Part 10

I asked Mitzi to call Fanny and to be present at the interview I wished to have with the maid. Mitzi, of course, laughed at my seriousness, but summoned the girl, who came, smiling and plump as always.

"Fanny," I began, "do you remember, when we first investigated the affair of _Fräulein's_ visit to Salzburg, that you said, you knew that it was then a month since Mr. Giulay had left Vienna even for half a day?"

Fanny did not answer.

"Surely you remember?" I asked again.

"Perhaps," she said.

"And I wanted to know," said Mitzi, "_how_ you knew this?"

"Exactly," said I, and turning again to Fanny, "And what did you answer?" I inquired.

Again the girl remained silent.

"You said," I went on, "that you had made friends with the cook of Mrs. Giulay."

"I did not," declared Fanny instantly.

"How can you say so?" cried Mitzi. "I distinctly remember that you did."

Fanny insisted on her denial. I remained for a moment impressively silent.

"And what if I did?" finally demanded the servant who by now had ceased smiling.

"Oh, that is very simple," I declared, "Mrs. Giulay has no cook."

"She had one at that time."

"No. She has had no cook, nor other servant, for thirty-five years."

Fanny seemed smitten with uneasiness, and I went on:

"Well, as you did not learn what you stated from that imaginary cook, who then did you learn it from?"

"I do not remember the whole affair," she returned doggedly.

I made a beautiful gesture with my hand and turned to Mitzi.

"A short time before I went to England I found out what had so much upset your father. Your visit to Salzburg had been used for foul play; during your absence your father's score of _Griseldis_ had been stolen."

"What?" cried both women.

"It is so," I continued. "Mr. Doblana suspects that it was stolen with _Fräulein_ Mitzi's support. This, and the desire of the Archduke that no fuss should be made in which his name would necessarily be involved has prevented police inquiries. But I do not share Mr. Doblana's opinion. I thought and, of course, still think, that _Fräulein_ Mitzi is absolutely innocent. I believed then that the Salzburg wire had been sent by the Comtesse Augusta...."

"Oh!" cried Mitzi.

"I believed so until yesterday. I apologize now; my suspicion was evidently erroneous. I also thought that for some unknown reason Mr. Giulay had stolen the score...."

"Oh!" exclaimed Mitzi again.

And Fanny protested vigorously:

"It is not true!"

"In this part," I declared, "I feel unable to give in. My proof is that Fanny tried to protect Mr. Giulay by telling us that story of the cook, and again tries to shield him now."

"What else?" asked Fanny ironically.

"Fanny and Giulay," I concluded triumphantly, "acted in agreement. Fanny was in Giulay's service, was his accomplice. Her leave had begun on the Friday morning. She went at once to Salzburg from where she sent the wire. There is a train leaving Vienna at ten o'clock which arrives at three in Salzburg. _Fräulein_ received the wire at about five. It fits to a nicety."

"It is not true!" cried the maid again, bursting into tears.

"Then why," prompted I, "why did you tell that story of the cook? Why did you declare that you knew that it was a month since Mr. Giulay had left Vienna even for half a day?"

She sniffed.

"Fanny," said Mitzi gently, "you have always been a good girl. Why did you tell these lies?"

Fanny sniffed more. With her nose, with her mouth, with all her throat. If it had been possible she would have sniffed with her ears. But there came no reply.

"Fanny," repeated Mitzi, "you see that appearances are all against you."

A paroxysm of sniffing answered, while the girl assented with her head, and her tears redoubled. Who would have thought she had so much water in her?[2]

"You must tell us the truth," insisted Mitzi. "You will understand that by your silence you only strengthen the suspicion which lies upon you."

There was a pause. And then, suddenly, Fanny turned upon me with clenched fists, her wet face purple with rage. She trembled with anger.

"What did I do to you," she said with a cry of exasperation, "that you should come and wrong me so? I am no thief, nor is Mr. Giulay. He has not taken the music, nor have I sent the wire ..."

"But, Fanny," interrupted Mitzi.

"No _Fräulein_, it's no use ... you won't prove anything. The young gentleman wants to know the truth. Well, I will say the truth: I used to walk out with Mr. Giulay ..."

Mitzi and I were speechless at this revelation.

"... and during these three days we were on the Semmering[3] together and didn't leave each other for a minute. That's all. And now, _Fräulein_ will be good enough to take my notice."

With these words Fanny left the room. And then another tempest burst. This time I was the victim. I will not give you many details. But you may imagine Mitzi's state of mind. She had in one minute, as the result of Fanny's confession, lost a good maid who had faithfully served her for six years, and seen her belief in her esteemed friend Giulay ruined, Giulay, who was carrying on a love affair with such a low class girl. And all that through me, without my having even succeeded in finding a solution for "The Mystery of the Griseldis score."

I will add here that Fanny informed her fancy gentleman of the whole discussion, and how I had suspected her and him. You will not be surprised to hear that the theatrical agent's interest in me and my work disappeared there and then, and that he did not undertake one more step for me.

But this is only a secondary matter. For the present the avalanche of reproaches that fell on me was quite sufficient. A regular scene took place between Mitzi and her detective-composer. (For wasn't I a student in both these callings, of which I can only say that either is the worse?)

You, who have been kind enough to read these confessions, you know that I gave my inmost heart to the composition of my _Lady Macbeth_, and you will learn only too soon how I fared. So much for the composer. Now for the detective. You also know with what care I investigated "The Mystery of the Griseldis score," how patiently I waited and kept my suspicions for myself as long as I was not sure. If in the end I was deceived by appearances, if I made a blunder, was it my fault? What business had Fanny to walk out with Giulay, and Mitzi to embark upon an operatic career against the wish of her father?

Well, we were very busy, Mitzi saying nasty things to me, and I trying to soften her, when we heard Mr. Doblana's key turning in the lock. He was coming home from his rehearsal. Then we perceived the noise of a smaller key. He was opening the letter box. And after a minute he walked in, finding us seated in two opposite corners of the room, as far as possible from each other--Mitzi looking sullen--I meek.

And he? Gracious me, what a sour face he made. He walked up and down for a minute or so, and if there had been on our part the slightest wish to talk, we would not have dared to do it, so cheerful did he look.

At last he mumbled a few words about treachery, respect due by the children and so on, and after these short preliminaries the storm, the third one of the day, broke forth. He had just received a letter from the manager of the Brünn municipal theatre. Miss Doblana not being of age, her father was required to endorse the contract.

My word, he was in a rage. No!--he was not going to give his consent to such utter folly. He was indignant at being deceived in this way.

"Have I not a thousand times expressed my wish that you should not go on the stage?"

"Oh," answered Mitzi sweetly, "you have certainly done it more than a thousand times. But I have failed to understand why."

"Is the example of your unhappy aunt, of La Carina, not enough?"

"My mother, too, was an operatic singer."

"I do not speak of your mother, I speak of your aunt."

"Well, what of her?"

"Was her's not a life of shame?"

"I feel unable to see it in that light."

"Was your mother not ashamed of her? Did she not for years hide from me the mere existence of your aunt Kathi, of La Carina? Was I not cheated by your mother every day exactly as I have now been cheated once more by you? And what for? I ask you, what for? Do you think that every she-cat that walks miaowing over the boards will find an Archduke?"

I thought that it was time for me to step into the battle.

"Mr. Doblana," I declared, "Mitzi is to sing _Lady Macbeth_ in my opera."

"Mr. Cooper," he returned sharply, "Mitzi will do nothing of the sort."

"You forget that all has been arranged with the manager of the theatre."

"I forget? Really? Do I? What a bad memory I have. It is true. I forget. I even forget that I was consulted on behalf of my daughter. No, Mr. Cooper, I know Mitzi better than you do, better than anybody does, and I forbid her to go on the stage. She has not the moral force of her mother. She is as weak as her aunt was."

Mitzi had turned her back to us and was drumming on the window panes. I admired her once more--I cannot sufficiently repeat how pretty she was from ... behind, too.

"And, Mr. Doblana, if I beg of you to let her sing the _Lady Macbeth_, which I have written especially for her, if I beseech you to permit it?"

"I will say no. You would be the first to repent it. Mitzi has no moral strength. A girl who supports her father's enemies."

Mitzi turned sharply round.

"Father!" she protested in a husky voice, "I know that I owe you respect. But such calumny cannot be allowed."

"Be quiet, Mitzi," I said gently, "let me do the talking."

And turning to Doblana I declared so firmly that I hardly recognized my own voice:

"Either you will give your consent to Mitzi singing _Lady Macbeth_, or I will marry her within a month, even against your will if it must be, and I will then be the one master to decide whether she may or may not go on the stage."

My unexpected vigour had a double effect. Doblana gave in, and Mitzi became reconciled with me. I may even say that she never before had loved me so well as she did after that third thunderstorm. And she gave me of her own free will a photograph of hers for which I had long begged in vain.

While she still held it in her hand she asked me:

"So, when we will be married, you will be my absolute master?"

"Yes, Mitzi."

"I will be your property, your thing, all yours?"

"Yes, Mitzi."

"And you?"

"Am I not yours already?"

She kissed me. Then she took the photo, and wrote across it: "_Meinem_ Patrick, _seine_ Mitzi"--"To _my_ Patrick, _his_ Mitzi."

* * * * *

Sergeant Young, who pursues the story of my Austrian love with the greatest interest asks me:

"Have you still got that photo?"

"I have."

"Would it not make a good frontispiece for your book if ever it is printed?"

"A frontispiece?"

Of course, I am greatly surprised at this question. When an author, even if he is a former composer and at present a Lance-Corporal, writes a book he does not think of such paltry things as the frontispiece. And then--it is quite bad enough to show to an inquisitive reader my heart, or whatever name you like to give to that organ.... But her face!... Mitzi's face?...

You see, something curious has happened. When I started writing this I was still in the power of Mitzi's charm. Slowly I have been made to feel that I am setting myself free from it. I write the whole adventure off my heart, with all its joys and all its sorrows. Yet I cannot make up my mind to give away her features. But, if really these pages one day do appear in print, and if you find Mitzi's photo reproduced as the frontispiece--then, affectionate reader, you will know that writing my story has cured me altogether, completely.

In the meantime the Sergeant wants to see the photo. So I visit my kit bag. Therein is a parcel. All it contains is three photos and ... I may as well tell you, as you know all about it ... the stalks of those roses Bean gave me so long ago. The three photos are Pa, Ma, and Mitzi. (I hope you did not expect them to be Messrs. Hammer, Doblana and Giulay.)

The three photos are well wrapped first in some tissue paper, then in a considerable amount of strong brown paper, and finally in a sheet of oil cloth. Thus they have been able to stand the fatigues of war.

I show the Sergeant first the face of Daniel Cooper, and then that of the mater. He remains rather indifferent, but says politely:

"They seem to be nice people."

The stalks of Bean's roses, I show him not.

But I uncover Mitzi' s likeness.

Charlie looks at it and frowns. After a while he gives it back to me.

"Well?" I ask.

He does not reply. But suddenly he gets up.

"You'll excuse me," he says.

And he goes.

What's the matter now?

X.

I cannot conceive anything so fascinating in an operatic composer's life as the rehearsals of a new work of his. When he first hears in reality the tunes, the harmonies, the combinations of sounds which he had up to that moment heard only in his fancy, a profound terror overcomes him. The positive, actual achievements of the singers and the orchestra are so far from the ideal abstractions his fancy had supposed. Can it be possible that this shapeless noise should represent his score? The melodies are hardly recognizable, erroneous intentions of the singers deteriorate the musical sense, wrong notes hurt the poor composer's ears. But by and by the whole thing improves. Mistakes are corrected, the meanings of musical phrases are explained and the distress of the unhappy man vanishes.

I will not tell you the alarm, the consternation of Patrick Cooper when, at the beginning of the rehearsals, his masterpiece--for secretly, in the inmost recess of his heart, he considered _Lady Macbeth_ as a masterpiece--appeared to him to be not only disorganized, but thoroughly rotten.

"Oh!" cried he silently, and his sufferings were all the more formidable as his vociferations were so very silent, "oh, why did I disobey my good mother? Why did I not follow the ideal career of an insurance broker? Why did I not foresee these shocking experiences? It is all horrible, appalling, awful!"

But later, when the aspect began to change, when the figures I had created took form, when the howlings, the shrieks, the screams became music, when I ceased shuddering and quaking as the hours of rehearsal approached--my confidence came back. I even surprised myself listening with pleasure to my music, and distinctly remember having thought at least at three occasions:

"Patrick, my dear, you are a splendid fellow after all. You ought not to have been so much impressed by the first seemingly helpless trials of all these good people. How all has improved! There are few living composers, if any, able to conceive and to write such a score. And to think that the crowds will come and listen and applaud. But will they understand? Is the crowd sufficiently educated to appreciate my work? Do I not stain the beautiful conception of my fancy by submitting it to the crude judgment of the crowd? Still, a crowd it will be; they will come and listen and applaud. The theatre contains room for fifteen hundred people. There are about one hundred and fifty seats so bad that nobody will take them, but the remaining thirteen hundred and fifty will be occupied at every performance. Now, how many people will come and listen and applaud? Be modest, Patrick, old boy. Say twenty-five performances at an audience each of thirteen hundred and fifty. Makes?... makes?..."

I never knew, for I am bad at figures.

Altogether I was in high spirits, smiling like Sergeant Young before a battle. By the way, I do not know what has happened to Sergeant Young. He has seemed sulky since the other day, when he left me so abruptly. It pains me, for he is my particular chum. And save what is needed to carry on he does not utter a single word to me.

But I must not let myself go into a diversion; I was speaking not of Sergeant Young but of myself and of my high spirits. Yet you must not believe that I was happy. I have already stated that I was altogether happy only during our performance in front of Schubert. That sentiment of perfect felicity never came back. And now, during the rehearsals of _Lady Macbeth_ I was bitten by that "green-eyed monster, which doth mock the meat it feeds on": jealousy.

As I am quoting _Othello_ I may as well say that the Cassio in my case was the pretty Lieutenant Franz von Heidenbrunn. I suppose that you have seen it coming a long time ago, and I have only to record how the green-eyed monster was hatched. No Jago was necessary for me, nor was there any handkerchief required.

The regiment in which the pretty officer held his high rank had been shifted from Salzburg to Brünn. This was a coincidence, and you will see a very unfortunate one for me.

Every morning, when there was a rehearsal, I went from Vienna to Brünn by the eight o'clock train which makes the journey in a little over an hour. I used to meet Mitzi at the Viennese Northern Station, and we travelled together, which rendered that hour as short as it was delightful. Rehearsals in Austria as in Germany begin at ten, and last from three to four hours. Afterwards we had lunch and then we returned by one of the numerous afternoon trains to Vienna.

Perhaps you wonder why I did not prefer to take up my quarters altogether in Brünn. Well, first there was that double journey which I would have lost, as well as the always pleasant company of my _fiancée_. And in the second place there was Brünn.

This town boasts of being the Austrian Birmingham. I will not hurt the feelings of my Birmingham readers, some of whom find their large and busy city a fine and charming place. If I don't share their taste entirely, it matters little. But Brünn! Brünn with its one inhabitant to Birmingham's ten! Brünn with its wide and empty roads in the new town, and with its narrow and crooked streets in the old one! Brünn with its one and only beautiful building: the Jewish synagogue, and its one and only curiosity: the lunatic asylum! Brünn with its population of manufacturers--most worthy people no doubt, but with an interest only in buttons, hooks and eyes, pins, steel pins, cotton spinning and other kinds of engineering--Brünn was no place for me to enjoy myself in the least.

Nor was it any better for Franz von Heidenbrunn and his sister Augusta, who were both all the more bored with the place as the strict military regulations did not allow the lieutenant to spend even an occasional evening in Vienna. Their gratification at meeting Mitzi several times a week may easily be imagined. I will only say that when Mitzi and I lunched at the Grand Hotel, which is situated quite near the theatre, covers were generally laid for four. Of course, I was always allotted the Countess Augusta, who proved a rather insignificant girl, by whose side I remained unfathomably calm, while Mitzi seemed to enjoy the nuttish and, let me say it, silly conversation of her partner, which is, I believe, a privilege of most lieutenants in Austria. I have, now, an idea that the talk was also carried on under the table--what do we keep feet for when dining?--but I was too well brought up by Daniel Cooper & Co. to investigate the nether world.

Slowly the poison entered my blood. "Trifles light as air are to the jealous confirmation strong." And soon I found myself burning as by "the mines of sulphur." (How good of Shakespeare to have provided me with all the terms necessary to describe my feelings.)

Had Mitzi been only my _fiancée_, I dare say that I would have put a rapid end to the matter. But she was also my _Lady Macbeth_ in formation, and this could not be forgotten even for one moment. So I had to endure my secret sufferings. Besides, I must say, Mitzi was never as sweet to me as during these days. Full of hope and confidence, she always comforted and cheered me when I was disheartened, which happened more than once. Poor Doblana, who on his side was busy rehearsing _Aladdin_, had no such solace from her when he was dejected as, I am sure, most composers are every other day. Our respective works were to be performed nearly at the same time, _Aladdin_ only about ten days after _Lady Macbeth_.

At last the morning of the great day arrived. I must have given you a very wrong impression of Daniel Cooper if you do not know that he arrived the day before with mater. They were very pleased with Mitzi, although not a word was said about our betrothal. And Daniel Cooper was greatly amused by being called the "great Mr. Cooper" by Doblana. It was on this occasion only that I found out that the good horn-player, who knew but few things save what belonged to horns and ballets, mixing up Insurance and Cooperation, had, when I first told him about my father's trade, thought that Daniel Cooper was the originator of Cooperative Societies.

What Dad spent on that memorable evening wants a special historian. I do not speak of his innumerable tips, nor of a basket of flowers which had to be transported to Brünn by the first Viennese florist in a specially hired motor lorry. I speak of such unexpected things as, for instance, a magnificent set of diamonds he presented to my mother in remembrance of my coming triumph. Needless to say that mater, on his special order, was attired like a queen, and that Dad himself had a new dress suit; an old one would never have been judged worthy by him of listening to Patrick Cooper's music.

The house was not very full. Besides the one hundred and fifty seats which I had judged to be too bad, there were about another three hundred unoccupied, a fact which totally upset my unfinished calculations. However, it is well-known that in German and Austrian provincial towns first nights are not well attended, the general public being rather mistrustful. But all my friends of the Round Table and other acquaintances were present, and they did their _hand_ work well. There was first--honour to whom honour is due--the _Herr Graf_, then old Hammer, on whose account I had been obliged to invent a special scheme so as to make him accept a railway ticket, for he would not have been able to come otherwise without imposing great privations upon himself, Doctor Bernheim, and even Giulay with his mother. Of course, Doblana had made himself free in order to ascertain whether Miss Amizia Dobanelli was really the she-cat that walked miaowing over the boards. And he must have been deceived if he expected such a thing, for hers was an unparallelled triumph.

Quite a lot of theatrical managers, from that of the Vienna Opera downwards, had been invited, but only one, that of the Graz municipal theatre had come.

The performance was good, as performances in Germany and even more in Austria generally are. I am not afraid to state that a third-rate theatre, as, for instance, that of Brünn, would be ashamed of most of our conventional society performances at the Royal Theatre Covent Garden, in spite of all the stars. Confound the stars, who can never be brought to a complete, harmonious agreement, who sing their parts each for his or her own sake, and never think for one moment of the work and its meaning.

From what I have told already, you may have conjectured how very necessary such harmonious ensemble playing was in my _Lady Macbeth_. It was not a loud opera, and I could expect that the critics would not reproach me with being too noisy in my orchestration. Indeed, it was found too soft by those gentlemen, who never are satisfied. They did not understand that this softness was required for the general atmosphere of my opera.

The chief difficulty had been with the baritone Hetmann, who sang _Macbeth_. I had great trouble in explaining him why he was never to give full voice during the whole evening.