Part 1

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MY AUSTRIAN LOVE

* * * * * *

By the same Author:

MONTOREL

_The Story of a Coincidence._

_The Times_: "A highly romantic tale, well knit and well told."

_The Daily Graphic_: "A unique achievement."

_The Athenæum_: "An excellent story."

_The Globe_: "A literary _tour de force_."

_Birmingham Mercury_: "A masterly work."

_Birmingham Gazette_: "Wonderful."

_Glasgow Herald_: "Freshly written, deliciously holding our attention throughout."

etc., etc., etc.

No Lover of Fiction can Afford to miss Reading "MONTOREL."

* * * * * *

MY AUSTRIAN LOVE

The History of the Adventures of an English Composer in Vienna

Written in the Trenches by Himself

by

MAXIME PROVOST

(Author of "Montorel.")

London: The Iris Publishing Co. 30-31 Furnival Street, E.C. 4.

_Many of the personages are genuine. Maurus Giulay, for instance, whose initials I have kept, and Bischoff. As for Hammer, I think that musicians will easily recognize Anton Bruckner, the famous antagonist of Brahms._

_What more have I to say?_

_Not much.--Only to ask my readers to be as indulgent towards_ "MY AUSTRIAN LOVE" _as they were towards_ "MONTOREL."

_M.P._ (_Does not mean Member of Parliament._)

CONTENTS

PAGE

INTRODUCTION 7

I 10

II 26

III 45

IV 72

V 97

VI 128

VII 152

VIII 173

IX 198

X 228

XI 252

XII 278

INTRODUCTION.

Exactly in the middle of the railway bridge by which the Salzach is spanned Bavarian territory ceases and Austria begins. I knew that; but I was much less impressed by this probably interesting fact (for, why on earth would one have taken so much care to inform me, if it were not interesting?) than by the singular beauty of the spot. I had just a glimpse of the two isolated hills between which the river flows, of the lovely valley thus formed, and of the lofty fortress that rises above the towers and spires of the city. In the next minute the train stopped and cries of "Salzburg, all change!" or its German equivalent, resounded.

At once my neighbour, an irascible Frenchman, who from Munich had shared the carriage with me, flew up in a rage, gesticulating, full of noise.

"It is not true," he cried, "I don't have to change!"

I muttered something like "Custom Regulations," but he went on vociferating:

"It is not true! I was told in Paris that the handbags and the other small things would be examined in the carriage, and the heavy luggage in Vienna. I refuse to get out."

He was right. I had been told the same thing in Munich, but, as an Englishman, I was wont to hold my peace. So I alighted.

In the same minute an official approached our carriage and invited the Frenchman to do as he was bid. The official was not very polite, it must be said in justice to the Parisian, but the latter clamoured at once, shaking his fists: "It was disgusting, and he was going to do as it pleased him!" Whereupon the man with the red cap introduced himself in a gruff voice as an Imperial and Royal Official and menaced his antagonist with immediate arrest. I tried to dissuade both from quarrelling, but the Frenchman was deaf to all reason.

When at last a police officer came, the nervous little man left the carriage with an explosion of wrath and stormed to the door leading into the station building. What further happened to him, I do not know, nor will the reader ever learn it. For this Frenchman had evidently been created only to set free a certain corner seat in my railway carriage.

For various reasons, a few of which will appear in this story, I will probably never return to Austria. But, gentle reader, _you_ may visit this beautiful country. Well, if you chance to travel in a first-class corridor carriage numbered P.3.33, and in the section marked C, greet the corner seats next to the window from me. Not because I sat in one of these corner seats when my story opened, nor because the other was occupied by the irascible little Frenchman, who has already stepped out of my story, but for the sake of the traveller who succeeded him and who was no less a person than the heroine of this book.

And now I will try and tell you all about it, or better, about her, supposing that the noise of the shells does not disturb me too much. For you must know that I am writing in the trenches. After all, I am used to the continuous concert, and I am not fifty yards distant from a man who is working on a chemistry treatise.

I.

I had opened my boxes and bags, and had closed them again after a customs officer's pretence at looking at the things which were inside. I wanted now to go back to my carriage, but was told that I had to pass through an adjoining room. Heaven does not know why; much less does anybody else. In that room, out of which a glass door led to the platform, I had to wait. Not many minutes, I was assured; but their quality made up for the quantity. They were hateful minutes. There I was, pasted (if I may say so) to that glass door and looking at that unreachable goal, my carriage, which was standing just in front of me.

Outside a few travellers, favoured for some unknown reason, either by the officials or by fate, were walking leisurely up and down, and I noticed amongst them a very smart officer with a tall lady. He was revolving around her with courtesies that reminded me singularly of a cock's compliments to a hen. He had a most wonderful uniform which fitted him to perfection. He had also a moustache, oh, what a moustache! It gave me an idea of how his horse must be curried. And he wore a single eye-glass, which obliged him to make the most charming grimaces. He was holding his sword by the hilt, except at such moments when he let it drag along the ground, in order to produce a graceful clinking which I could hear through my accursed glass door.

At last we were relieved and set free. I hurried to my carriage to find that the porter whom I had entrusted with my bags and valises had set them down so as to mark all the seats. I would be alone.

"Are all the seats in this section occupied?" asked a rather rattling voice behind me.

I turned round and saw my pretty officer with his lady.

"No," I answered, "I think I am alone," whereupon the lady at once entered the carriage. The officer remained outside and closed the door while she, lowering the window, leaned outside to continue her conversation. I guessed that my journey would be _en tête à tête_, and, of course, wondered whether she was young and pretty. Her companion was himself such an accomplished beauty, that I had in fact omitted to look at her. Anyhow, what I saw at present, although it was the wrong side only, the reverse of the medal, to be polite, was not at all to be despised. But when the toss was made, would the head be worthy of the tail?

At last a faint whistle was heard.

"Remember to write!" exclaimed the officer outside, while the train stirred, moved groaning forward, and slowly began rolling out of the station. For a while the lady remained leaning out of the window and waving her handkerchief. Then, at length, she sat back in her seat, the seat which the little Frenchman had occupied, and from which his temper (or was it my luck?) had removed him.

She was uncommonly pretty, although she at once assumed an elaborate air of indifference. She even pouted a little, but it only helped to show her fleshy, red lips to a better advantage. And her features were much too soft as to be spoiled by that alleged air of indifference. They were not very regular, these features, but they formed a handsome whole. And now, as a little smile crept over them, a dimple, a tiny, sweet dimple, appeared near the left corner of her mouth.

Why had she smiled? To show that dimple and her lovely teeth? Or had she been thinking of her companion? That smile--was it coquetry, or some pleasing remembrance? Or had mockery made her smile?

What was she to that officer? A sister? A wife? A mistress?

How old was she? I wished she would take off that bonnet. Bonnets deceive. This is the reason why they play such an important part in woman's life.

I did not know much about millinery, but this was rather a showy bonnet. So was the rest of the toilet. She looked like an officer's wife. Besides, had she been his sister, he would scarcely have played the cock and hen game. But then, if she was his wife, he probably would not have played it either! His had been a suitor's behaviour.

I had reached this point of my meditations when she took off her gloves, and I saw that she had no rings on her fingers. And then, as if to satisfy my wishes, she removed the bonnet. She was fair, with a copper sheen on her hair, and probably not more than twenty.

My penetration, for I thought myself pretty shrewd and sharp-sighted, constructed now rapidly the following theory: _She_ was a young gentlewoman, her tall figure being a proof of her high breed. She was well off, the showy dress and her travelling first-class confirmed it. She was nicely brought up, as became a young and noble lady, for she wore no jewellery. (In my idea wearing jewellery is inconsistent with a young lady's good education.) As for the officer, he was neither a brother, nor a husband, nor a lover, but some friend or relation, who had just accompanied her to the railway station in order to help her with her luggage, and so on.

Now, all this proves only, that I was then an inexperienced youth of 21, easy of belief, and superficial. If I tell you that I was a musician (I do not say: I _am_; I say: I _was_) you will understand my character altogether.

* * * * *

I had to interrupt my history. Our Father which is in the War Office had sent us our daily jam. I wonder whether my pretty Austrian officer, whom I first saw eight years ago at the Salzburg railway station, is still alive, and whether he has jam, too? And whether he thinks of me as I do of him, and whether he remembers that Sunday afternoon when he put her, my Austrian love, in my railway carriage?

She was sitting there, looking out of the window. It was now a quarter of an hour since we had left Salzburg, and the train had got on its even, rapid pace that it would keep up for the afternoon.

I did not dare to speak to my fair Comtesse. This was the rank which my imagination had given her. If, when travelling, you do not start a conversation at once, you generally never will. So I fretted. I had nothing to read, not even a paper. I did not want to sleep, besides, I never could sleep on a train. As for her, she hardly moved.

Thus another quarter of an hour had passed, when the conductor, opening the door of the corridor, asked for our tickets. I could not help feeling surprised when I saw the man, for he looked somewhat like a twin brother of the little Frenchman. He was of the same size, had the same black hair, the same black moustache and pointed tuft of beard on his chin. It was so striking that my English brain, brought up chiefly on detective stories, smelt at once a mystery. I could not refrain from stepping out with him on to the corridor where, in order to make certain whether the little Frenchman and the conductor were but one person, I asked him what the next stop was. He answered and began chatting. It was quite another voice and, while my Frenchman spoke German only with great difficulty, this conductor gave me an example of the volubility with which the Viennese people speak their broad, good-humoured dialect. The mystery was only chance.

"A nice girl," said the man smiling and blinking with his eyes half closed in the direction of the Comtesse.

"Where is she travelling to?" I asked.

"Vienna," he answered. And then, raising his eyes with a matchmaking expression under his black eyebrows, "I travel the whole way with you," said he. "If you will, I'll try and leave you alone with her."

I understood. My backsheesh was soon handed over, whereupon--I suppose--that high-priest of the railway church mentally pronounced the decisive words which were to unite us for the duration of our journey.

I must say, however, that this matrimonial benediction took no immediate effect. For when I returned to my seat, I still had no courage to talk to my fair _vis-à-vis_.

She had not moved and was looking with desperate equanimity at the landscape that was galloping before her eyes.

I felt silly. I often do.

Like a child, I busied myself with the window strap. It was at that moment that I noticed the small white plate affixed to the door:

+-------------+ | P. 3.33. C. | +-------------+

P. 3.33 was the number of the car, and C the number of the section. But P. C. were also the initials of my name. And, as I have not yet introduced myself to the reader, I take this opportunity of telling him (or her) that my name is Patrick Cooper, of London, son of Daniel Cooper and Co., Ltd., insurance brokers, (_and Co._ being quite a negligible quantity, while _Ltd._ is not).

I suppose that music and superstition must be of a very near relationship. Even now, although I am no longer a musician, but a Lance-Corporal (all honour to me!) my superstition survives. For instance: I am a passionate hunter of rats. Well, whenever I miss one, you may be sure that the next lot of bacon we get is bad.

Therefore it will be admitted that the discovery of my initials on the plate of the carriage door could not but fill me with a certain awe. Yet, not with awe alone! Also with curiosity. What was the meaning of 3.33?

I spent a few minutes over this highly interesting riddle, until another thought came, namely: If I were not soon to engage in conversation with the Comtesse, I should have spent my backsheesh in vain.

I looked at my watch. It was half-past three, which meant that I had already lost fifty minutes. All right! The figures 3.33 were to have a meaning. If in three minutes, at 3.33, nothing happened, _I would talk_. The weather might afford quite a suitable topic, if not new nor in any way sensational, so at least not at all offensive. I accordingly prepared myself. Two minutes.--One minute and a half.--One minute.--A half minute....

The Westinghouse brake underneath the car made itself heard with a grating, harsh shriek, there was a shock that ran through the train, and at 3.33 exactly the Comtesse was pitched from her seat into my arms, while one of my bags came to the floor and the train to a sudden halt. In the next second, however, a terrific dash made it move backwards, and we were both thrown from my seat into her's.

"What is it?" asked the fair one, after we had struggled out of our mutual embrace.

Outside many people began to cry all at once and hurried footsteps were heard.

"There is something wrong," answered I.

There was, indeed. On that particular spot the line, for some technical reason, was only single tracked, and railway smashes were therefore not altogether avoidable.

The Comtesse wanted to alight at once, but I held her back.

"What for?" I asked. "Are you not all right here? The worst is over. If there is anything to be seen, it must be most unpleasant."

She settled down again in her seat. Her fright had apparently been great, to judge from her paleness and from the way she looked, wide eyed, at me. Out of the bag which had tumbled down from the net, I took a flask of brandy and a little goblet.

"Drink this," I said, offering her a few drops.

She accepted, and then:

"How phlegmatic you English are!" said she. "Look at these people...."

The excitement outside was incredible. Strange voices were heard. Passengers and railway servants were running up and down in a most foolish and useless fashion. Two gentlemen were shouting at each other; they were in a hot discussion about what was to be done. One woman was kneeling and praying hysterically at the foot of a telegraph post which she probably was mistaking for a way-side cross. And everybody was talking, crying. It was all the more ridiculous, as there had, in fact, happened nothing of importance. Both engines and the luggage vans were badly damaged, but nobody was injured. If I want to imagine, what it means nowadays when I read: "Austrians defeated"--I have only to remember this scene of panic and disorder, and I know at once.

Nothing, so to say, had happened; but the men, having all lost their presence of mind, behaved like sheep, looking to each other, appealing for help, while most of the women were weeping, pallid, with cadaverous lips.

In England everybody would have been quiet, perhaps a little annoyed, perhaps amused, but in any case not a bit frightened. That was why the Comtesse had called me phlegmatic. I hoped that it was my calmness which had made her guess my English nationality: I was too proud of my German to suspect that my pronounciation had betrayed me.

Anyhow, the ice was broken, and we were now chatting comfortably. Slowly the excitement of the other passengers subsided and a period of silence followed. People went back into their carriages. Even the little conductor had disappeared; he was walking to the next signal-box, where he would telephone for help. The wait seemed interminable.

The Comtesse began to fidget.

"You still look a little pale," said I. "Do you feel well?"

She nodded meekly.

"But not entirely well? You feel tired? You have got a headache?"

"No, no!" she protested smilingly.

"I see. You want a little more brandy."

"No, no," she repeated.

But I was not satisfied. She seemed distressed.

"You are anxious about your luggage. Do you want me to go and see?"

"I have no luggage."

"You have no luggage?"

"No."

I was surprised. For she had brought none into the car either. Still, that was no business of mine.

"Can't I do anything for you?"

"You may tell me the time."

"It is a quarter past four."

"And since when are we here?"

I named the foreshadowed moment:

"3.33."

"Three-quarters of an hour!" she cried. "But we will arrive in Vienna at an impossible hour."

She looked alarmed.

At last, after what appeared an endless delay, but what was in reality only another half-hour, an engine arrived, and both trains tied together were drawn into the next station. There followed a lot of manoeuvring; the train which had run into our's had first to be removed, and then the two engines, of which only the wheels were still in a possible state. The luggage van was replaced and the luggage repacked. And, finally, at nearly six o'clock, we resumed our journey at a breakneck speed.

The young lady seemed rather oppressed, probably by visions of some more terrific accidents. Each time, when there was a switch, the jolting caused by transferring the carriage from one line of rails to another seemed to send a thrill of fear through her frame. Nevertheless, she proved a very willing and agreeable talker. Perhaps was she too nervous to keep silent, for I had to inform her of the time every quarter of an hour. But she did not tell me why; whether somebody was awaiting her, or whether there was some particular reason for her to dread her late arrival. Nor did I learn anything about her. She remained clad in mystery. After several hours' conversation I did not know any more of her than when I had seen her first. On the other hand, she knew all about me and, as a matter of fact, I suppose that it was I who did most of the talking. I tried thus, by showing my confidence, to win hers. But in vain.

At last we reached Vienna. We were full three hours late. As she had told me about the difficulty of getting a cab, I asked her whether I might not go and fetch her one.

"Yes! She would be pleased!"

So, having designated a certain pillar in the great hall, where she was to wait for me with my bags, I went in search of a Jehu. (I do not know whether in Vienna _Jehu_ would be an acceptable nickname, but never mind.) It was not a very easy task, and I had plenty of time to prepare myself for the three questions which I absolutely must ask her before we parted: Whether, when, and where I should see her again. I knew that in Vienna it was the fashion to kiss the hand of a lady at such a moment. And I saw myself already bending over her hand and kissing it, asking her the fateful questions.

But, when after ten minutes I came back, the fair Comtesse had gone. My bags were standing lonely near the pillar and greeted me with a mocking grin.

II.

Sergeant Young gives a few orders and then turns to me.

"I have read that first chapter of your book," he says. "For a man without any experience as a writer it is not so bad. But, of course...."

Sergeant Young, my particular chum, is the most extraordinary man of the regiment. Take a pint each of Figaro and d'Artagnan, half a pint of demigod, a spoonful each of Scotchman, Frenchman, and South African, mix well and put into khaki: You will have Sergeant Young ready for use. Since the beginning of the war he has been dreaming of a commission and, my word, nobody ever deserved one if he does not. We have been together at the Dardanelles, and what remains of our Division--although it is not much--was saved by him.

He is a funny man. You do not know whether he is rich or poor, for one day he has the manner of a _grand seigneur_ and the next day he is satisfied with a beggar's fare. You cannot guess what he is in civil life. At one moment you may take him for a broker from the Stock Exchange, at the next for an art critic, or a farmer, an innkeeper, an accountant, a horsebreaker, a historian, or a miner. We only know that he is a splendid soldier and an excellent fellow.

It is in his quality of an art critic that I have given him to read the first chapter of my book.

"You see," says he, "if I were to write a book, I would begin with the beginning."

"I do begin with the beginning," I retort, "only there are some preliminary facts which may as well be told in the course of the narrative. I like to enter _in medias res_."

"You need not swank about your Latin," he answers. "You remind me of the War Office. _They_ (he has an undescribable way of accentuating the word _they_ when he speaks of the War Office) _they_, too, like young officers to get acquainted with the 'preliminary facts in the course of the narrative'; while my opinion is: An officer must begin with the beginning. Look here, P. C., suppose you had been Holy Moses, you would have written the Bible thus: 'God created man in his own image, after having created the great whales, and even at an earlier date two great lights. I may as well tell you that before that he had said: Let there be light, and that at the very beginning he had created heaven and earth.'"

And very sternly the Sergeant adds:

"I wish to know why you were in Munich...?"

"I wanted to improve myself in the noble art of composition."