XI.

XI.Surprising as it may seem to you, I had the courage, the next day, to take the bull by the horns and to ask Mitzi about Franz von Heidenbrunn. She merely laughed."My dear," she said, "firstly I am your fiancée, and as such must be very careful with you. Secondly, Franz is my cousin, and we have known each other for so many years that we are like brother and sister. Lastly, you knocked on my door at an awkward moment, when I was changing my dress. You did not want me to show myself to you in my underwear, did you? While Franz came three minutes later when I was dressed again."You go and argue with a woman if you can. I could not. I just felt silly. And I suppose I looked it. For she came near me and stroked my cheek gently."Don't make a face, dear," she said. "I quite understand your feeling miserable after having read the papers; but, never mind, it will wear off....""I know, Mitzi," I answered meekly, "I cannot have it both ways, and write an opera that pleases us both, and the critics too."And there was no more discussion about Franz von Heidenbrunn. Our talk shifted, and I was informed, too late, alas! that the Austrian critic, as well as the German, is always prepared to write favourably for a consideration, being hardly paid at all by the newspapers themselves, and regards as his legitimate victims such people who have not made backsheesh arrangements in advance.On the third dayLady Macbethwas repeated. This time the house was packed full, even the hundred and fifty bad seats were sold out. The question whether La Dobanelli was wearing tights or not under her chemise had been discussed in the whole town, and had proved such an irresistible attraction that at her first appearance she was greeted with warm applause.Franz von Heidenbrunn was again in the audience. Whether he visited Mitzi in the entre-acte I cannot say—I did not, having no desire to be turned away again.I also went to see the third performance, which was exactly like the second one. The same kind of audience, thirsting for a sensation, and for the third time Franz von Heidenbrunn among the spectators.As we travelled back to Vienna, Mitzi and I, we had a few words about her chemise in the last scene."Was this the same chemise you had the two first times?" I asked her."No," she replied laughing, "you do expect a lady to put fresh linen on from time to time, don't you?""That chemise was shorter than the other," I remarked, more sternly than I had intended to."Oh! An inch or two perhaps.""An inch is much in those latitudes," I jested."Look here, Patrick," she answered sullenly. "Let me alone with your remonstrances. You ought to know by now that I do my best for your opera, which wouldhave been a complete failure without me."She said it coldly, heartlessly. It made me suffer. But, swallowing my torment, I answered nothing, and we continued our journey in silence. I felt that we were not getting on at all nicely and wondered how I was to educate her to be less of an artist,—and more my wife.There is in drama a certain system of construction, as you ought to know. Probably you don't, still there is. First comes the exposition, then the opening of the action, then the growth during which it grows (of course) to the climax; then the fall or, as it must sometimes be called, the return which precedes the close. In life the return which follows all climaces is always nasty, and you wake up after every excitement with a bit of a moral headache. Hoping is an ungrateful business. Look, for instance, at our friend Cotton, our good Guncotton. He has finished his chemistry treatise—think what it means to have written all these formulas in the trenches—andhe has this very morning received the news that his manuscript has arrived safely in London. Now he walks about, his eyes full of rosy dreams, of fears, and of hopes. And I can so well understand his feelings, his thoughts. Patrick Cooper went through all these emotions. And afterwards, dear me! Only my case was a worse one, for the devil had amused himself in mixing the poison of love into my adventure of artistic hopes and ambitions.And by the way, as I am talking of the devil, it occurs to me that the little man with the tuft of black beard on his chin, who appeared to me four times, must have been ... HE. He laughed, the evil fellow, when he came for the fourth time and saw that his matchmaking work was seemingly accomplished.Yet lately I had not seen him again. He must have been busy somewhere else. Perhaps will you see a connexion between his disappearance and the following events.The fourth performance ofLady Macbethcoincided with thepremièreof Doblana'sAladdinat the Viennese Opera. I thought it was my duty to be present atthe day of honour of my master, a small sacrifice indeed, as there was not much joy for me in attending my own opera before an injudicious public, which really came only to see Amizia Dobanelli in her chemise. Besides, as the opera was making money, there was every prospect of more performances taking place.When I expressed my intention to Doblana and to Mitzi the horn-player at once objected. I could very well go and see the dress rehearsal ofAladdininstead of the first night.I asked why I should be deprived of attending the performance."I do not like the idea," said Doblana, "of Mitzi being alone in Brünn. I cannot accompany her on that particular evening, but I think that you, her fiancée, ought not to neglect her.""Good Lord!" exclaimed Mitzi, "Am I not old enough to remain alone for one evening? If I am such a child, then surely you will not consider Patrick grown up either. He is but one year older than I.""How will you manage?" asked her father."I think I will stay the night at the hotel.""I do not think that it befits a young lady to stay a night alone at an hotel.""All right, then I will go and stay with Augusta."Doblana acquiesced. But this time I made an objection."Augusta," I said, "will be in Vienna on that particular evening; she will want to seeAladdin."Mitzi glanced at me with an angry look."Anyhow," she protested, "Franz will have no leave. He will be in Brünn.""That is just what I object to," I declared. "The best thing would be for you to return to Vienna. I will be at the Northern Station to bring you home."This was finally decided upon, and Mitzi left us in the afternoon for Brünn. At six o'clock there came a wire from her addressed to Doblana, just as he and I were about to leave for the theatre.It ran:"Safely arrived. House full. Best luck to Papa. Mitzi."An hour and a half laterAladdinbegan.When you write your reminiscences, as I am doing now, you will be supposed to talk of other people. You will see how difficult it is. I always want to talk about myself. I remember things only inasmuch they concern me. Other people's feelings are not half as important to me as my own. Thus, that evening, at the beginning they were so intensely bitter, that I think I must record them, although Doblana was the hero of the day. I was, naturally enough, reminded of my own first night ten days before. But whileLady Macbethhad been played before an unsatisfactorily filled house, the one to-day was packed. All the imaginable beautiful and jewelled ladies were present, while at Brünn the provincial simplicity of the feminine public (the male part is about everywhere the same) was so exaggerated, that my poor mater's diamonds were, as you have seen, thought worthy of a newspaper notice. Whoever was of importance in Vienna, political and military people, financiers, diplomatists, and artists, was to be found on that first night. One hardly noticed that the great Court Box was empty, and that no Royalty was present; for allthe other noted members of Society had come. I will confess that I felt jealous. And this jealousy increased as the orchestra started playing Doblana's music.Oh, what an orchestra! We have a few fine orchestras in London, but how much superior are the Vienna Philharmonics. Neither Munich, nor Dresden, can boast of such artists. To hear one's music performed by them must be heaven.Such then were my feelings asAladdinbegan. Who would have thought that a couple of hours later my sentiments would be reversed and that instead of envying Doblana, I would pity the poor fellow?I had seen the ballet at different rehearsals.Joseph Dorff'sbook was clever, Doblana's music pretty, tuneful and well scored, although in no way remarkable, and the staging simply marvellous. There is no Parisian nor Russian ballet which can compete with those of the Vienna Opera. Not only are the dancers and mimics incomparable, but fortunes are spent on the scenery and the costumes, which are proofs of the most perfect theatrical taste.The first act was placed before andinside the famous cavern where Aladdin finds the lamp. In the original tale this cavern is uninhabited, but in the ballet there were populations of pretty spirits and servants of the lamp. These gave a pretext for all sorts of charming dances. And there was one dance which had a real success, namely, that of the precious stones. It was performed by small girls dressed as rubies, emeralds, sapphires and so on, who formed lovely groups representing the different jewels. The whole had a kaleïdoscopic effect, changing from one second to the next, and was uncommonly pleasant.Yet this was nothing in comparison to what was to come in the second and third act. In the former there was the magnificent arrival of Aladdin at the Sultan's court. He came on a splendid white charger and was accompanied by forty white and forty black slaves, who afterwards showed all the skill taught by the Viennese dancing masters. In the last act there came thepièce de résistance, namely, the building before the eyes of the public, not in one night, but in ten minutes, of Aladdin's unique palace. Things of such kind arevery easy to be done in fairy tales and not much more difficult on a stage when the manager disposes of unlimited wealth. All the wonders of the Arabian Nights were to be presented to the audience on that evening.The first act had gone well, better even than anybody had expected. There are usually but short entre-acts in the Vienna Opera. But first nights, especially of Grand Ballets, are such social events that they do not admit this rule in all its rigour. Therefore nobody was surprised when the entre-acte instead of the usual ten minutes had lasted twenty. Groups had been chatting and laughing and showing their toilettes and jewels. But in the end everybody had left thefoyerand returned to the seats. Yet nothing happened. The musicians were at their places, but no conductor was present. Ten more minutes passed. The public gave signs of impatience, a thing unheard of in thissanctissimum. But these signs of impatience lasted one instant only. Then the house became painfully silent.I should have liked to go and see behind the curtain what had happened. But this was not a provincial theatre where such visitsfrom the public to the stage could be permitted. In this Imperial and Royal Court theatre there were strict rules; and I could only wait with the other people.The wildest rumours began to spread. The amount of improbabilities human brains can invent in a few minutes is incredible. And here two and a half thousand were busy finding the extraordinary reason of this long pause.Yet as inventive as their brains were, they proved no match for the reality. For after three-quarters of an hour, which seemed an interminably long time, a bell was heard, and a gentleman in evening dress appeared before the curtain. He was sickly pale."Ladies and gentlemen," he said, "I have much regret in announcing that the further performance of the balletAladdinhas been forbidden by all-highest order. The money for purchased seats will be refunded to-morrow in exchange of the coupons of the tickets."The announcement had the effect of a thunderstorm, putting an end to the suspense of the last minutes. I could not say whatwas greater, consternation, regret for the composer, disorder among the discontented spectators, or curiosity to know the secret reason of this catastrophe.For my part I left the theatre as quickly as possible and went to the little side door in the Opera Street, at the rear of the premises, where Doblana was wont to leave. There was already a terrific crowd. But although I had (I have no more) the soft fingers and delicate hands of a pianist, I possess also the strong elbows of an English sportsman, and I succeeded in reaching the door. Just at that moment a man came out of the house. He looked pale, haggard, with the expression of a drunkard. It was Doblana.He scarcely recognised me, but I pushed my arm under his and led him away.It was cold and foggy.I shivered as I asked him what had happened."It is the Archduke," he stammered, "who has forbidden the performance."There was something like a sob in his voice."The Archduke? His own work? Why?""I don't know myself."After a few steps made in a painful silence, he added:"We had a little difference yesterday, at the dress rehearsal, but nothing of importance.""What was it?""He wanted to cancel the dance of the precious stones, saying that it was like akindergartenthat had gone mad.""And?""Well, I objected to such a cut and said: 'Nonsense,Herr Graf.' Thereupon he sat down, pronouncing not another word more.""And what did he do to-day?""He did nothing. He did not even come. During the first act a letter from the First Master of Ceremonies was delivered, saying that he forbade the performance to go on.""But how is it possible to treat the public in this way?""Oh, the public!"He shrugged his shoulders and went on explaining:"They are not supposed to be regularspectators as in an ordinary theatre. They are the guests of the Emperor, and they, as it were, buy an invitation to assist at the performance, which is in reality supposed to be given not for the general public, but for the private pleasure of His Majesty.""And was there nothing to be done?""We have tried, that is why we had to keep the audience waiting so long. The conductor hurried to the First Master of Ceremonies, and the Manager to His Majesty himself, while I drove to the palace of the Archduke. I was not received at all, nor did the manager see the Emperor, and as for the conductor, he was told by the First Master of Ceremonies that he regretted, but had to obey orders."Instinctively, we had taken the direction of the Karlsgasse. I had a very nasty feeling, as if poor, innocent Doblana had suddenly become a criminal, and I his accomplice. I was dazed as if I had had a smack in the face.We were passing a large café near the Elisabeth Bridge, where Doblana and I sometimes used to meet some friends."Let us go in," I said, "and show yourself publicly. Make the best out of a bad case. After all you are innocent of the disaster that has befallen you. Go in, there are surely a few journalists inside. Let yourself be interviewed and protest against the manner you have been treated."You ought to have seen the terror in the poor man's face. He opened his eyes, his nostrils, his mouth and drew backwards his lower jaw as if he had wanted to swallow it. (As a matter of fact, he must have been starving, for he had had no food the whole day.)"Protest!" he cried at last. "I?—Mr. Cooper, you desire my death. As if my situation was not sufficiently bad! This is not a free country like yours, where you can talk as you like. No! I have but one thing to do, to go home and hide myself. I am done for."And so we went to the Karlsgasse. The house seemed desolate to me. The servant, Fanny's unworthy successor, believing that we would sup outside and come home late, had gone to bed. So I proceeded into the dreary kitchen (a kitchen without a cook is always dreary, and without fire it can driveyou to desperation) and made some tea on the gas-stove, while Doblana who had lit a cigar was walking up and down in thesalon."It is terrible," said he at last, after he had swallowed a little tea, "how Austria is changing. What happens to me is but an instance of the new spirit that reigns here. Or should I not call it otherwise? This spirit, which comes from Berlin, this Pangermanic spirit is not a new spirit, but a reactionary spirit, a dark, mediæval spirit, a spirit that recognizes no right, but only might. What this Archduke has done to me to-day, in our time of enlightenment, is nothing else than an act of mediæval brutality."All evil comes us from Berlin. It spoils our art, it spoils our music. What they call the higher form is simply amorphous. What they call deep ideas is empty commonplace. The motives which are behind it all are vicious, sensual, degenerate, disgusting depravity. What we see in their painting, figures now too long, now too short, with swollen abdomens, with grinning faces, we find in their music, in the grossness of their motives, in the brutality of theirorchestrations. This music is a breath from a stinking morass."And this is not all. Berlin is so mediæval in its views that they want war, universal war. War which will give the death blow to Austrian music, for music does not live in times of war. Fifty years ago they said: Germany for the Germans! Now they are crying: the world for the Prussians! And as though Austria were a German state, as though there were no Slavs and no Italians in Austria, Berlin wants to drag us into her war schemes. And they will succeed. From our cruel paintings you can see it, from our coarse, frightful music you can hear it: they will succeed!"Thus spoke Doblana, not a great prophet, no, only a humble musician. Do not believe, incredulous reader, that I make him utter a prophesy after the event. Nay! These words were actually spoken, a long time before anybody, before even he who spoke them, thought of the war, that war in which I am fighting, that war which, as in irony, Austria, gentle, joyous, dancing Austria began.I looked at my watch, and suddenly Iremembered that I was to meet Mitzi at the Northern Station. It was very late, perhaps too late. Still by making haste I might arrive in time. So I speedily went away. But as it is always when you are in a hurry, the taxi took a long, circuitous route, what they call a short cut, and I arrived too late. The train had arrived nearly ten minutes ago, and I could find no trace of Mitzi at the station.Heaven knows what gave me the idea that something was wrong. When I came back to the Karlsgasse, I saw the light in the windows of thesalonas they had been when I had left. I ascended the stairs and rang the bell. Nearly at once I heard Doblana's dragging step, who came to open the door."Alone?" he cried, in a state of utmost anxiety.Mitzi had not arrived.The nervousness of the poor man was terrible. Exhausted as he was I did not dare to leave him, and I passed with him the worst night of my life. I have only to think of it to find any night in the trenches, amidst the roaring of the shells, restful by comparison.At the earliest hour in the morning we went to a telephone office where we asked for communication with the Grand Hotel in Brünn. After a long half-hour we got through, only to learn thatFräuleinhad not been seen on the previous day at the hotel.We tried the theatre. The one thing we heard was that she had been very successful as always and had left immediately after the performance.We returned to the Karlsgasse. Mitzi had not arrived. Only the postman had called and brought several letters. None of them being from her, Doblana threw them carelessly into his pocket and asked me whether I was coming with him to Brünn. Of course, I acquiesced. But I will confess that I, so to say, made a condition of our having some breakfast before. It may be that youth is more hungry, but I could not go on without food.At last we sat in the train. We had more than an hour before us.Mechanically Doblana looked through his letters, passing them silently to me. The first was an invoice for flowers he had offered the evening before to several dancers.The second was one of good Hammer, written immediately after the interrupted performance in very warm words, taking part in the sorrow that had befallen his friend.The third was from the publisher. But I could not read it to the end, for Doblana, who was perusing the fourth one, suddenly uttered a stifled cry.The letter was from the Archduke."My dear collaborator, my worthy Mr. Doblana," (it ran about—I do not recollect the exact words—), "I have taken my revenge. You have treated my dear wife like the basest of women, only because the chief of my family had prohibited my marrying her. Your behaviour was an unforgettable insult to the best, the most deserving and amiable woman, in whom you have seen nothing but a despicable, venal dancer. You have continued your disdain, your hatred beyond the tomb. What I have done is my retaliation."It is I who have taken away from your house and destroyed yourGriseldis. It is I who have prohibited the performanceof yourAladdin, knowing that I would hit you in your weakest spot, your ambition. And I may as well tell you that, while you may keep your position as a horn-player at the Opera, its doors are henceforth closed to the composer Doblana."You need not worry about the cost of the production at the Opera. I have made good the damage my vengeance has occasioned."As for you, I do not wish that it should cause you any pecuniary loss. The idea of having harmed my former collaborator in this paltry way would be unpleasant to me. I put the value ofGriseldisandAladdinat 25.000 crowns each and enclose therefore a cheque for 50.000 crowns to indemnify you."Alphons Hector."I cannot describe the wrath of my poor friend. And I had to struggle with him to prevent him from tearing the cheque to pieces. And this may give you the measure of his indignation. For you know how great was his love of money.I should like to state that the Archduke had moreover shown himself wrong in two points. Ambition was not Doblana's weakest spot, it was precisely money. Nor was Alphons Hector's prediction right, for two years later an opera of Doblana's composition was successfully produced at the Viennese Opera.As for the Archduke, or theHerr Graf, orJoseph Dorff, however you may call him, he completely disappeared a few days after the memorableAladdinnight. Some say that he undertook a journey on his yacht, and that it was lost with all hands. Other people think that he has settled down to a private life somewhere in South America. In any case he was nevermore heard of.But to resume my story. All researches in Brünn as afterwards in Vienna did not succeed in finding Mitzi. The only clue we obtained (it was from Augusta von Heidenbrunn that we got it) was the fact that her brother Franz had disappeared together with my fiancée. He had, for her sake, become a deserter.A few weeks went by, which I passed nearly without interruption on Doblana'sside. He slowly recovered from the awful shock this whole affair had caused him. Then I proceeded to Graz to assist at the performance ofLady Macbethin this town. Without Mitzi, without her overwhelming talent, without her charm it was bound to be a failure. And I came back to Vienna more discouraged, more disheartened than ever. Again I saw much of Doblana, and I can assure you that we were a pretty pair of dejected composers. On this subject I could write pages, but out of pity for you I won't.One day, as we sat there smoking, and pondering silently over our shattered hopes, the bell rang. We heard the maid opening the door, and in the next minute Mitzi entered. She was dressed exactly as I had last seen her, but her features were drawn, she was pale and seemed to have suffered. In this moment I swore that I would avenge her, if ever I could, of the scoundrel who had brought her to this.She had stopped at the door. We had both, Doblana and I, risen in a violent surprise. During an unterminable minute no word was spoken. Then, at last, she whispered piteously:"Father!"And as no answer came she said:"Patrick, I have come back."Again there was that gloomy, cruel silence. And suddenly we saw her fall down crying, sobbing, shaking. Then her father approached her and lifted her up. He did it with infinite gentleness, but he said no word.My dear reader, you are perhaps a sentimental person and you will, may be, condemn your old friend Patrick for not having made the movement which her father made. But you see....A few days before I had read William J. Locke's novelThe Morals of Marcus Ordeyne, one of the most brilliant and delightful this wonderful writer has achieved. There was a certain analogy in Mitzi's return and in that of Carlotta. Like her she came back empty handed, having also probably pawned everything. It was heart-breaking, and like Marcus I felt faint. Perhaps, if I had spoken one single word at that moment everything would have happened otherwise. However, my morals are not the morals of Marcus Ordeyne—and that one word, I spoke it not.Slowly her father led her into her room. I used the moment to slip out of the house. I went to my lodgings, nearly mad, and packed my things. The same evening saw me on my way to England, never to go back.

Surprising as it may seem to you, I had the courage, the next day, to take the bull by the horns and to ask Mitzi about Franz von Heidenbrunn. She merely laughed.

"My dear," she said, "firstly I am your fiancée, and as such must be very careful with you. Secondly, Franz is my cousin, and we have known each other for so many years that we are like brother and sister. Lastly, you knocked on my door at an awkward moment, when I was changing my dress. You did not want me to show myself to you in my underwear, did you? While Franz came three minutes later when I was dressed again."

You go and argue with a woman if you can. I could not. I just felt silly. And I suppose I looked it. For she came near me and stroked my cheek gently.

"Don't make a face, dear," she said. "I quite understand your feeling miserable after having read the papers; but, never mind, it will wear off...."

"I know, Mitzi," I answered meekly, "I cannot have it both ways, and write an opera that pleases us both, and the critics too."

And there was no more discussion about Franz von Heidenbrunn. Our talk shifted, and I was informed, too late, alas! that the Austrian critic, as well as the German, is always prepared to write favourably for a consideration, being hardly paid at all by the newspapers themselves, and regards as his legitimate victims such people who have not made backsheesh arrangements in advance.

On the third dayLady Macbethwas repeated. This time the house was packed full, even the hundred and fifty bad seats were sold out. The question whether La Dobanelli was wearing tights or not under her chemise had been discussed in the whole town, and had proved such an irresistible attraction that at her first appearance she was greeted with warm applause.

Franz von Heidenbrunn was again in the audience. Whether he visited Mitzi in the entre-acte I cannot say—I did not, having no desire to be turned away again.

I also went to see the third performance, which was exactly like the second one. The same kind of audience, thirsting for a sensation, and for the third time Franz von Heidenbrunn among the spectators.

As we travelled back to Vienna, Mitzi and I, we had a few words about her chemise in the last scene.

"Was this the same chemise you had the two first times?" I asked her.

"No," she replied laughing, "you do expect a lady to put fresh linen on from time to time, don't you?"

"That chemise was shorter than the other," I remarked, more sternly than I had intended to.

"Oh! An inch or two perhaps."

"An inch is much in those latitudes," I jested.

"Look here, Patrick," she answered sullenly. "Let me alone with your remonstrances. You ought to know by now that I do my best for your opera, which wouldhave been a complete failure without me."

She said it coldly, heartlessly. It made me suffer. But, swallowing my torment, I answered nothing, and we continued our journey in silence. I felt that we were not getting on at all nicely and wondered how I was to educate her to be less of an artist,—and more my wife.

There is in drama a certain system of construction, as you ought to know. Probably you don't, still there is. First comes the exposition, then the opening of the action, then the growth during which it grows (of course) to the climax; then the fall or, as it must sometimes be called, the return which precedes the close. In life the return which follows all climaces is always nasty, and you wake up after every excitement with a bit of a moral headache. Hoping is an ungrateful business. Look, for instance, at our friend Cotton, our good Guncotton. He has finished his chemistry treatise—think what it means to have written all these formulas in the trenches—andhe has this very morning received the news that his manuscript has arrived safely in London. Now he walks about, his eyes full of rosy dreams, of fears, and of hopes. And I can so well understand his feelings, his thoughts. Patrick Cooper went through all these emotions. And afterwards, dear me! Only my case was a worse one, for the devil had amused himself in mixing the poison of love into my adventure of artistic hopes and ambitions.

And by the way, as I am talking of the devil, it occurs to me that the little man with the tuft of black beard on his chin, who appeared to me four times, must have been ... HE. He laughed, the evil fellow, when he came for the fourth time and saw that his matchmaking work was seemingly accomplished.

Yet lately I had not seen him again. He must have been busy somewhere else. Perhaps will you see a connexion between his disappearance and the following events.

The fourth performance ofLady Macbethcoincided with thepremièreof Doblana'sAladdinat the Viennese Opera. I thought it was my duty to be present atthe day of honour of my master, a small sacrifice indeed, as there was not much joy for me in attending my own opera before an injudicious public, which really came only to see Amizia Dobanelli in her chemise. Besides, as the opera was making money, there was every prospect of more performances taking place.

When I expressed my intention to Doblana and to Mitzi the horn-player at once objected. I could very well go and see the dress rehearsal ofAladdininstead of the first night.

I asked why I should be deprived of attending the performance.

"I do not like the idea," said Doblana, "of Mitzi being alone in Brünn. I cannot accompany her on that particular evening, but I think that you, her fiancée, ought not to neglect her."

"Good Lord!" exclaimed Mitzi, "Am I not old enough to remain alone for one evening? If I am such a child, then surely you will not consider Patrick grown up either. He is but one year older than I."

"How will you manage?" asked her father.

"I think I will stay the night at the hotel."

"I do not think that it befits a young lady to stay a night alone at an hotel."

"All right, then I will go and stay with Augusta."

Doblana acquiesced. But this time I made an objection.

"Augusta," I said, "will be in Vienna on that particular evening; she will want to seeAladdin."

Mitzi glanced at me with an angry look.

"Anyhow," she protested, "Franz will have no leave. He will be in Brünn."

"That is just what I object to," I declared. "The best thing would be for you to return to Vienna. I will be at the Northern Station to bring you home."

This was finally decided upon, and Mitzi left us in the afternoon for Brünn. At six o'clock there came a wire from her addressed to Doblana, just as he and I were about to leave for the theatre.

It ran:

"Safely arrived. House full. Best luck to Papa. Mitzi."

An hour and a half laterAladdinbegan.

When you write your reminiscences, as I am doing now, you will be supposed to talk of other people. You will see how difficult it is. I always want to talk about myself. I remember things only inasmuch they concern me. Other people's feelings are not half as important to me as my own. Thus, that evening, at the beginning they were so intensely bitter, that I think I must record them, although Doblana was the hero of the day. I was, naturally enough, reminded of my own first night ten days before. But whileLady Macbethhad been played before an unsatisfactorily filled house, the one to-day was packed. All the imaginable beautiful and jewelled ladies were present, while at Brünn the provincial simplicity of the feminine public (the male part is about everywhere the same) was so exaggerated, that my poor mater's diamonds were, as you have seen, thought worthy of a newspaper notice. Whoever was of importance in Vienna, political and military people, financiers, diplomatists, and artists, was to be found on that first night. One hardly noticed that the great Court Box was empty, and that no Royalty was present; for allthe other noted members of Society had come. I will confess that I felt jealous. And this jealousy increased as the orchestra started playing Doblana's music.

Oh, what an orchestra! We have a few fine orchestras in London, but how much superior are the Vienna Philharmonics. Neither Munich, nor Dresden, can boast of such artists. To hear one's music performed by them must be heaven.

Such then were my feelings asAladdinbegan. Who would have thought that a couple of hours later my sentiments would be reversed and that instead of envying Doblana, I would pity the poor fellow?

I had seen the ballet at different rehearsals.Joseph Dorff'sbook was clever, Doblana's music pretty, tuneful and well scored, although in no way remarkable, and the staging simply marvellous. There is no Parisian nor Russian ballet which can compete with those of the Vienna Opera. Not only are the dancers and mimics incomparable, but fortunes are spent on the scenery and the costumes, which are proofs of the most perfect theatrical taste.

The first act was placed before andinside the famous cavern where Aladdin finds the lamp. In the original tale this cavern is uninhabited, but in the ballet there were populations of pretty spirits and servants of the lamp. These gave a pretext for all sorts of charming dances. And there was one dance which had a real success, namely, that of the precious stones. It was performed by small girls dressed as rubies, emeralds, sapphires and so on, who formed lovely groups representing the different jewels. The whole had a kaleïdoscopic effect, changing from one second to the next, and was uncommonly pleasant.

Yet this was nothing in comparison to what was to come in the second and third act. In the former there was the magnificent arrival of Aladdin at the Sultan's court. He came on a splendid white charger and was accompanied by forty white and forty black slaves, who afterwards showed all the skill taught by the Viennese dancing masters. In the last act there came thepièce de résistance, namely, the building before the eyes of the public, not in one night, but in ten minutes, of Aladdin's unique palace. Things of such kind arevery easy to be done in fairy tales and not much more difficult on a stage when the manager disposes of unlimited wealth. All the wonders of the Arabian Nights were to be presented to the audience on that evening.

The first act had gone well, better even than anybody had expected. There are usually but short entre-acts in the Vienna Opera. But first nights, especially of Grand Ballets, are such social events that they do not admit this rule in all its rigour. Therefore nobody was surprised when the entre-acte instead of the usual ten minutes had lasted twenty. Groups had been chatting and laughing and showing their toilettes and jewels. But in the end everybody had left thefoyerand returned to the seats. Yet nothing happened. The musicians were at their places, but no conductor was present. Ten more minutes passed. The public gave signs of impatience, a thing unheard of in thissanctissimum. But these signs of impatience lasted one instant only. Then the house became painfully silent.

I should have liked to go and see behind the curtain what had happened. But this was not a provincial theatre where such visitsfrom the public to the stage could be permitted. In this Imperial and Royal Court theatre there were strict rules; and I could only wait with the other people.

The wildest rumours began to spread. The amount of improbabilities human brains can invent in a few minutes is incredible. And here two and a half thousand were busy finding the extraordinary reason of this long pause.

Yet as inventive as their brains were, they proved no match for the reality. For after three-quarters of an hour, which seemed an interminably long time, a bell was heard, and a gentleman in evening dress appeared before the curtain. He was sickly pale.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he said, "I have much regret in announcing that the further performance of the balletAladdinhas been forbidden by all-highest order. The money for purchased seats will be refunded to-morrow in exchange of the coupons of the tickets."

The announcement had the effect of a thunderstorm, putting an end to the suspense of the last minutes. I could not say whatwas greater, consternation, regret for the composer, disorder among the discontented spectators, or curiosity to know the secret reason of this catastrophe.

For my part I left the theatre as quickly as possible and went to the little side door in the Opera Street, at the rear of the premises, where Doblana was wont to leave. There was already a terrific crowd. But although I had (I have no more) the soft fingers and delicate hands of a pianist, I possess also the strong elbows of an English sportsman, and I succeeded in reaching the door. Just at that moment a man came out of the house. He looked pale, haggard, with the expression of a drunkard. It was Doblana.

He scarcely recognised me, but I pushed my arm under his and led him away.

It was cold and foggy.

I shivered as I asked him what had happened.

"It is the Archduke," he stammered, "who has forbidden the performance."

There was something like a sob in his voice.

"The Archduke? His own work? Why?"

"I don't know myself."

After a few steps made in a painful silence, he added:

"We had a little difference yesterday, at the dress rehearsal, but nothing of importance."

"What was it?"

"He wanted to cancel the dance of the precious stones, saying that it was like akindergartenthat had gone mad."

"And?"

"Well, I objected to such a cut and said: 'Nonsense,Herr Graf.' Thereupon he sat down, pronouncing not another word more."

"And what did he do to-day?"

"He did nothing. He did not even come. During the first act a letter from the First Master of Ceremonies was delivered, saying that he forbade the performance to go on."

"But how is it possible to treat the public in this way?"

"Oh, the public!"

He shrugged his shoulders and went on explaining:

"They are not supposed to be regularspectators as in an ordinary theatre. They are the guests of the Emperor, and they, as it were, buy an invitation to assist at the performance, which is in reality supposed to be given not for the general public, but for the private pleasure of His Majesty."

"And was there nothing to be done?"

"We have tried, that is why we had to keep the audience waiting so long. The conductor hurried to the First Master of Ceremonies, and the Manager to His Majesty himself, while I drove to the palace of the Archduke. I was not received at all, nor did the manager see the Emperor, and as for the conductor, he was told by the First Master of Ceremonies that he regretted, but had to obey orders."

Instinctively, we had taken the direction of the Karlsgasse. I had a very nasty feeling, as if poor, innocent Doblana had suddenly become a criminal, and I his accomplice. I was dazed as if I had had a smack in the face.

We were passing a large café near the Elisabeth Bridge, where Doblana and I sometimes used to meet some friends.

"Let us go in," I said, "and show yourself publicly. Make the best out of a bad case. After all you are innocent of the disaster that has befallen you. Go in, there are surely a few journalists inside. Let yourself be interviewed and protest against the manner you have been treated."

You ought to have seen the terror in the poor man's face. He opened his eyes, his nostrils, his mouth and drew backwards his lower jaw as if he had wanted to swallow it. (As a matter of fact, he must have been starving, for he had had no food the whole day.)

"Protest!" he cried at last. "I?—Mr. Cooper, you desire my death. As if my situation was not sufficiently bad! This is not a free country like yours, where you can talk as you like. No! I have but one thing to do, to go home and hide myself. I am done for."

And so we went to the Karlsgasse. The house seemed desolate to me. The servant, Fanny's unworthy successor, believing that we would sup outside and come home late, had gone to bed. So I proceeded into the dreary kitchen (a kitchen without a cook is always dreary, and without fire it can driveyou to desperation) and made some tea on the gas-stove, while Doblana who had lit a cigar was walking up and down in thesalon.

"It is terrible," said he at last, after he had swallowed a little tea, "how Austria is changing. What happens to me is but an instance of the new spirit that reigns here. Or should I not call it otherwise? This spirit, which comes from Berlin, this Pangermanic spirit is not a new spirit, but a reactionary spirit, a dark, mediæval spirit, a spirit that recognizes no right, but only might. What this Archduke has done to me to-day, in our time of enlightenment, is nothing else than an act of mediæval brutality.

"All evil comes us from Berlin. It spoils our art, it spoils our music. What they call the higher form is simply amorphous. What they call deep ideas is empty commonplace. The motives which are behind it all are vicious, sensual, degenerate, disgusting depravity. What we see in their painting, figures now too long, now too short, with swollen abdomens, with grinning faces, we find in their music, in the grossness of their motives, in the brutality of theirorchestrations. This music is a breath from a stinking morass.

"And this is not all. Berlin is so mediæval in its views that they want war, universal war. War which will give the death blow to Austrian music, for music does not live in times of war. Fifty years ago they said: Germany for the Germans! Now they are crying: the world for the Prussians! And as though Austria were a German state, as though there were no Slavs and no Italians in Austria, Berlin wants to drag us into her war schemes. And they will succeed. From our cruel paintings you can see it, from our coarse, frightful music you can hear it: they will succeed!"

Thus spoke Doblana, not a great prophet, no, only a humble musician. Do not believe, incredulous reader, that I make him utter a prophesy after the event. Nay! These words were actually spoken, a long time before anybody, before even he who spoke them, thought of the war, that war in which I am fighting, that war which, as in irony, Austria, gentle, joyous, dancing Austria began.

I looked at my watch, and suddenly Iremembered that I was to meet Mitzi at the Northern Station. It was very late, perhaps too late. Still by making haste I might arrive in time. So I speedily went away. But as it is always when you are in a hurry, the taxi took a long, circuitous route, what they call a short cut, and I arrived too late. The train had arrived nearly ten minutes ago, and I could find no trace of Mitzi at the station.

Heaven knows what gave me the idea that something was wrong. When I came back to the Karlsgasse, I saw the light in the windows of thesalonas they had been when I had left. I ascended the stairs and rang the bell. Nearly at once I heard Doblana's dragging step, who came to open the door.

"Alone?" he cried, in a state of utmost anxiety.

Mitzi had not arrived.

The nervousness of the poor man was terrible. Exhausted as he was I did not dare to leave him, and I passed with him the worst night of my life. I have only to think of it to find any night in the trenches, amidst the roaring of the shells, restful by comparison.

At the earliest hour in the morning we went to a telephone office where we asked for communication with the Grand Hotel in Brünn. After a long half-hour we got through, only to learn thatFräuleinhad not been seen on the previous day at the hotel.

We tried the theatre. The one thing we heard was that she had been very successful as always and had left immediately after the performance.

We returned to the Karlsgasse. Mitzi had not arrived. Only the postman had called and brought several letters. None of them being from her, Doblana threw them carelessly into his pocket and asked me whether I was coming with him to Brünn. Of course, I acquiesced. But I will confess that I, so to say, made a condition of our having some breakfast before. It may be that youth is more hungry, but I could not go on without food.

At last we sat in the train. We had more than an hour before us.

Mechanically Doblana looked through his letters, passing them silently to me. The first was an invoice for flowers he had offered the evening before to several dancers.

The second was one of good Hammer, written immediately after the interrupted performance in very warm words, taking part in the sorrow that had befallen his friend.

The third was from the publisher. But I could not read it to the end, for Doblana, who was perusing the fourth one, suddenly uttered a stifled cry.

The letter was from the Archduke.

"My dear collaborator, my worthy Mr. Doblana," (it ran about—I do not recollect the exact words—), "I have taken my revenge. You have treated my dear wife like the basest of women, only because the chief of my family had prohibited my marrying her. Your behaviour was an unforgettable insult to the best, the most deserving and amiable woman, in whom you have seen nothing but a despicable, venal dancer. You have continued your disdain, your hatred beyond the tomb. What I have done is my retaliation.

"It is I who have taken away from your house and destroyed yourGriseldis. It is I who have prohibited the performanceof yourAladdin, knowing that I would hit you in your weakest spot, your ambition. And I may as well tell you that, while you may keep your position as a horn-player at the Opera, its doors are henceforth closed to the composer Doblana.

"You need not worry about the cost of the production at the Opera. I have made good the damage my vengeance has occasioned.

"As for you, I do not wish that it should cause you any pecuniary loss. The idea of having harmed my former collaborator in this paltry way would be unpleasant to me. I put the value ofGriseldisandAladdinat 25.000 crowns each and enclose therefore a cheque for 50.000 crowns to indemnify you.

"Alphons Hector."

I cannot describe the wrath of my poor friend. And I had to struggle with him to prevent him from tearing the cheque to pieces. And this may give you the measure of his indignation. For you know how great was his love of money.

I should like to state that the Archduke had moreover shown himself wrong in two points. Ambition was not Doblana's weakest spot, it was precisely money. Nor was Alphons Hector's prediction right, for two years later an opera of Doblana's composition was successfully produced at the Viennese Opera.

As for the Archduke, or theHerr Graf, orJoseph Dorff, however you may call him, he completely disappeared a few days after the memorableAladdinnight. Some say that he undertook a journey on his yacht, and that it was lost with all hands. Other people think that he has settled down to a private life somewhere in South America. In any case he was nevermore heard of.

But to resume my story. All researches in Brünn as afterwards in Vienna did not succeed in finding Mitzi. The only clue we obtained (it was from Augusta von Heidenbrunn that we got it) was the fact that her brother Franz had disappeared together with my fiancée. He had, for her sake, become a deserter.

A few weeks went by, which I passed nearly without interruption on Doblana'sside. He slowly recovered from the awful shock this whole affair had caused him. Then I proceeded to Graz to assist at the performance ofLady Macbethin this town. Without Mitzi, without her overwhelming talent, without her charm it was bound to be a failure. And I came back to Vienna more discouraged, more disheartened than ever. Again I saw much of Doblana, and I can assure you that we were a pretty pair of dejected composers. On this subject I could write pages, but out of pity for you I won't.

One day, as we sat there smoking, and pondering silently over our shattered hopes, the bell rang. We heard the maid opening the door, and in the next minute Mitzi entered. She was dressed exactly as I had last seen her, but her features were drawn, she was pale and seemed to have suffered. In this moment I swore that I would avenge her, if ever I could, of the scoundrel who had brought her to this.

She had stopped at the door. We had both, Doblana and I, risen in a violent surprise. During an unterminable minute no word was spoken. Then, at last, she whispered piteously:

"Father!"

And as no answer came she said:

"Patrick, I have come back."

Again there was that gloomy, cruel silence. And suddenly we saw her fall down crying, sobbing, shaking. Then her father approached her and lifted her up. He did it with infinite gentleness, but he said no word.

My dear reader, you are perhaps a sentimental person and you will, may be, condemn your old friend Patrick for not having made the movement which her father made. But you see....

A few days before I had read William J. Locke's novelThe Morals of Marcus Ordeyne, one of the most brilliant and delightful this wonderful writer has achieved. There was a certain analogy in Mitzi's return and in that of Carlotta. Like her she came back empty handed, having also probably pawned everything. It was heart-breaking, and like Marcus I felt faint. Perhaps, if I had spoken one single word at that moment everything would have happened otherwise. However, my morals are not the morals of Marcus Ordeyne—and that one word, I spoke it not.

Slowly her father led her into her room. I used the moment to slip out of the house. I went to my lodgings, nearly mad, and packed my things. The same evening saw me on my way to England, never to go back.

XII.It is a very funny feeling I experience in returning to these pages. I had left them since the first of May, when I wrote the last words of Chapter XI., and you will have noticed that several points remained unsolved. In this state my MS. had rested during six weeks, mostly because I did not know how to fill the gaps. But since yesterday things having changed, Fate with a capital F has added another chapter to my story.You must know that we are getting ready for a great attack. As far as we can ascertain we are going in a few days to leave the trenches where we have been living cosily for so many months. Of course, you wonder; feeling snug in the trenches is somewhat unexpected. Yet it is true. And now the unceasing bombardment tells us: "We shall have to be going." Can you believe that it fills us with a sort of regret?Yesterday at noon Charlie calls Cotton, Pringle, and me."My boys," he says, "the colonel has just had a bit of a chat with me. He wants four volunteers—three men and me—to go to-night and reconnoitre a certain place. I have thought of you three, but I had better tell you: it's not without danger, far from it.""We're here," says I, "to do our duty.""We'll have some fun, anyhow," declares Pringle.And Guncotton adds:"My manuscript is safely in London. I don't care."I record this conventicle lest you should think that such resolutions are taken as in opera, where the four men would advance to each other and, uniting their four right handy in one single grip, sing a quartette."All right," says Charlie, "so long!"He is about to go, but I recall him."Can I have a minute with you, Sergeant?""Ten. What's the matter?""There is a chance of our not coming back to-night?""Are you funky?""Charlie, I haven't deserved this. You know that I won't shirk.""Well, what is it then?""It is ... it is simply that for some time you are changed towards me, you've been sulky, and I should not like to go off on the long journey without having made friends with you again."He says nothing and stares into my face. Then after a while he asks:"Have you written any more of that stuff?""What stuff?""That story of yours.""Oh, I see. Yes. I have.""Let's see."I show him my story. He reads quickly, very quickly, skipping half-pages; in short, he reads as I should not like you, for instance, to read it. In less than half-an-hour he has run through all the pages. When he has finished he takes a long breath as though he felt relieved."Look here, P. C.," he says, "when you began that story I thought it was all stuff and nonsense. It amused me, and sometimesI thought that you knew how to strike a note of sincerity."(I earnestly wish to point out that this kind of criticism is not my own; I guarantee that it is by Sergeant Young.)He goes on:"Very slowly it began to dawn upon me that there might be more truth in your narrative than I had first suspected. And then you let me see that photo."He stops and looks at me as if at a loss how to go on."I had misunderstood what your story was driving at," he continues, "I thought that, as stories written in a light tone generally do, it was to finish with a marriage ... and, when I found out that it was a story which had really happened, I believed that you had married the lady of the photograph."My dear reader, I promise you that I will repeat it no more after this time, but I must ask your leave to inform you once more that I felt silly. And I continued so when Charlie declared:"I have known that woman.""You have known her?""Oh!" he cries, "do not suspect anything wrong, do not jump to conclusions. Do you want to know how it all happened? By a lucky deal on the ParisBourseI had realized a sum of about 200.000 francs. I never told you, that I used to live in Paris, after the Boer war, years ago. Never mind. Well, with my money I did a very foolish thing: I bought a little hotel. It was called 'The Grand-duke's hotel,' and was a smart place. Unfortunately, to keep a smart custom, you must advertize, and for this I had no money. Perhaps also to make a good innkeeper a certain talent is necessary, in which I was lacking. By and by my business declined, not in elegance, but in turnover. Still, there were always a few refined and well-paying guests who encouraged me to hope against hope. But one day—you know the date as well as I, P. C.—there came a couple who gave the concern its death stroke."They travelled under the nameCount and Countess Dorff, but from the photograph alone I could tell you, that the lady was your Mitzi. However, there is another thing which coincides with your account. Notthat they called themselvesDorfffrom the Archduke'snom de plume, I do not mean that, I mean another thing."On the ninth or tenth day after their arrival they came home rather early and at once retired to their apartment. Shortly afterwards George, my head waiter, came hurriedly into my private room, where I was working, and informed me that they were quarrelling—but so violently that I had better come. I am sorry, P. C., to have to show you an ugly side of an otherwise honourable trade, but eaves-dropping is sometimes necessary to an innkeeper. So I went and listened. At first I could hardly understand what they were saying, for although I speak German as perfectly as six other languages, I could not immediately make out their peculiar Viennese accent. Soon, however, I grew accustomed to it. The quarrel was apparently about money matters. Quarrels between couples in hotels generally are. But after a while the object of the dispute seemed to shift, they grew louder and then fainter again. Through the door of the next room, where I was listening, I could hear one of the two people excitedlyopening a trunk and searching for something. Then I heard the woman say distinctly in an irritated voice:'So your father took the papers?'And the man answered:'He did.''He stole the score ofGriseldis? How did he do it?''He had only to step into your apartment, which a locksmith had opened for him. He knew the room, he knew the very drawer where the manuscript was kept, and he took it.'"There came several questions from the woman which I don't remember, evidently asking how the Archduke had prepared the whole affair.'He had obtained an engagement for your father,' explained the man, 'to play a concerto in Prague. He knew that this would cause him to be absent for three days. You had told Augusta that in such cases your maid used to ask you for a holiday, and my father had learned this detail by chance from Augusta. There was but one more difficulty: to remove you.'"For a minute or so they both keptsilent; then suddenly the woman cried fiercely:'You sent me that wire!''I obeyed my father's orders,' answered the man.'And for a full year you let me be suspected of being a thief ... protesting all the while that you loved me?''I do love you ... and I regret....''Ah! you regret, you scoundrel! And to show your regret you spoiled my life as your father had spoiled my father's work? Scoundrel, scoundrel, scoundrel!'"I heard the man laugh, a cold, cruel laugh.'No!' she went on, 'you do not regret, but I will teach you to repent!...'"The next second I heard a report. George and I broke in the door. She had shot him through the left arm. I am afraid, P. C., that you have never seen her look as beautiful as I have."What more can I say? The next day the affair was in the papers. I hoped it would be an advertisement for the 'Grand-duke's hotel.' It would perhaps have been one for a bigger place or one that had beenbetter known. As it was, it finished my business. Three months later I was ruined. You may believe me, P. C., that my wish to be revenged on that scoundrel is as strong as yours.""And Mitzi?" I ask."Mitzi was arrested. But after three days, as the gentleman had left the country, she was restored to liberty. He had gone away with all their luggage, and she possessed nothing except a few jewels, which she pawned. The proceeds did not suffice to pay her journey home, not to speak of her bill, for she had remained several weeks in Paris, hoping to find an engagement, a hope in which she failed. Finally I had to give her a few francs in order to help her to return to her country."There, Mr. Reader, is what Charles Young tells me. It leads you exactly to the point—namely, Mitzi's coming home—where I had left you.Now, this is not all I have to report of yesterday's memorable evening. I am sure you wish to know all about the night expedition of your four friends. You shall have what you want.There is to the north-east of our trench a little wood. The colonel wanted to know what was in that wood, whether it was fortified and how. Our aeroplanes had been unable to give any information, nor had our listening posts achieved any result. So there was but one way: by scouting.Well, as soon as night had come we crawled out of our trench, armed to the teeth, and after an hour's crawling we reached the edge of the forest. To say that it was an easy job would be an unnecessary exaggeration, for there were German search-lights unceasingly licking the ground. Yet there was always time when we saw the lights creeping nearer, to lie still for an instant and to pretend that we were corpses."Can't you see," said Pringle once quite aloud, as the ray was just resting on his body, "that I'm dead? What's the use of your lights having glasses?"Charlie began to laugh, so that if the beam by any chance had touched him, he would certainly have been detected."Mind you," said I, "the blooming thing is wavering.""La donna è mobile," sang Charliesoftly and added: "It's Hun-steady.""Shut up, Sergeant," said Pringle, "it's foolish to joke now.""Hun-reasonable, you mean. Let's go on.""The ray is still too near," warned Guncotton. "It is premature to move.""Hun-timely?" corrected Charley. "Perhaps; well, we have plenty of time.""Oh Sergeant, don't be cruel!""Do you really think me Hun-merciful? It seems that my puns are Hun-successful...."And so it went on for a time, while we lay motionless under the rays of the search-light. Yet the Sergeant did not cease thinking of anything else than words beginning with an optional Hun.But when we were inside the wood our real business began. It consisted in reaching a certain spot where in all probability a small detachment of Germans was posted, for it was a naturally sheltered part. Should no Germans be there, then we were to come back and if possible our troops were to occupy it during the same night.We had been walking silently when the Sergeant suddenly stopped."They are here," he whispered."What are we to do?" I inquired."We have orders in case of no Germans are there," said Guncotton. "But if there are some?""I think it's clear," declared the Sergeant. "Either kill them, or take them prisoners."From a spot at a distance of about a hundred yards there came the buzzing murmur of many voices, conversing probably in a peaceful manner."They are too many to kill," said Guncotton."But not to take prisoners."And Charlie at once invented a plan of attack.Accordingly we began talking gently at first, then louder and louder, until we shouted all four for all we were worth. Finally Charlie in his strongest voice gave some orders, which Pringle repeated different times, sometimes at a higher pitch, sometimes at a lower, and always a little fainter. He is a ventriloquist, you know. While he was doing this, Charlie and I rushed forwards on to the Germans who were in thegreatest disorder, having been taken entirely by surprise."Surrender," cried we both.There were two German officers who advanced. We explained to them that as we were eight hundred they had better give in. All this time Pringle was going on with his orders, given in ever so many voices, which seemed to come from different directions. And suddenly Guncotton produced his will-o-the-wisp trick, which completed the illusion. He was causing lights to appear to the right and the left, so that our Germans (they were forty) seemed entirely surrounded.The success was complete, and an hour later we were bringing in our bag of officers and men. Only ... by some sort of a miracle the men's figures had grown. They were ninety now."This time I have got my commission," said Charlie to me as we entered our trenches.But somehow, in our excitement, instead of returning to our own quarters, we had taken a wrong direction, and we arrived at a part distant from ours by more than twomiles. Still, you may imagine, whether we were well received.The colonel on duty congratulated us and asked for our names. To my utter surprise Charlie gave his as ... Friedrich Wilhelm Young.As we marched away through the communication trenches, cheery and mirthful, I asked Charlie why he had given this name."I did not," he said."You did.""Never.""You did," asserted Pringle and Cotton."You are spinning me a yarn.""We are not," we declared unanimously, "you gave your name as Friedrich Wilhelm Young."He remained silent, absolutely cast down. Never have I seen a man so overcome as poor Charlie was that minute. At last he said:"Well, that's done it. I must have been too excited. Farewell, my commission! We'll drink that bottle of champagne to-morrow."And we shall. At last!Once more I open these sheets, which I have had to neglect for four full mouths. And you will be surprised, my dear friends, who have escorted me to Austria and France, to hear that I am no longer writing this in the trenches, but in Belsize Park.I suppose I must tell you all. FollowingMajorYoung's advice, I will begin by the beginning. In fact, I have already begun by informing you in one single word that Charlie—he will always remain Charlie for me—has at last met with success. Bad luck evidently ceased to exist from the moment when we emptied that bottle of champagne. On being questioned about his real name he made a clear breast of the whole story of his identity; and thus, what had not brought Sergeant Charles Young a commission, has finally brought Captain Friedrich Wilhelm Young a promotion.That occurred on the last day of June. On the first of July, 1916, the great attack began. I am not going to describe that big affair. It has provided so much copy to professional writers that a poor amateurlike me has no more chance. But how we rushed out of the trenches! Poor Cotton—on that very morning, an hour before the action began, he had received news from the Royal Society of Chemists that they were to publish his treatise at their expense, and he had said to me with an elated expression:"Now I can die calmly: I know that I will not die altogether."Poor Cotton was perhaps the first to be killed.As for me I find it absolutely impossible to tell you what I did. You know that feeling: When you wake up in the morning you remember sometimes that you have been dreaming, but cannot recall the slightest detail. It even happens that while asleep you intend to remember a certain detail of your dream; yet, in the morning it is clean forgotten.I cannot say how long I remained in that fight, two, four, six hours, or more perhaps. The only thing I recollect is a feeling of infinite comfort when I woke up, and how it gave way instantly to an unbearable agony in my right foot. I was lying in a bed, and the bed was in a large tent with many others.Dazed as I was, I realized that I must have been wounded, but I felt too tired to think, or even to keep my eyes open.A soft hand stroked my brow lightly and a gentle voice said a few words. I opened my eyes again. A nurse was standing there, with two surgeons. They uncovered me and undid the bandage which was hiding my foot. Then one of the men said to me:"You are a courageous man. You will not be afraid of a little operation?""It can't hurt more than it does now.'"It won't hurt at all.""Then go ahead, sir, what is it?""Nothing much. We think, my friend and I, that you have one foot too many."I reflected one moment. This was rather unpleasant. But what could I do but put a cheerful face on an ugly matter? So I said:"Right you are, but don't make a mistake.""What d'you mean?" asked the surgeon."You might cut off the sound foot, by mistake.""All right," said he smiling. "That's the spirit we want. We will do it in a couple of hours. Try to sleep in the meantime."The next time you have an opportunity, Mr. Reader, you make an effort to sleep with such a prospect before you. A cripple; I would be a cripple. What would life be in future? It is not such a very easy thing to stand on two feet, but on one! You must be a virtuoso for that ... or an acrobat. Anyhow I would be out of the ghastly business. For I may tell it now, it was hellish, altogether.But at last, it was over for me. I had done my bit.—Done my bit—Done my bit.—And I repeated twenty, fifty, a hundred times that "Done my bit" like an engine that says the same thing unceasingly. Yes, I would go home, back to Blighty. Done my bit.—Done my bit.—What would dad say? Poor dad! He would feel it more than I. He would tremble when he saw my name in the casualty list. And he would cry and be proud that I had done my bit.—Done my bit.—Done my bit.—And then he would buy an artificial foot for me, the best he couldfind. In fact he did, and I am not so much to be pitied as you may think. Really not. And the mater ... she would scold me, no doubt. In fact, she did it too:"My poor Patrick," was her first word, "how can one be such an awkward bungler? What did you do with your foot?""I apologize, mother," I answered, "I have mislaid it. I must have left it in France. Do you want me to go back and fetch it?"Thus, you see, I could not sleep during these two hours, as I had been told to.Suddenly, as I was lying there, I heard a voice, a very faint voice to my right, calling me:"Mr. Cooper!"Slowly I turned my head. I could not turn anything else. And there, by my side, lay pallid, cadaverous, Franz von Heidenbrunn."What are you doing here?" I asked."I?—I am dying."A pause."But how did you come here? Why are you not on the Austrian front?"Very slowly the answer came:"I became a deserter, when I eloped with Mitzi. I never returned to Austria. I served with the Germans."He was very weak, I could hardly hear his words. And I, too, felt so feeble that I was scarcely able to speak.After a while he began again:"You know that old Hammer died?""Poor Hammer," I said. "And Doblana?""I don't know."There was another silence. How exhausted he looked! And I had sworn that I would avenge myself on him."Giulay is married," he whispered.Evidently he wanted to speak about my Viennese acquaintances. But what could it matter to me whether Giulay was married? Was it to Fanny? I wondered. The answer to my mute question came soon."To Mitzi."Giulay and Mitzi! So they had both been satisfied with remnants ... he with what Franz, and she with what Fanny had left. Such was the end of my Austrian Love.Again there was a silence. Longer, deeper than before. His breath was difficult,already rattling in his throat. But after a while he seemed once more to find a little strength."Can't you forgive me?" he asked at last."I do forgive you, with all my heart."He became calm, and it seemed to me as if a dim smile was passing over his features.He died the same night.Three or four weeks went by. I was doing splendidly, as people say whose feet have not been amputated. I had been removed to another tent where there were only men who had behaved well, like me for instance, and who could be allowed to read, to smoke, to chat. Don't you believe that it was a sorry company. There was not one complete specimen of the species man. But we bore our lot cheerfully.To say the truth I had not, for years, felt so pleased, so satisfied. The nightmare was over. When I recollected the years between my flight from Vienna until the outbreak of the war, and then the terrible months in Gallipoli and in France, I regarded my present situation as perfect bliss. Perhaps also had I freed myself, bywriting my story, from the ever torturing memory of her, whom I have called my Austrian Love. For the first time Life was smiling again.... Life and Music. I may as well tell you that since I have returned home I have begun writing a symphonic poem. I hope you will come one day and applaud it. I found its themes while I was in that cheerful hospital. I found something else, too.You know, of course, that in the hospitals kind people are always providing poor devils like me with all sorts of entertainments. If there was a proof necessary to show that music is not only an expensive noise, (what of a bombardment, then?) you have only to make inquiries about the number of concerts given to the wounded. Singers, pianists, violinists, unknown and famous, come to brighten our time of convalescence.Such a party, one day, visited our hospital. The names were not celebrated ones, but we did not mind. The renowned artists were not always those we liked best.There was first a man who played the violin. I remember it was Godard'sBerceuse de Jocelyn. Then a baritone, whosang popular ballads. He had a beautiful voice and I should have liked to see his face. But I was still in bed and not allowed to move; and from where I was I could only hear, but not see the performers.And then the piano attacked sounds familiar to me. And a feminine voice began:"My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here...."Good God! What was that?Mitzi?Had her voice changed so much? Had she used her Italianized name to sneak into this country? She alone knew that song.... And yet....I tried to sit up, in spite of the doctor's orders. But a nurse, who, as I discovered later on, had special instructions, noticed me and came nearer."You are not to move, you know," she said smiling."Oh let me!" I begged."No, no, no!"The song was over and the men applauded.All of them, except one, Patrick Cooper.And the voice began again:"Breathes there the man, with soul so dead,Who never to himself hath said,This is my own, my native land!..."That could not be Mitzi!... she had always been unable to sing that song."Whose heart hath ne'er within him burn'd,As home his footsteps he hath turn'd,From wandering on a foreign strand!..."The voice seemed to come nearer.—Yes! the singer had left the platform...."If such there breathe, go, mark him well...."Now she appeared."Bean!" I cried.And we are to be married to-morrow.

It is a very funny feeling I experience in returning to these pages. I had left them since the first of May, when I wrote the last words of Chapter XI., and you will have noticed that several points remained unsolved. In this state my MS. had rested during six weeks, mostly because I did not know how to fill the gaps. But since yesterday things having changed, Fate with a capital F has added another chapter to my story.

You must know that we are getting ready for a great attack. As far as we can ascertain we are going in a few days to leave the trenches where we have been living cosily for so many months. Of course, you wonder; feeling snug in the trenches is somewhat unexpected. Yet it is true. And now the unceasing bombardment tells us: "We shall have to be going." Can you believe that it fills us with a sort of regret?

Yesterday at noon Charlie calls Cotton, Pringle, and me.

"My boys," he says, "the colonel has just had a bit of a chat with me. He wants four volunteers—three men and me—to go to-night and reconnoitre a certain place. I have thought of you three, but I had better tell you: it's not without danger, far from it."

"We're here," says I, "to do our duty."

"We'll have some fun, anyhow," declares Pringle.

And Guncotton adds:

"My manuscript is safely in London. I don't care."

I record this conventicle lest you should think that such resolutions are taken as in opera, where the four men would advance to each other and, uniting their four right handy in one single grip, sing a quartette.

"All right," says Charlie, "so long!"

He is about to go, but I recall him.

"Can I have a minute with you, Sergeant?"

"Ten. What's the matter?"

"There is a chance of our not coming back to-night?"

"Are you funky?"

"Charlie, I haven't deserved this. You know that I won't shirk."

"Well, what is it then?"

"It is ... it is simply that for some time you are changed towards me, you've been sulky, and I should not like to go off on the long journey without having made friends with you again."

He says nothing and stares into my face. Then after a while he asks:

"Have you written any more of that stuff?"

"What stuff?"

"That story of yours."

"Oh, I see. Yes. I have."

"Let's see."

I show him my story. He reads quickly, very quickly, skipping half-pages; in short, he reads as I should not like you, for instance, to read it. In less than half-an-hour he has run through all the pages. When he has finished he takes a long breath as though he felt relieved.

"Look here, P. C.," he says, "when you began that story I thought it was all stuff and nonsense. It amused me, and sometimesI thought that you knew how to strike a note of sincerity."

(I earnestly wish to point out that this kind of criticism is not my own; I guarantee that it is by Sergeant Young.)

He goes on:

"Very slowly it began to dawn upon me that there might be more truth in your narrative than I had first suspected. And then you let me see that photo."

He stops and looks at me as if at a loss how to go on.

"I had misunderstood what your story was driving at," he continues, "I thought that, as stories written in a light tone generally do, it was to finish with a marriage ... and, when I found out that it was a story which had really happened, I believed that you had married the lady of the photograph."

My dear reader, I promise you that I will repeat it no more after this time, but I must ask your leave to inform you once more that I felt silly. And I continued so when Charlie declared:

"I have known that woman."

"You have known her?"

"Oh!" he cries, "do not suspect anything wrong, do not jump to conclusions. Do you want to know how it all happened? By a lucky deal on the ParisBourseI had realized a sum of about 200.000 francs. I never told you, that I used to live in Paris, after the Boer war, years ago. Never mind. Well, with my money I did a very foolish thing: I bought a little hotel. It was called 'The Grand-duke's hotel,' and was a smart place. Unfortunately, to keep a smart custom, you must advertize, and for this I had no money. Perhaps also to make a good innkeeper a certain talent is necessary, in which I was lacking. By and by my business declined, not in elegance, but in turnover. Still, there were always a few refined and well-paying guests who encouraged me to hope against hope. But one day—you know the date as well as I, P. C.—there came a couple who gave the concern its death stroke.

"They travelled under the nameCount and Countess Dorff, but from the photograph alone I could tell you, that the lady was your Mitzi. However, there is another thing which coincides with your account. Notthat they called themselvesDorfffrom the Archduke'snom de plume, I do not mean that, I mean another thing.

"On the ninth or tenth day after their arrival they came home rather early and at once retired to their apartment. Shortly afterwards George, my head waiter, came hurriedly into my private room, where I was working, and informed me that they were quarrelling—but so violently that I had better come. I am sorry, P. C., to have to show you an ugly side of an otherwise honourable trade, but eaves-dropping is sometimes necessary to an innkeeper. So I went and listened. At first I could hardly understand what they were saying, for although I speak German as perfectly as six other languages, I could not immediately make out their peculiar Viennese accent. Soon, however, I grew accustomed to it. The quarrel was apparently about money matters. Quarrels between couples in hotels generally are. But after a while the object of the dispute seemed to shift, they grew louder and then fainter again. Through the door of the next room, where I was listening, I could hear one of the two people excitedlyopening a trunk and searching for something. Then I heard the woman say distinctly in an irritated voice:

'So your father took the papers?'

And the man answered:

'He did.'

'He stole the score ofGriseldis? How did he do it?'

'He had only to step into your apartment, which a locksmith had opened for him. He knew the room, he knew the very drawer where the manuscript was kept, and he took it.'

"There came several questions from the woman which I don't remember, evidently asking how the Archduke had prepared the whole affair.

'He had obtained an engagement for your father,' explained the man, 'to play a concerto in Prague. He knew that this would cause him to be absent for three days. You had told Augusta that in such cases your maid used to ask you for a holiday, and my father had learned this detail by chance from Augusta. There was but one more difficulty: to remove you.'

"For a minute or so they both keptsilent; then suddenly the woman cried fiercely:

'You sent me that wire!'

'I obeyed my father's orders,' answered the man.

'And for a full year you let me be suspected of being a thief ... protesting all the while that you loved me?'

'I do love you ... and I regret....'

'Ah! you regret, you scoundrel! And to show your regret you spoiled my life as your father had spoiled my father's work? Scoundrel, scoundrel, scoundrel!'

"I heard the man laugh, a cold, cruel laugh.

'No!' she went on, 'you do not regret, but I will teach you to repent!...'

"The next second I heard a report. George and I broke in the door. She had shot him through the left arm. I am afraid, P. C., that you have never seen her look as beautiful as I have.

"What more can I say? The next day the affair was in the papers. I hoped it would be an advertisement for the 'Grand-duke's hotel.' It would perhaps have been one for a bigger place or one that had beenbetter known. As it was, it finished my business. Three months later I was ruined. You may believe me, P. C., that my wish to be revenged on that scoundrel is as strong as yours."

"And Mitzi?" I ask.

"Mitzi was arrested. But after three days, as the gentleman had left the country, she was restored to liberty. He had gone away with all their luggage, and she possessed nothing except a few jewels, which she pawned. The proceeds did not suffice to pay her journey home, not to speak of her bill, for she had remained several weeks in Paris, hoping to find an engagement, a hope in which she failed. Finally I had to give her a few francs in order to help her to return to her country."

There, Mr. Reader, is what Charles Young tells me. It leads you exactly to the point—namely, Mitzi's coming home—where I had left you.

Now, this is not all I have to report of yesterday's memorable evening. I am sure you wish to know all about the night expedition of your four friends. You shall have what you want.

There is to the north-east of our trench a little wood. The colonel wanted to know what was in that wood, whether it was fortified and how. Our aeroplanes had been unable to give any information, nor had our listening posts achieved any result. So there was but one way: by scouting.

Well, as soon as night had come we crawled out of our trench, armed to the teeth, and after an hour's crawling we reached the edge of the forest. To say that it was an easy job would be an unnecessary exaggeration, for there were German search-lights unceasingly licking the ground. Yet there was always time when we saw the lights creeping nearer, to lie still for an instant and to pretend that we were corpses.

"Can't you see," said Pringle once quite aloud, as the ray was just resting on his body, "that I'm dead? What's the use of your lights having glasses?"

Charlie began to laugh, so that if the beam by any chance had touched him, he would certainly have been detected.

"Mind you," said I, "the blooming thing is wavering."

"La donna è mobile," sang Charliesoftly and added: "It's Hun-steady."

"Shut up, Sergeant," said Pringle, "it's foolish to joke now."

"Hun-reasonable, you mean. Let's go on."

"The ray is still too near," warned Guncotton. "It is premature to move."

"Hun-timely?" corrected Charley. "Perhaps; well, we have plenty of time."

"Oh Sergeant, don't be cruel!"

"Do you really think me Hun-merciful? It seems that my puns are Hun-successful...."

And so it went on for a time, while we lay motionless under the rays of the search-light. Yet the Sergeant did not cease thinking of anything else than words beginning with an optional Hun.

But when we were inside the wood our real business began. It consisted in reaching a certain spot where in all probability a small detachment of Germans was posted, for it was a naturally sheltered part. Should no Germans be there, then we were to come back and if possible our troops were to occupy it during the same night.

We had been walking silently when the Sergeant suddenly stopped.

"They are here," he whispered.

"What are we to do?" I inquired.

"We have orders in case of no Germans are there," said Guncotton. "But if there are some?"

"I think it's clear," declared the Sergeant. "Either kill them, or take them prisoners."

From a spot at a distance of about a hundred yards there came the buzzing murmur of many voices, conversing probably in a peaceful manner.

"They are too many to kill," said Guncotton.

"But not to take prisoners."

And Charlie at once invented a plan of attack.

Accordingly we began talking gently at first, then louder and louder, until we shouted all four for all we were worth. Finally Charlie in his strongest voice gave some orders, which Pringle repeated different times, sometimes at a higher pitch, sometimes at a lower, and always a little fainter. He is a ventriloquist, you know. While he was doing this, Charlie and I rushed forwards on to the Germans who were in thegreatest disorder, having been taken entirely by surprise.

"Surrender," cried we both.

There were two German officers who advanced. We explained to them that as we were eight hundred they had better give in. All this time Pringle was going on with his orders, given in ever so many voices, which seemed to come from different directions. And suddenly Guncotton produced his will-o-the-wisp trick, which completed the illusion. He was causing lights to appear to the right and the left, so that our Germans (they were forty) seemed entirely surrounded.

The success was complete, and an hour later we were bringing in our bag of officers and men. Only ... by some sort of a miracle the men's figures had grown. They were ninety now.

"This time I have got my commission," said Charlie to me as we entered our trenches.

But somehow, in our excitement, instead of returning to our own quarters, we had taken a wrong direction, and we arrived at a part distant from ours by more than twomiles. Still, you may imagine, whether we were well received.

The colonel on duty congratulated us and asked for our names. To my utter surprise Charlie gave his as ... Friedrich Wilhelm Young.

As we marched away through the communication trenches, cheery and mirthful, I asked Charlie why he had given this name.

"I did not," he said.

"You did."

"Never."

"You did," asserted Pringle and Cotton.

"You are spinning me a yarn."

"We are not," we declared unanimously, "you gave your name as Friedrich Wilhelm Young."

He remained silent, absolutely cast down. Never have I seen a man so overcome as poor Charlie was that minute. At last he said:

"Well, that's done it. I must have been too excited. Farewell, my commission! We'll drink that bottle of champagne to-morrow."

And we shall. At last!

Once more I open these sheets, which I have had to neglect for four full mouths. And you will be surprised, my dear friends, who have escorted me to Austria and France, to hear that I am no longer writing this in the trenches, but in Belsize Park.

I suppose I must tell you all. FollowingMajorYoung's advice, I will begin by the beginning. In fact, I have already begun by informing you in one single word that Charlie—he will always remain Charlie for me—has at last met with success. Bad luck evidently ceased to exist from the moment when we emptied that bottle of champagne. On being questioned about his real name he made a clear breast of the whole story of his identity; and thus, what had not brought Sergeant Charles Young a commission, has finally brought Captain Friedrich Wilhelm Young a promotion.

That occurred on the last day of June. On the first of July, 1916, the great attack began. I am not going to describe that big affair. It has provided so much copy to professional writers that a poor amateurlike me has no more chance. But how we rushed out of the trenches! Poor Cotton—on that very morning, an hour before the action began, he had received news from the Royal Society of Chemists that they were to publish his treatise at their expense, and he had said to me with an elated expression:

"Now I can die calmly: I know that I will not die altogether."

Poor Cotton was perhaps the first to be killed.

As for me I find it absolutely impossible to tell you what I did. You know that feeling: When you wake up in the morning you remember sometimes that you have been dreaming, but cannot recall the slightest detail. It even happens that while asleep you intend to remember a certain detail of your dream; yet, in the morning it is clean forgotten.

I cannot say how long I remained in that fight, two, four, six hours, or more perhaps. The only thing I recollect is a feeling of infinite comfort when I woke up, and how it gave way instantly to an unbearable agony in my right foot. I was lying in a bed, and the bed was in a large tent with many others.Dazed as I was, I realized that I must have been wounded, but I felt too tired to think, or even to keep my eyes open.

A soft hand stroked my brow lightly and a gentle voice said a few words. I opened my eyes again. A nurse was standing there, with two surgeons. They uncovered me and undid the bandage which was hiding my foot. Then one of the men said to me:

"You are a courageous man. You will not be afraid of a little operation?"

"It can't hurt more than it does now.'

"It won't hurt at all."

"Then go ahead, sir, what is it?"

"Nothing much. We think, my friend and I, that you have one foot too many."

I reflected one moment. This was rather unpleasant. But what could I do but put a cheerful face on an ugly matter? So I said:

"Right you are, but don't make a mistake."

"What d'you mean?" asked the surgeon.

"You might cut off the sound foot, by mistake."

"All right," said he smiling. "That's the spirit we want. We will do it in a couple of hours. Try to sleep in the meantime."

The next time you have an opportunity, Mr. Reader, you make an effort to sleep with such a prospect before you. A cripple; I would be a cripple. What would life be in future? It is not such a very easy thing to stand on two feet, but on one! You must be a virtuoso for that ... or an acrobat. Anyhow I would be out of the ghastly business. For I may tell it now, it was hellish, altogether.

But at last, it was over for me. I had done my bit.—Done my bit—Done my bit.—And I repeated twenty, fifty, a hundred times that "Done my bit" like an engine that says the same thing unceasingly. Yes, I would go home, back to Blighty. Done my bit.—Done my bit.—What would dad say? Poor dad! He would feel it more than I. He would tremble when he saw my name in the casualty list. And he would cry and be proud that I had done my bit.—Done my bit.—Done my bit.—And then he would buy an artificial foot for me, the best he couldfind. In fact he did, and I am not so much to be pitied as you may think. Really not. And the mater ... she would scold me, no doubt. In fact, she did it too:

"My poor Patrick," was her first word, "how can one be such an awkward bungler? What did you do with your foot?"

"I apologize, mother," I answered, "I have mislaid it. I must have left it in France. Do you want me to go back and fetch it?"

Thus, you see, I could not sleep during these two hours, as I had been told to.

Suddenly, as I was lying there, I heard a voice, a very faint voice to my right, calling me:

"Mr. Cooper!"

Slowly I turned my head. I could not turn anything else. And there, by my side, lay pallid, cadaverous, Franz von Heidenbrunn.

"What are you doing here?" I asked.

"I?—I am dying."

A pause.

"But how did you come here? Why are you not on the Austrian front?"

Very slowly the answer came:

"I became a deserter, when I eloped with Mitzi. I never returned to Austria. I served with the Germans."

He was very weak, I could hardly hear his words. And I, too, felt so feeble that I was scarcely able to speak.

After a while he began again:

"You know that old Hammer died?"

"Poor Hammer," I said. "And Doblana?"

"I don't know."

There was another silence. How exhausted he looked! And I had sworn that I would avenge myself on him.

"Giulay is married," he whispered.

Evidently he wanted to speak about my Viennese acquaintances. But what could it matter to me whether Giulay was married? Was it to Fanny? I wondered. The answer to my mute question came soon.

"To Mitzi."

Giulay and Mitzi! So they had both been satisfied with remnants ... he with what Franz, and she with what Fanny had left. Such was the end of my Austrian Love.

Again there was a silence. Longer, deeper than before. His breath was difficult,already rattling in his throat. But after a while he seemed once more to find a little strength.

"Can't you forgive me?" he asked at last.

"I do forgive you, with all my heart."

He became calm, and it seemed to me as if a dim smile was passing over his features.

He died the same night.

Three or four weeks went by. I was doing splendidly, as people say whose feet have not been amputated. I had been removed to another tent where there were only men who had behaved well, like me for instance, and who could be allowed to read, to smoke, to chat. Don't you believe that it was a sorry company. There was not one complete specimen of the species man. But we bore our lot cheerfully.

To say the truth I had not, for years, felt so pleased, so satisfied. The nightmare was over. When I recollected the years between my flight from Vienna until the outbreak of the war, and then the terrible months in Gallipoli and in France, I regarded my present situation as perfect bliss. Perhaps also had I freed myself, bywriting my story, from the ever torturing memory of her, whom I have called my Austrian Love. For the first time Life was smiling again.... Life and Music. I may as well tell you that since I have returned home I have begun writing a symphonic poem. I hope you will come one day and applaud it. I found its themes while I was in that cheerful hospital. I found something else, too.

You know, of course, that in the hospitals kind people are always providing poor devils like me with all sorts of entertainments. If there was a proof necessary to show that music is not only an expensive noise, (what of a bombardment, then?) you have only to make inquiries about the number of concerts given to the wounded. Singers, pianists, violinists, unknown and famous, come to brighten our time of convalescence.

Such a party, one day, visited our hospital. The names were not celebrated ones, but we did not mind. The renowned artists were not always those we liked best.

There was first a man who played the violin. I remember it was Godard'sBerceuse de Jocelyn. Then a baritone, whosang popular ballads. He had a beautiful voice and I should have liked to see his face. But I was still in bed and not allowed to move; and from where I was I could only hear, but not see the performers.

And then the piano attacked sounds familiar to me. And a feminine voice began:

"My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here...."

Good God! What was that?

Mitzi?

Had her voice changed so much? Had she used her Italianized name to sneak into this country? She alone knew that song.... And yet....

I tried to sit up, in spite of the doctor's orders. But a nurse, who, as I discovered later on, had special instructions, noticed me and came nearer.

"You are not to move, you know," she said smiling.

"Oh let me!" I begged.

"No, no, no!"

The song was over and the men applauded.

All of them, except one, Patrick Cooper.

And the voice began again:

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

This is my own, my native land!..."

That could not be Mitzi!... she had always been unable to sing that song.

"Whose heart hath ne'er within him burn'd,As home his footsteps he hath turn'd,

From wandering on a foreign strand!..."

The voice seemed to come nearer.—Yes! the singer had left the platform....

"If such there breathe, go, mark him well...."

Now she appeared.

"Bean!" I cried.

And we are to be married to-morrow.

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