That afternoon, as I had decided, I went to the Karlsgasse, where Mr.
Doblana lived. My hotel being rather a long way from his address I
took a _fiaker_, the most graceful two-horse carriage you can imagine.
_Fiakers_ are well-known for their jolly cabbies. Was it their fame
which made me look at this one, or was it his face that attracted
me? I cannot tell, but when I did look at him, I was startled. For I
knew the man, or thought so for a moment. He was at once alike to the
irascible Frenchman whom Destiny had obliged to make room for the fair
Comtesse (see chapter one), and to the conductor who soon afterwards
had accepted a backsheesh for certain services. But he seemed a little
younger and had that special low class smartness which distinguishes
the Viennese cabman. So I concluded that after all this was only a
coincidence. Nevertheless it was extraordinary that I should see in
so short time three people having the same black hair, the same black
moustache and pointed tuft of beard on their chin, and, above all, the
same somewhat mocking expression on their features.
When I arrived in the Karlsgasse, I was still so impressed with my
cabbie, that I had a feeling, when I first saw Mr. Doblana, that he too
was greatly alike to somebody I knew. The funniest thing is that really
he did resemble someone; but at this first meeting I could not possibly
remember who it was.
I found an elderly refined man with an exceedingly sorrowful expression
in his face. This expression was increased by his speech. He pronounced
his German with a Czech accent, which makes people speak with a kind of
sad sing-song. Many Slavs always seem to talk as if they were making a
visit of condolence.
Now, Mr. Doblana was really mourning. And I had to hear with some
details the story of Mrs. Doblana, whom he had lost a year ago. She had
been first a comic-opera singer, and later had earned good money by
giving singing lessons. This made me understand how it was possible
that a horn-player, even a first horn-player at the Imperial Opera,
could afford such a fine flat. For it was, indeed, a handsome apartment.
The knowledge of its disposition, reader dear, has some importance
for the understanding of events which I will relate to you in due
course. The simplest thing would be to draw a plan of the apartment,
but, somehow, I am too proud to fight against my incapacity as a
draughtsman, and I remember that Conan Doyle always rises up to
circumstances when the question is the description of some locality.
Then, why shouldn't I?
You know that in a decently built English house you can get out from
any room direct to the hall or a landing. In Vienna it is otherwise.
The finer the apartment and the greater the number of rooms, the less
opportunity of getting out of them directly into the ante-room. The
inconvenience is really ideal.
In addition to the entrance door there were but two doors in Mr.
Doblana's hall, one leading to the front rooms, the other to the back
rooms. In front there were four. The one entered when coming from the
hall was the _salon_, to its right was situated what was destined to be
my room, where until her mother's death Miss Doblana had lived. To the
left of the _salon_ there was first the musician's room and then his
daughter's, the last of the four, which had belonged in times gone by
to Mrs. Doblana. The widower evidently had not been able to bear the
emptiness of her apartment. This was the reason why Miss Doblana now
lived there. At present she was rather unwell and confined to her room.
I would certainly be all right and have my own privacy, said Mr.
Doblana; I would have a latch-key, and through the _salon_ could get
in and out of the flat without disturbing anybody. Nor would I be
disturbed if I wanted to work. Miss Doblana had singing lessons, she
was taking them at her master's house. At home, in the drawing room,
she practised only for half an hour a day. I might dispose of the piano
all the rest of the time.
I declared that I was not much of a worker, (little did I suspect that
I was to compose in the Karlsgasse at Vienna the only score of any
importance and value which I ever have written and am likely to write).
If Mr. Doblana, whom I knew to be a distinguished composer, wanted the
piano I would certainly not drive him away.
My host, visibly flattered by the "distinguished composer," led me out
into the ante-room and from there into the back rooms of his flat.
There was a dining room and his studio, and further away the kitchen
and the maid's room.
"It is here," said Mr. Doblana, when we entered his studio, "that I
used to have my happiest hours. Here I compose, without any instrument.
It is very rare that I go to the piano and try an effect, and when I do
it at all, it is really only from laziness, or as a little relaxation."
What a difference between Doblana's snug little studio and Hammer's
poverty-stricken abode! And yet, Hammer was a genius, who played the
organ at St. Stephen's as nobody perhaps ever did, but played it
_gratis pro Deo_ (literally to understand!) He used to say: "Even old
Hammer must have some pleasure from time to time, and he gets it when
he plays at St. Stephen's; and even God, to Whom all people, including
myself, come lamenting and complaining, even God must have a little
pleasure from time to time, and He gets it too when Hammer plays at St.
Stephen's. Now, why should I accept any money? Is it for my pleasure or
for His?"
As for Doblana, the little I know I owe to him, and not to old Hammer;
but this does not in the least prevent me from recognizing the
insipidity of the pretty tunes he used to write for his ballets which
were performed at the Opera, the slight ballets at the Grand Opera, out
of which he succeeded in making quite a decent amount of money. Nor did
he play the horn for the love of God. He was a resourceful man, Anton
Doblana, he had his salaries at the Opera, at the Imperial Chapel, and
at the Conservatoire, he had his royalties, and for some time he had me.
"You will be quite well here," he assured me when I took leave, "and
mind you, I am not always such a peevish fellow as I am now. I am upset
because of a very ugly occurrence that befell me some time ago. I hope
I will forget soon."
What had happened to him, he did not tell me, and I went away, glad to
have secured quarters which seemed to be almost the ideal thing. And I
still wondered where I could have known an individual so like him that
I always had the impression of having seen Doblana before.
The next day, when I moved in, Fanny, the maid, a fair plump little
object, showed me in. She was a young chatterbox, but a friendly
one. Mr. Doblana was out, and _Fräulein_ was not visible; but she,
Fanny, would make me comfortable, which she did in fact with much
obligingness. In consequence she was tipped accordingly.
You see, I was not what one may call spoiled. Only a year before, when
I had been staying for a month with the Dickses at Bedford (Dicks
senior is an intimate friend of the senior partner of Daniel Cooper &
Co., Ltd., and has an only daughter, besides a fine estate at Bedford),
well, I was also shown in by a housemaid, but who treated me as if she
were a duchess, which perhaps she was, and who carried the hot water
for my use as if she were the Archbishop of Canterbury going to anoint
the King. (By the way: God save him and give him victory!)--Now, if
I had tipped that Midland goddess with gold, why should I not make
friends with plain Fanny on a silver basis?
Fanny kissed my hand and I felt silly. I was not yet used to the
shameless way in which Viennese people of the lower class throw
themselves on any hand they may think kissable, viz.: capable of
kissing back, the kiss of a hand being hard, round, and having a
metallic sound when you let it fall.
Anyhow, that two crown piece conquered Fanny. Parents, when reading
this, should not feel incensed because of the extravagance of their
children. An Austrian crown is worth less than a shilling, and in
stating this I do not think only of the Imperial crown.--When, an hour
later, I left to take my lesson with old Hammer, my things were in
order, and all I could do was heroically to resist my wish to tip Fanny
again when I asked her to oil my door, which was creaking badly.
You know that to go out I had to cross the _salon_. As I was halfway
through it, the door opposite mine, the one which was leading to Mr.
Doblana's room, was suddenly closed. Perhaps my opening the door of
my own room had caused a draught, Vienna being always a windy place,
and thus the opposite door had been slammed. But instinctively I felt
that there was something else. Miss Doblana, who was, may be, not so
unwell as it pleased her father to say, had had, no doubt, a fit of
curiosity and had watched me. I imagined that, her hair being adorned
with hair-curlers (I did not know then that this achievement of Western
civilisation had not yet reached oriental Vienna), she had rapidly
hidden herself from my attention.
I ought to tell you that this was quite unnecessary. There were plenty
of nice girls in Vienna whom I had leisure to look at, but somehow I
had no mind for them. Much less for a spinster who, to judge from her
father's age, was probably ten years my elder and wore hair-curlers. In
fact, I had not been able to forget my fair Comtesse of Salzburg fame;
and I lived in an unceasing hope that I might see her again.
* * * * *
A voice to my right calls my name. But there is no-one to my right. And
then a shout of laughter resounds to my left. It is Private Pringle,
who in civil life is a ventriloquist and enjoys playing such tricks.
So do we. To-day he plays beside this the part of a postman, and he
has a letter for me. It is from Daniel Cooper and consort. The consort
treats me as a naughty boy, because I write so little, and could I not
tell her some pretty story about the war? And whether I was careful and
avoided these wicked shells?
The pater wants to know whether some music paper would be welcome; I
ought to write a good military march, so that English soldiers could at
last stop playing Austrian marches.
And both of them tell me that Bean was simply dying with anxiety for
me. Bean is Violet Dicks. She hates flower names and prefers to be a
vegetable. In war time evidently vegetables have a greater value than
flowers, but she had already had this mad idea in peace time, from the
very day when her tiny brain awoke to wisdom. And yet, she is in love
with me. If she knew that I am writing the story of another girl! No,
little Bean, no! Anyhow, not yet--if ever! And so I return to Vienna.
I had made a rule of going every evening to a theatre. The theatres are
beautiful, and the performances generally excellent. This evening, the
first day of my stay at the Karlsgasse, I went to the _Burg_ theatre to
see _Macbeth_. I had arranged with Mr. Doblana that we should meet at a
certain café after the performance.
I found him there sitting at a large round table amongst his friends,
a dozen or more, who were all actors, or artists, or belonged in some
fashion to the theatrical world. One of them was an officer, but seemed
nevertheless to belong to the company. They called him "_Herr Graf_."
Doblana was sitting to his left and seemed to have kept a place next to
himself for me.
I had, on my journey to Vienna, stopped in various towns in Germany,
here for a few days, there for a few weeks, and had been introduced
to some such companies. But while in Germany women were admitted,
actresses mostly, we were only men in Vienna. This may account for
the fact that the conversation was generally much more of a serious
character. There was but one individual, a Hungarian, who with a
loud and discordant voice told funny yarns and tried to attract the
general attention. He was a theatrical agent, named Maurus Giulay, and
remarkable by the quantity of black hair which grew in his nose instead
of on his head, and by the amount of diamonds which adorned his coarse,
greasy fingers. His stomach was rather protuberant. So was a roll of
fat that protruded beyond the back of his collar. He displeased me
intensely, and I took an immediate dislike to him.
Not knowing anybody present I took no part in the conversation.
Besides, I was not acquainted with the subjects which were being
discussed. So it happened that keeping quiet, from no choice of my own,
I overheard a part of the dialogue which just was taking place between
Doblana and the _Herr Graf_.... My host was entreating his neighbour
not to take a certain matter as lightly as he did.
"After all," he said, "your share is as large as mine, so should your
interest be!"
"If it is a question of money," retorted the other, "although I don't
owe you anything, you know that you may count on any compensation from
me for the ill-luck which has befallen you."
"I know that you are always generous," answered Doblana, "and I thank
you from my heart. But it is not a question of money. Think only: the
result of a full year's work, and it has been announced to the press..."
"You know that I was always against this announcement."
"I know it and deplore it. For this is the explanation of your
indifference now. You had taken a prejudice against the thing. But
should it therefore be lost altogether?"
"Well," said the _Herr Graf_ haughtily, "I do not care, and I have
heard enough of the whole affair."
Whereupon Mr. Doblana looked very distressed and assumed an air of an
even more unspeakable sadness than that which I had noticed when I
first had seen him.
At this moment a new guest arrived, evidently a popular knight of this
Round Table, for they were all eager to shake hands with him. If he
was not King Arthur himself, he was nevertheless something very near to
this exalted personage, namely, Vienna's most celebrated actor, Alfred
Bischoff.
The table was rather full, however he managed to squeeze himself
between Doblana and me. As he did so, he uttered some words of apology.
I had not recognized this clean shaven man with his heavy eyelids and
deep drawn features, but I recollected at once his incomparable voice.
If I am not much of a musician, after all, I have at least good ears, a
minor detail for a composer, when you think of Beethoven.
"Mr. Bischoff," I cried, "I have just had one of the greatest
experiences one can imagine: your Macbeth. How happy I am to make your
acquaintance!"
He looked at me.
"You are an Englishman," he said, which made me think that if all
was said my accent must be more pronounced than my vanity would have
wished; yet, though vexed, I answered in a meek affirmative.
"Then," he continued, "there is no danger of your being an Anti-Semite
and of your withdrawing your admiration once you have heard from
Alfred Bischoff himself, that he is neither a bishop, nor even a
Christian at all, but a simple Jew named Aaron Cohn."
The _Herr Graf_ distorted his features a little.
"You see," went on the great actor, "our friend Alphons Hector ..." and
he nodded at the _Herr Graf_, "smells something like sulphur. After all
he would like to have me burned." And he added laughing: "It's in the
blood, _Herr Graf_, and it cannot be helped. And to think that you are
the best of the lot!"
Mr. Bischoff--for I prefer to call him by this name which he has made
so celebrated--turned to me and said:
"You English are a great nation. Freedom is your motto. Freedom in
everything--freedom even in religion. A Jew, with you, is as complete a
human being as a Christian. You have no Anti-Semitism."
"May I take it," I asked him, "that there is a little gratitude in your
masterly interpretation of our Shakespeare?"
"No," replied he, "not in the least. Our art is art for art's sake.
And if I succeed in rendering Shakespeare's meaning, it is due to our
possessing good translations of his works."
"That may be," I declared, "but then the German tongue is so suitable
to translations."
At once he flew up in a rage. And the same man who just had called us a
great nation used the most abusive terms against us.
"As if any tongue were unsuitable to translations. But, of course,
with you, with mean shopkeepers, with you and your mercenary point of
view, how could you have good translations? I have been asked by one
of your English firms to translate an English play, a rotten one, of
course. 'We usually pay seven and sixpence a thousand words,' they
wrote, 'but in consideration of your fame, we would pay anything up to
ten shillings a thousand.' As if this could be a decisive factor! As
if it were not before all necessary to be inspired by the original!
And it has always been like that. A workman's pay for a workman's
job, while translating in reality is the most difficult occupation in
literature. Do you know who translated _Macbeth_ into German? Wieland,
a classic, Voss, a classic, Schiller, a classic, and finally Schlegel
and Tieck, two classics, whose translation you have heard this evening.
Goethe translated the tragedies of Voltaire and novels by Diderot and
Cellini's memoirs. And Schiller translated Virgil and a Greek tragedy,
and Racine's _Phaedra_, and French and Italian comedies. Do you think
they did it for seven and sixpence a thousand words or even for ten
shillings? No! They did it out of enthusiasm, out of the one feeling
which creates everything great in art. They thought theirs a holy
mission, and thus, amongst other things, they originated the art of
translating. For translating is an art with us, while it is pot-boiling
with you."
He remained silent for a minute or so.
"Yes," he said then a little more composedly, "we have excellent
translations of _Macbeth_, wonderful translations. Yet we do not know
how to play it."
"What do you mean?" I asked rather astonished.
"For instance," he replied, "when in the first act the witches say to
me:
'All hail, Macbeth! hail to thee, thane of Glamis!
All hail, Macbeth! hail to thee, thane of Cawdor!
All hail, Macbeth! thou shalt be king hereafter!'
the stage manager this evening made some noise with a gong and
destroyed that moment of great impression, into which Banquo is to
murmur:
'Good sir, why do you start, and seem to fear
Things that do sound so fair?'
Indeed, I had seemed to start, not because of the prophecy, but because
of the gong. And Klein who, God knows, is a fine actor, was obliged to
speak his words aloud instead of murmuring them. The scene was spoiled.
And so it went through the whole evening. The entire tragedy is a
tissue of terror, of trembling, of anxious forebodings, of dreadful
silence, and it was torn into rags this evening. But the worst of all
was the Lady Macbeth."
Poor me! How difficult it seemed to satisfy Mr. Bischoff. I had thought
the performance extraordinary. I had been so much impressed by the
mysterious way in which the whole thing had been played. At one moment
I had not been able to distinguish whether Macbeth had sighed or
whether the night wind had howled in the chimney. Everything had seemed
to me to be but one soul. When Macbeth after the murder had come and
looked at his bloody hands and had muttered:
'This is a sorry sight.'
I had felt as though I had done the deed myself with him. And Lady
Macbeth! How dreadful she had been, especially in the dream scene.
"Lady Macbeth!" went on Mr. Bischoff, "of course, it is Goethe who
made the great, fatal mistake when he called her a superwitch. Our
actresses make a monster of her. I did not feel seduced by our Lady
Macbeth this evening. She ought to flatter, to cajole me. She ought to
be a beautiful, flexible cat, she ought to be trembling with love and
to shudder herself before her awful thoughts and words. And at the end,
when she walks in her sleep, I don't want her to come and to declaim.
I want her to be ill and feverish and weak, weak as a child, yes, as a
child. I want her to say in a childish, soft voice:
'Yet here's a spot.'
and I want her to weep when she says:
'Who would have thought the old man to have so much blood in him?'
I want her to be a broken, ruined woman, and I want you, the spectator,
to pity her."