The second act should be the banquet....""And Banquo's ghost? What will you do with Banquo's ghost, if, as I suppose, you suppress Banquo?""Let it be King Duncan's ghost. As long as there is a ghost, it matters little whose ghost it is. Finally, the third act should be the scene where the Lady walks in her sleep. After this the interest is over. Let the public go home. It will have had quite enough of the nightmare."She stopped and there was a long silence. The actor did not say one word,and I did not dare to interfere. I am modest, I have reported that to you already. If I were not, I might have told you that Mitzi's plan, which certainly was good, was my invention. But I am proud of being modest and truthful.At last Bischoff said:"I apologise,Fräulein, for having been distrustful. Your scheme is workable.""That is better, Mr. Bischoff," said my dear girl with a most bewitching, yet triumphant smile. "But I have not finished. I do not want to impersonate a mere monster. I consent to be a cat first, and a sick child afterwards, but I must know why—I will not be content with nice phrases. The Lady will be my début, and I want my début to be a triumph. Mr. Cooper does not seem to know exactly how to explain. Will you?"If Mitzi had shown her superiority up to this moment, it was now Bischoff's turn. As for me I had my favourite feeling: That of being ... but why should I repeat it? You know."It is only because your dull and heavy Macbeth is compatible with my theory of the Lady," began Bischoff, "that I cangive you the explanation you want. In my idea Macbeth was not heavy, but irresolute. Never mind, let him be heavy. In either case, the Lady is obliged to put a steam engine, if I may use this expression, in front of all she says, to carry him away. However, she shudders before her horrible words and deeds. She seems to shut her eyes not to see them. She is not a mere monster, to quote your own words, she is a poor weak woman, who loves that one man with such strength, that she has been able to discover all his failings, so that she may, with her trembling body, cover and protect the imperfections. You have only to search for her tenderness and you will find it. It is, for instance, with the utmost softness that you must say the words:'Yet do I fear thy nature;It is too full o' the milk of human kindness ...... What thou would'st highlyThat would'st thou holily.'And it is only because she feels kindness, pity and peace in her heart that she calls the spirits: 'Come you spirits, unsex me here, and fill me top-full of direst cruelty.' Again, she suffers when she cries:That mykeen knife see not the wound it makes, nor Heaven cry 'Hold, hold!'And how happy were she if she had known nothing of it all: 'What beast was it then that made you break this enterprise to me?'""Yes," said Mitzi, "but immediately afterwards she says those horrible words about the babe....""That," answered Bischoff, "is effort. That is one of the sentences where she uses the steam engine to pull more vigorously. That you must say as if you were shuddering before your own words, as if you were feeling that it is too much. In short, the woman must continually appear under the mask of the monster, and this is the reason why I see the Lady cajoling her husband like a beautiful, flexible cat during the scene where she induces him to the murder. But as soon as the deed is done she shows all her weakness. Not to lose courage she has felt obliged to drink. Nevertheless, she starts at the slightest noise.'Hark! Peace!It was the owl that shriek'd, the fatal bellman,Which gives the stern'st good-night.'in these words! And does she not confess that she is unable to commit the crime herself, when she says these words, which must be uttered with trembling love:'Had he not resembledMy father as he slept, I had done it.'Thus the rôle must be played from beginning to end, Lady Macbeth as a woman, a weak woman, who knows her weakness:'These deeds must not be thoughtAfter these ways; so, it will make us mad....'a woman who at the end breaks down under the stress of the effort she has made. You must produce, as if by magic, love and pity for Lady Macbeth in the hearts of the audience, and never be a vulgar, awful criminal, a Gorgon, as actresses generally understand, or rather misunderstand the Lady.""It will mean hard work," said Mitzi, "but I am not afraid. I mean to do it."And turning to me she added:"You had better begin working."Indeed, I started that very evening.What is the bluest blue?It is not the sky of Italy; it is not the Sapphire of the Maharajah of Baipal, it is not the Blue Diamond of the King of Siam, nor is it the blue gentian that blooms on the high Alps, it is not Rickett's blue, it is not Prussian blue, which is, parenthetically, out of fashion just now, nor is it the blue of a tuppence highpenny stamp. All these are blues. But the blues at the front when it rains, these are the bluest blues. And it never rains but it pours.We sit there, the four of us, namely, Charlie, Guncotton, Pringle, and I.We smoke and feel miserable."It rains," states Guncotton."Does it?" asks Charlie."It does," answers Pringle, and I finish the series with a:"Rotten weather!"A stillness follows.We go on puffing, feeling thoroughly soaked."It begins to be wet," says I."It's water," explains Guncotton."You are sure it isn't champagne?" asks Charlie."Champagne!" sighs Pringle dreamily.And we fall back into taciturnity."By the way," asks Pringle, "Sergeant, have you still got that bottle of champagne?""Of course, I have.""Well, as the official communiqué will be that bad weather has hampered fighting on the British front, why not go and fetch the bottle and break its neck?""My friend," says Charlie solemnly, "I have sworn an oath that I would not open that bottle so long as I had not got my commission!""You will not even open it to celebrate the recovery of your nose?""I will not. I have not brought it all the long way from the Dardanelles, through Egypt and the Mediterranean to France, only to forget my oath when I am so near my goal!"That bottle of champagne has a history. When we were at the Dardanelles the Sergeant had made himself a wonderful dugout, quite a spacious room, magnificently furnished with all sorts of empty cases. It was quite a cosy place. Charlie had evencaught a fox, that was his dog, and a kingfisher, that was his canary. On the completion of the abode we had a house warming. We were six, namely, the four inseparables whom you have the advantage of knowing, plus an Australian and a French guest.The menu was:SOUP.Oxo.ENTREE.Kidneys.(obtained from the Butcher Sergeant in return for a pair of braces which he wanted badly.)HORS D'ŒUVRES.(Whilst we were eating our kidneys the French guest arrived. He was late. So we had the Hors d'œuvres, which he brought with him, after the Entrée.)A Tin of Sardines.JOINT.Roast Chicken.(This solid piece, thechef-d'œuvre, was a roast fowl, stolen by the Australian guest—poordevil, I may make it public now, for he's dead—from the General. What busines had the General to keep chickens?)ENTREMET.Omelette au Rum.(The eggs were bought at the price of 1/- each from a Greek trader who had come over from Lemnos, but who had learned his trade in a London provision shop. The rum was Charlie's own savings for three weeks. Our ration was one-eighth of a pint twice a week.)DESSERT.Fruit.from Lemnos, too, which was the only cheap thing to be had there.COFFEE.WINES.French wine,A bottle of whisky,And one of champagne.That bottle of champagne had beenprovided by Charlie. To get it, he had had to swim a quarter of a mile, in order to reach a certain ship—to swim with a sovereign in his mouth. There were still some such things as sovereigns in the world when this affair took place. The sovereign was put in a basket which had been lowered with a rope, the basket pulled on deck and lowered again with half a crown change and the bottle of champagne. On his way back Charlie did not know whether to spit his half crown out or to swallow it, whether to let go the bottle or not. For there was a heavy sea. But somehow he reached the shore and landed the bottle, the half crown and himself quite safely.Well, the dinner party in Charlie's dugout went splendidly. But just at the moment when we were about to open the bottle of champagne, there was a surprise attack from the Turks, a regular alarm, a call to arms, (which I need not explain, as "alarm" is only a perverted form ofà l'arme!—to arms!)."Never mind," cried Charlie, "We'll drink the champagne another time, when I get my commission. I swear I'll keep thisbottle till then."Since that day he has fulfilled his promise. The bottle is the only thing he took with him when we evacuated the Peninsula.And now, when we have got the blues, he refuses to open it. And, my word, our blues are of a true blue, a Conservative blue. Not the light blue of Cambridge, but the dark blue of Oxford. We have even blue blood in our veins, and call the Germans Blue-beards. If we were to take any pills, they would be blue pills. Our flag could be the Blue Peter. And we have such a blue funk, lest this confounded rain should never cease, that we talk of our blues till we get blue in the face. Not even Guncotton, who is very skilled in pyrotechnics and has manufactured a sort of little cartridge with which he cleverly imitates Will-o'-the-wisps, is able to enliven us. The daily display of pyrotechnics of a somewhat more awe-inspiring sort has rendered us positively cloyed with that pleasure.But Pringle, since Charlie's refusal to open his bottle, has remained dreaming. Finally he steals away. We wait five minutes, ten minutes, a quarter of an hour. Inthe end he comes back holding a shell in his arms. It is about four inches in diameter and twelve in length. He settles down and slowly starts unscrewing the fuse."Look out," warns Guncotton. "These things explode sometimes....""That's just what I want," declares Pringle tragically. "I want to put an end to all this misery of ours."Then, when the shell is unscrewed, he passes it to the Sergeant."Have a drop?" he asks.The shell goes round."Our blues turn pink," says I."Like litmus paper under the influence of an acid," explains Guncotton."Acid?" asks Pringle reproachfully. "It's brandy. The best brandy possible.""French brandy," says I."Vive la France!" cries Charlie.We have had another fight ... a day of manifold horrors and of deafening explosions. We have killed many Germans and many of our own homes were put into mourning. Ishall make no attempt at describing this battle. It is over, thank God, and I turn from its monstrosities to my peaceful occupation of remembering what happened in days gone by.I was perfectly happy in spite of the fact that Mitzi had no overflowing heart. You will be good enough to remember that on the day of our first meeting in the railway carriage P.C. 3.33 she remained clad in mystery all the way from Salzburg to Vienna, and that, while I told her all about myself, I did not learn anything about her. This more or less repeated itself now. I let her peep into the inmost recesses of my heart, and there is certainly nobody who has such a complete acquaintance with that organ of mine, which circulates my blood, my feelings, my thoughts.Mitzi's heart remained ever an unknown quantity to me. I think this is a bad habit of woman. Dad always pretends that there is a corner of the mater's heart into which Daniel Cooper & Co., Ltd., have never penetrated. I am afraid this corner is the most important one of a woman's heart. Nobody ever explores it, not even the woman towhom the heart belongs. Perhaps she dares not.So it was with Mitzi. She was sweet, and I am sure she loved me; yet she kept her secret corner hermetically closed. There was no need of writing on that heart: Trespassers will be prosecuted, for there was no possibility of trespassing.If I were not so modest I should say that what she most loved in me was my musical talent. I had an experience of this on the morrow of that interview which had taken place between her, Bischoff, and myself."Are you going to see Bischoff?" she asked as I was to leave for what we called my lesson with Hammer.I answered that it had not been my intention, but that I might see my collaborator if she had any particular wish."I have," she said. "YourLady Macbethscarcely leaves me a restful minute. I have thought that it will be very difficult to show the weak, feminine side of the part in music, without a certain external help.""What do you mean by this?" I asked."I mean some lyrical detail which in my opinion must be added. Could the words'I have given suck, and knowHow tender 'tis to love the babe that milks me.'could these words not be the excuse for a sort of lullaby? And then in the scene where she walks in her sleep; as we have cancelled all Macduff, the Lady can no more say: 'The thane of Fife had a wife; where is she now?' But I think the lullaby could be repeated in her dream. It would be, when it comes first, only a remembrance, and when it comes for the second time only the dream-memory of that remembrance. It would have to be very mysterious and so in keeping with the general character of the whole drama."Mitzi's idea may give you a notion of her artistic instinct. Perhaps I ought not to call it artistic, but theatrical or operatic. For, although the idea was excellent and proved so, its staginess, its artificiality cannot be denied.Anyhow, I was then enthusiastic about it. I went to Hammer, who advised as accompaniment for this not yet composed lullaby a succession of major thirds in the lowest notes of the flutes; a suggestion which I applied, but not without the greatest difficulty,in the first version of that little piece, while when it came back in the dream scene I replaced the flutes by muted violins. I remember this detail, because whenLady Macbethwas performed, Hammer came greatly excited after the first act to me protesting that his advice had been bad, and the highest notes of the bassoons would have been better than the lowest of the flutes, whereupon I told him in my excusable excitement that I did not care, or, to employ the Austrian expression, and that it was all "sausage to me."Indulgent reader, do not be cross with me because I speak of these professional details. Having shown you sufficiently that I am no more a musician, I may be allowed to remember that once upon a time I was one.I ran to Bischoff. And so pleased was he with Mitzi's suggestion that he wrote there and then the words of that lullaby. In the afternoon I worked with Mr. Doblana on the score of hisAladdin, which was advancing rapidly and in my judgment becoming a distinctly charming ballet.Then only did I find time to compose thelullaby. It is a weird yet tuneful little piece which took me but half an hour to write down.When Mitzi heard it she was enraptured. She let herself fall in my arms and looked at me with loving eyes."Oh Patrick," she said, "you will write a masterpiece for me, won't you?"I promised. Never had I felt so much sympathy between us."I will do my best, Mitzi," I replied, "for I love you, love you truly, you are my better self, you are my good angel."She laughed. Yes, she laughed at my fervent words."How solemn you are, Patrick. How English. You declaim as if you wanted to appeal to my passions.""Mitzi, I cannot help worshipping you. No woman can wish to be loved better than I love you."I found my words quite nice and the right thing to say. But she went on laughing."I can make any man say that to me. But I doubt whether I can make any man compose a beautiful opera. Will you?""Is my lullaby not to your taste?"She seemed doubtful."One swallow does not make a summer."I felt it like a bitter pang, as if I were forsaken by her. Artists are such sensitive plants. Oh, imaginative reader, fancy your Patrick Cooper as a Mimosa whose leaves have just been touched. My life seemed pale, my prospects desolate, my hopes dead. And all that because Mitzi had laughed when my heart had been glowing.Yet the phenomena of irritability last but one moment in the Mimosa, and the subtle doom that had struck my love lasted not much longer.Now, when writing this I see how fearfully weak I was.A few days later, the holidays at the Opera having begun, Doblana and Mitzi left for a little place in the Salzkammergut, St. Gilgen, not far from Salzburg, and I for England, where I was to stay for a few weeks with my parents.

My first idea had been to talk immediately to Mr. Doblana and inform him that I intended marrying his daughter. I told Mitzi this while we were going home through narrow, dark streets, as becomes thieves and lovers. But she objected. She was rather cool, the result probably of yonder bootmakers' lad's intervention.

"I know you love me," she said, "and always will. I too love you, but I don't know yet how to do it well. I cannot tell you what I feel. If you were at once to speak to father, either he would say yes, or he would say no, but in both cases you would have to leave our house at once. Father is no artist, he is a trader in music, and he is meanspirited as all tradespeople are. He does not understand love as artists do. He would only see the impropriety of yourstaying any longer with us. And I do not want to be lonely. I want you with me. Think only that I just found my heart. You do love me?"

I wanted to take her in my arms, and to kiss her again. But although there was nobody in the street she prevented it.

"And you always will love me?" she asked once more.

"Always, Mitzi!" I said.

And, my word, I am afraid that thisalwaysstill holds good a little.

When we arrived at home Doblana was not yet in and Fanny had gone to bed. In the drawing-room, where a couple of hours before Mitzi had sung herself definitely into my heart, we halted. She looked at me, and I opened my arms; for a moment she laid her cheek against my shoulder, then she took my head between her hands and kissed me. It was very sweet ... but it lacked Schubert.

Then she went into her room, and I into mine.

It was she who the next day came to speak aboutMacbeth.

"You want me to playLady Macbeth?"

"Yes. Did you not ask me for somethingheroic? IsLady Macbethnot the woman who tries to be stronger than man and who breaks up from over-exertion? Can you imagine anything more prodigious?"

"What am I to do with her?" she asked again after a while. "I re-readMacbethlast night. She is terrible. Think only, she says that while her baby was smiling in her face she would have dashed its brains out, had she sworn to do it. I know that art can receive a new meaning from all successive generations, but how can a woman in this century of longing for peace speak words which were horrible even in those times of torture?"

I was surprised at her question which filled me with great happiness. She had readMacbeththis very night. Was this not a wonderful proof of her love? And she had not read it superficially. Oh, what a happy man I was to be able to call such a girl my own!

But how to answer her question was beyond me. All I could find to say was this:

"You forget, Mitzi, that I will makeLady Macbetha beautiful, flexible cat in thefirst part, and a weak child in the second."

"My dear," she declared, "I fear that that is rather an empty sentence, and that you are not at all sure what you are going to make her."

I felt that her remark was just, and I resented her superiority a little. You see, I was a composer; and as a composer I believed that I need notthinkso very deeply, if only Ifeltprofoundly. I suppose that most composers share this opinion, which may be erroneous.

Anyhow, I am sure that if I had been better at thinking (even at the cost of being less good at feeling) Mitzi would have preferred it. There were two Mitzis. The one was a very pretty, charming girl, yet probably somewhat insignificant. The other was an eminent artist, gifted in many respects. Instinctively it was the latter I loved. But to love a woman means to conquer her, not to be conquered. A superior woman wants to be vanquished by a more superior man. And I had capitulated already to the pretty girl. As for the artist, she simply annihilated me.

(The reader must not believe that thesewar-like expressions are the result of my entrenched authorship. If I were to use the language which I have learned here I would have first to publish a trench dictionary. No—these expressions are only the result of newspaper reading.)

Two days went by. Then Mr. Bischoff called upon me and, as he wanted a thousand crowns[1], he brought with him a detailed sketch of his libretto.

Happily Doblana was absent, which enabled Mitzi to assist at our interview. I told Bischoff that it was my wish to see the rôle ofLady Macbethperformed by Miss Doblana, but that this must for the present remain a secret to her father, who objected to an artistic career for his daughter.

Bischoff inclined his head without saying what he thought of my plan. Probably his conviction was that I was mad to confide my first work to a beginner, for this was what people generally believed. How many times have I been warned during the following months not to commit my opera to a "beginner"! But as it happened, thegreat actor found that this "beginner" knew very well what she wanted.

"I do not think, Mr. Bischoff," she said, "that your libretto is any good, and should it remain as it is, I will probably not undertake to create the part of the lady."

"Oh!" answered Bischoff mockingly, "you have not yet been on the boards, and you already have a prima donna's caprices. You will make your way!"

"There is no use in talking like this," she exclaimed. "If nobody yet has thought of making a music drama ofMacbeththere are good reasons. By himself Macbeth is a dull, heavy character."

Dear me! Bischoff's face!—You ought to have seen it. It was worth while. He took it personally—he out-shakespeared Shakespeare.

"You are a very young girl," he said at last, "to utter such criticism." And, turning to me: "I did not expect, when I came here, an adversary to whom I cannot speak as I should like to on account of her sex. It is most unfair."

"Neither my sex," cried Mitzi, "nor my youth have anything to do with whatyou call my criticisms. At this moment I am no woman. I am but an artist, and as such I have the right to speak."

I should have gladly given whatever money I had in my pocket to be somewhere else; yet this very thought reminded me of the fact that Bischoff would bear a little more of Mitzi's argument, as there was a cheque at the end of it.

But while I pondered over these possibilities Mitzi was going on:

"Yes, Mr. Bischoff, Macbeth is a dull, heavy person. He does not do anything by himself. The witches who show him his future do not influence him."

"But,Fräulein, the witches are but a symbol of his ambitious ideas."

"Never mind ... let us say then, that his ambitious ideas do not lead him into action. He must be dragged to it by his Lady. As a great criminal he is entirely overshadowed by her. Now, such a character may be interesting in a spoken tragedy, but not in music-drama. Further: Macduff is a typical tenor, and as such never interesting. Again, that fairy tale of Birnam wood coming to Dunsinane, do you think that it canimpress a modern public?"

"So you are against our scheme altogether?"

"Not in the least. But I want you to make aLady Macbethinstead of aMacbeth. The Lady is the one interesting person in the whole drama. I want you to cut out all that does not concern her directly. I suggest that you make the first scene of the prophesy of the three witches, which is a grand opening. Then must follow a first act where at the beginning the Lady induces Macbeth to commit the murder and where at the end the deed is done. The second act should be the banquet...."

"And Banquo's ghost? What will you do with Banquo's ghost, if, as I suppose, you suppress Banquo?"

"Let it be King Duncan's ghost. As long as there is a ghost, it matters little whose ghost it is. Finally, the third act should be the scene where the Lady walks in her sleep. After this the interest is over. Let the public go home. It will have had quite enough of the nightmare."

She stopped and there was a long silence. The actor did not say one word,and I did not dare to interfere. I am modest, I have reported that to you already. If I were not, I might have told you that Mitzi's plan, which certainly was good, was my invention. But I am proud of being modest and truthful.

At last Bischoff said:

"I apologise,Fräulein, for having been distrustful. Your scheme is workable."

"That is better, Mr. Bischoff," said my dear girl with a most bewitching, yet triumphant smile. "But I have not finished. I do not want to impersonate a mere monster. I consent to be a cat first, and a sick child afterwards, but I must know why—I will not be content with nice phrases. The Lady will be my début, and I want my début to be a triumph. Mr. Cooper does not seem to know exactly how to explain. Will you?"

If Mitzi had shown her superiority up to this moment, it was now Bischoff's turn. As for me I had my favourite feeling: That of being ... but why should I repeat it? You know.

"It is only because your dull and heavy Macbeth is compatible with my theory of the Lady," began Bischoff, "that I cangive you the explanation you want. In my idea Macbeth was not heavy, but irresolute. Never mind, let him be heavy. In either case, the Lady is obliged to put a steam engine, if I may use this expression, in front of all she says, to carry him away. However, she shudders before her horrible words and deeds. She seems to shut her eyes not to see them. She is not a mere monster, to quote your own words, she is a poor weak woman, who loves that one man with such strength, that she has been able to discover all his failings, so that she may, with her trembling body, cover and protect the imperfections. You have only to search for her tenderness and you will find it. It is, for instance, with the utmost softness that you must say the words:

'Yet do I fear thy nature;It is too full o' the milk of human kindness ...... What thou would'st highlyThat would'st thou holily.'

And it is only because she feels kindness, pity and peace in her heart that she calls the spirits: 'Come you spirits, unsex me here, and fill me top-full of direst cruelty.' Again, she suffers when she cries:That mykeen knife see not the wound it makes, nor Heaven cry 'Hold, hold!'And how happy were she if she had known nothing of it all: 'What beast was it then that made you break this enterprise to me?'"

"Yes," said Mitzi, "but immediately afterwards she says those horrible words about the babe...."

"That," answered Bischoff, "is effort. That is one of the sentences where she uses the steam engine to pull more vigorously. That you must say as if you were shuddering before your own words, as if you were feeling that it is too much. In short, the woman must continually appear under the mask of the monster, and this is the reason why I see the Lady cajoling her husband like a beautiful, flexible cat during the scene where she induces him to the murder. But as soon as the deed is done she shows all her weakness. Not to lose courage she has felt obliged to drink. Nevertheless, she starts at the slightest noise.

'Hark! Peace!It was the owl that shriek'd, the fatal bellman,Which gives the stern'st good-night.'

in these words! And does she not confess that she is unable to commit the crime herself, when she says these words, which must be uttered with trembling love:

'Had he not resembledMy father as he slept, I had done it.'

Thus the rôle must be played from beginning to end, Lady Macbeth as a woman, a weak woman, who knows her weakness:

'These deeds must not be thoughtAfter these ways; so, it will make us mad....'

a woman who at the end breaks down under the stress of the effort she has made. You must produce, as if by magic, love and pity for Lady Macbeth in the hearts of the audience, and never be a vulgar, awful criminal, a Gorgon, as actresses generally understand, or rather misunderstand the Lady."

"It will mean hard work," said Mitzi, "but I am not afraid. I mean to do it."

And turning to me she added:

"You had better begin working."

Indeed, I started that very evening.

What is the bluest blue?

It is not the sky of Italy; it is not the Sapphire of the Maharajah of Baipal, it is not the Blue Diamond of the King of Siam, nor is it the blue gentian that blooms on the high Alps, it is not Rickett's blue, it is not Prussian blue, which is, parenthetically, out of fashion just now, nor is it the blue of a tuppence highpenny stamp. All these are blues. But the blues at the front when it rains, these are the bluest blues. And it never rains but it pours.

We sit there, the four of us, namely, Charlie, Guncotton, Pringle, and I.

We smoke and feel miserable.

"It rains," states Guncotton.

"Does it?" asks Charlie.

"It does," answers Pringle, and I finish the series with a:

"Rotten weather!"

A stillness follows.

We go on puffing, feeling thoroughly soaked.

"It begins to be wet," says I.

"It's water," explains Guncotton.

"You are sure it isn't champagne?" asks Charlie.

"Champagne!" sighs Pringle dreamily.

And we fall back into taciturnity.

"By the way," asks Pringle, "Sergeant, have you still got that bottle of champagne?"

"Of course, I have."

"Well, as the official communiqué will be that bad weather has hampered fighting on the British front, why not go and fetch the bottle and break its neck?"

"My friend," says Charlie solemnly, "I have sworn an oath that I would not open that bottle so long as I had not got my commission!"

"You will not even open it to celebrate the recovery of your nose?"

"I will not. I have not brought it all the long way from the Dardanelles, through Egypt and the Mediterranean to France, only to forget my oath when I am so near my goal!"

That bottle of champagne has a history. When we were at the Dardanelles the Sergeant had made himself a wonderful dugout, quite a spacious room, magnificently furnished with all sorts of empty cases. It was quite a cosy place. Charlie had evencaught a fox, that was his dog, and a kingfisher, that was his canary. On the completion of the abode we had a house warming. We were six, namely, the four inseparables whom you have the advantage of knowing, plus an Australian and a French guest.

The menu was:

SOUP.Oxo.

ENTREE.Kidneys.

(obtained from the Butcher Sergeant in return for a pair of braces which he wanted badly.)

HORS D'ŒUVRES.

(Whilst we were eating our kidneys the French guest arrived. He was late. So we had the Hors d'œuvres, which he brought with him, after the Entrée.)

A Tin of Sardines.

JOINT.Roast Chicken.

(This solid piece, thechef-d'œuvre, was a roast fowl, stolen by the Australian guest—poordevil, I may make it public now, for he's dead—from the General. What busines had the General to keep chickens?)

ENTREMET.Omelette au Rum.

(The eggs were bought at the price of 1/- each from a Greek trader who had come over from Lemnos, but who had learned his trade in a London provision shop. The rum was Charlie's own savings for three weeks. Our ration was one-eighth of a pint twice a week.)

DESSERT.Fruit.

from Lemnos, too, which was the only cheap thing to be had there.

COFFEE.

WINES.

French wine,A bottle of whisky,And one of champagne.

That bottle of champagne had beenprovided by Charlie. To get it, he had had to swim a quarter of a mile, in order to reach a certain ship—to swim with a sovereign in his mouth. There were still some such things as sovereigns in the world when this affair took place. The sovereign was put in a basket which had been lowered with a rope, the basket pulled on deck and lowered again with half a crown change and the bottle of champagne. On his way back Charlie did not know whether to spit his half crown out or to swallow it, whether to let go the bottle or not. For there was a heavy sea. But somehow he reached the shore and landed the bottle, the half crown and himself quite safely.

Well, the dinner party in Charlie's dugout went splendidly. But just at the moment when we were about to open the bottle of champagne, there was a surprise attack from the Turks, a regular alarm, a call to arms, (which I need not explain, as "alarm" is only a perverted form ofà l'arme!—to arms!).

"Never mind," cried Charlie, "We'll drink the champagne another time, when I get my commission. I swear I'll keep thisbottle till then."

Since that day he has fulfilled his promise. The bottle is the only thing he took with him when we evacuated the Peninsula.

And now, when we have got the blues, he refuses to open it. And, my word, our blues are of a true blue, a Conservative blue. Not the light blue of Cambridge, but the dark blue of Oxford. We have even blue blood in our veins, and call the Germans Blue-beards. If we were to take any pills, they would be blue pills. Our flag could be the Blue Peter. And we have such a blue funk, lest this confounded rain should never cease, that we talk of our blues till we get blue in the face. Not even Guncotton, who is very skilled in pyrotechnics and has manufactured a sort of little cartridge with which he cleverly imitates Will-o'-the-wisps, is able to enliven us. The daily display of pyrotechnics of a somewhat more awe-inspiring sort has rendered us positively cloyed with that pleasure.

But Pringle, since Charlie's refusal to open his bottle, has remained dreaming. Finally he steals away. We wait five minutes, ten minutes, a quarter of an hour. Inthe end he comes back holding a shell in his arms. It is about four inches in diameter and twelve in length. He settles down and slowly starts unscrewing the fuse.

"Look out," warns Guncotton. "These things explode sometimes...."

"That's just what I want," declares Pringle tragically. "I want to put an end to all this misery of ours."

Then, when the shell is unscrewed, he passes it to the Sergeant.

"Have a drop?" he asks.

The shell goes round.

"Our blues turn pink," says I.

"Like litmus paper under the influence of an acid," explains Guncotton.

"Acid?" asks Pringle reproachfully. "It's brandy. The best brandy possible."

"French brandy," says I.

"Vive la France!" cries Charlie.

We have had another fight ... a day of manifold horrors and of deafening explosions. We have killed many Germans and many of our own homes were put into mourning. Ishall make no attempt at describing this battle. It is over, thank God, and I turn from its monstrosities to my peaceful occupation of remembering what happened in days gone by.

I was perfectly happy in spite of the fact that Mitzi had no overflowing heart. You will be good enough to remember that on the day of our first meeting in the railway carriage P.C. 3.33 she remained clad in mystery all the way from Salzburg to Vienna, and that, while I told her all about myself, I did not learn anything about her. This more or less repeated itself now. I let her peep into the inmost recesses of my heart, and there is certainly nobody who has such a complete acquaintance with that organ of mine, which circulates my blood, my feelings, my thoughts.

Mitzi's heart remained ever an unknown quantity to me. I think this is a bad habit of woman. Dad always pretends that there is a corner of the mater's heart into which Daniel Cooper & Co., Ltd., have never penetrated. I am afraid this corner is the most important one of a woman's heart. Nobody ever explores it, not even the woman towhom the heart belongs. Perhaps she dares not.

So it was with Mitzi. She was sweet, and I am sure she loved me; yet she kept her secret corner hermetically closed. There was no need of writing on that heart: Trespassers will be prosecuted, for there was no possibility of trespassing.

If I were not so modest I should say that what she most loved in me was my musical talent. I had an experience of this on the morrow of that interview which had taken place between her, Bischoff, and myself.

"Are you going to see Bischoff?" she asked as I was to leave for what we called my lesson with Hammer.

I answered that it had not been my intention, but that I might see my collaborator if she had any particular wish.

"I have," she said. "YourLady Macbethscarcely leaves me a restful minute. I have thought that it will be very difficult to show the weak, feminine side of the part in music, without a certain external help."

"What do you mean by this?" I asked.

"I mean some lyrical detail which in my opinion must be added. Could the words

'I have given suck, and knowHow tender 'tis to love the babe that milks me.'

could these words not be the excuse for a sort of lullaby? And then in the scene where she walks in her sleep; as we have cancelled all Macduff, the Lady can no more say: 'The thane of Fife had a wife; where is she now?' But I think the lullaby could be repeated in her dream. It would be, when it comes first, only a remembrance, and when it comes for the second time only the dream-memory of that remembrance. It would have to be very mysterious and so in keeping with the general character of the whole drama."

Mitzi's idea may give you a notion of her artistic instinct. Perhaps I ought not to call it artistic, but theatrical or operatic. For, although the idea was excellent and proved so, its staginess, its artificiality cannot be denied.

Anyhow, I was then enthusiastic about it. I went to Hammer, who advised as accompaniment for this not yet composed lullaby a succession of major thirds in the lowest notes of the flutes; a suggestion which I applied, but not without the greatest difficulty,in the first version of that little piece, while when it came back in the dream scene I replaced the flutes by muted violins. I remember this detail, because whenLady Macbethwas performed, Hammer came greatly excited after the first act to me protesting that his advice had been bad, and the highest notes of the bassoons would have been better than the lowest of the flutes, whereupon I told him in my excusable excitement that I did not care, or, to employ the Austrian expression, and that it was all "sausage to me."

Indulgent reader, do not be cross with me because I speak of these professional details. Having shown you sufficiently that I am no more a musician, I may be allowed to remember that once upon a time I was one.

I ran to Bischoff. And so pleased was he with Mitzi's suggestion that he wrote there and then the words of that lullaby. In the afternoon I worked with Mr. Doblana on the score of hisAladdin, which was advancing rapidly and in my judgment becoming a distinctly charming ballet.

Then only did I find time to compose thelullaby. It is a weird yet tuneful little piece which took me but half an hour to write down.

When Mitzi heard it she was enraptured. She let herself fall in my arms and looked at me with loving eyes.

"Oh Patrick," she said, "you will write a masterpiece for me, won't you?"

I promised. Never had I felt so much sympathy between us.

"I will do my best, Mitzi," I replied, "for I love you, love you truly, you are my better self, you are my good angel."

She laughed. Yes, she laughed at my fervent words.

"How solemn you are, Patrick. How English. You declaim as if you wanted to appeal to my passions."

"Mitzi, I cannot help worshipping you. No woman can wish to be loved better than I love you."

I found my words quite nice and the right thing to say. But she went on laughing.

"I can make any man say that to me. But I doubt whether I can make any man compose a beautiful opera. Will you?"

"Is my lullaby not to your taste?"

She seemed doubtful.

"One swallow does not make a summer."

I felt it like a bitter pang, as if I were forsaken by her. Artists are such sensitive plants. Oh, imaginative reader, fancy your Patrick Cooper as a Mimosa whose leaves have just been touched. My life seemed pale, my prospects desolate, my hopes dead. And all that because Mitzi had laughed when my heart had been glowing.

Yet the phenomena of irritability last but one moment in the Mimosa, and the subtle doom that had struck my love lasted not much longer.

Now, when writing this I see how fearfully weak I was.

A few days later, the holidays at the Opera having begun, Doblana and Mitzi left for a little place in the Salzkammergut, St. Gilgen, not far from Salzburg, and I for England, where I was to stay for a few weeks with my parents.

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