"Look here, sir," he went on. "You are a composer, or will be one.
There has never been a more splendid task for a musician than to write
a musical drama on _Macbeth_, to express all that the poet left untold,
to show this couple of criminals as poor human beings, to change their
poison into tears."
The next day I was quite full of these ideas: they satiated my brain.
_Macbeth--Macbeth, an opera_--an opera by Patrick Cooper, an opera
with original Scotch tunes, perhaps with bagpipes, an opera with a
Lady Macbeth full of charm instead of full of hideousness, an opera
with strange mysterious sounds.... For the first time I thought that
I was understanding Hammer's extraordinary theory, that there were no
harmonies, but only voices....
I think I was a ridiculous youth then. Anyhow, I like myself better
in khaki. And, strange to say, the music I hear now, the roar of the
guns, has its fearful beauty, too.
I believe the editor will cancel this. Of course it is not easy to
write a book in such surroundings. I should like to see you trying to
do it. Sometimes I admire myself. But then I have only to think of
the man who works at the chemistry treatise, and you ought to see how
bashful I can become.
Well, to return to my subject, the day after _Macbeth_ rather resembled
its predecessor, for in the morning I was again watched through the
partly opened door, and in the evening I went to the opera, where they
played _Tannhäuser_. Mr. Doblana had given me a ticket so that I might
hear him blowing his part.
On the evening before Mr. Bischoff had been far from enthusiastic about
_Macbeth_. I tried to imitate him re _Tannhäuser_. I did not think the
performance very extraordinary. Venus ought to have had more charm, and
her pink chemise (or was it a dress robe?) did not provide the illusion
I was looking for. Tannhäuser was rather elderly and seemed not to
have understood the problem of sacred love _versus_ profane love. And
he treated Venus as though she had been his "Missus," and Elizabeth
as though she had been his "fancy lady"; and yet it was Venus who was
the "fancy lady." But the worst was Elizabeth. She was a beautiful,
fair wig, large and wavering, with a stately lady in front; the whole
had a strong voice, which wavered too. I had always imagined Elizabeth
as a young girl with long rich plaits thrown in front of her over her
shoulders, a girl, nice and pure and not yet womanly at all. While the
one I saw seemed to be an aunt of the Landgrave, and not his niece.
Mr. Doblana and I met again after the performance. But we had only a
hasty supper at a restaurant before we went home. For it was already
late, and the horn-player had a heavy rehearsal before him which was to
begin at ten o'clock next morning.
The house was very quiet when we arrived. Midnight was just striking at
the Karl's Church. There was not a sign of life. In the _salon_ a tiny
flame of gas was burning. We parted wishing each other a good night;
Mr. Doblana extinguished the little gas flame and went into his room, I
into mine.
There I lit my chandelier. As I did so I noticed well in evidence on my
table an envelope bearing my name. I did not know the writing, which
was thin and pointed, a woman's hand. I tore the envelope open. Inside,
on a half-sheet of paper, were written the words: "Do not bolt your
door this night." There was no signature.
Now, please, darling reader, imagine my feelings.
There I was in a strange house and in a strange town, where I had no
feminine acquaintances. (I beg Fanny's pardon, but as I had tipped her
but the day before, she did not count.) And there was a female bidding
me not to bolt my door.
Imagine further, that I had slept little the night before, the sitting
at the café having lasted long, up to the small hours. Imagine that the
whole day I had mentally worked hard on _Macbeth_, an opera in five
acts by Patrick Cooper. Imagine also that I had heard an expanded,
tiring performance of _Tannhäuser_ and that I felt sleepy and little
disposed for receiving visits. But fancy also that I was twenty-one
and thirsting for adventures; yet that I was clever enough to guess
that the lady who wished to see me was that elderly spinster, Miss
Doblana, with her curler-pins, a detail which made the adventure less
desirable. Think of all that, and then of an idea which occurred to
my shrewd brain, namely, that, after all, it was perhaps not Miss
Doblana who wanted that nocturnal interview, for in that case she would
have to cross her father's room. That, therefore, the mysterious lady
was hidden in one of the backrooms whither she must have penetrated
with the help of Fanny. That there was but one lady who could have
sufficient interest in my whereabouts to have taken the trouble of
finding out where I was staying; one, the Comtesse! For as I had told
her the name of the hotel where I was going to stay, and as I had
left my new address when I departed from the said hotel, nothing was
more natural and easy than to find me. But nothing was more unnatural
than to call upon me in the middle of the night. No! it was not the
Comtesse, It was the daughter of my horn-player.
There was another dilemma. Should I take off my boots? Was it possible
to await a lady at such an hour in slippers? I had not much experience
in affairs of that sort.
In my despair I used bad language, threw myself into an easy chair and
took my Shakespeare. Destiny had made me take it with me when I left
Hampstead. Since this morning it had been lying on the table, in case
of emergencies. I opened it and started reading _Macbeth_.
Then a funny thing happened. Lady Macbeth was no longer present at
the famous banquet, but she presided in the equally famous hall over
a competition of Scotch bards, who tried to play Wagner on their
bagpipes. As they did not succeed the Landgrave said most rudely: "Go
to ... Venus!" whereupon they all disappeared. Lady Macbeth in the same
moment became the fair Landgravine Elizabeth, but not the one I had
seen at the Opera this evening, for she had two beautiful plaits thrown
over her shoulders and falling upon her bosom, exactly as I had wished
it, and she was young and uncommonly pretty. She carried a taper which
allowed me to see the funniest detail, namely, a certain likeness, to
whom do you think, wise reader? To the Comtesse.
Some slight noise made me start, and Shakespeare tumbled down to
the floor. Near the door, with a candle in her hand, exactly as Lady
Macbeth ought to come in the dream scene, a forlorn child--and exactly
dressed as I had wished Elizabeth to be dressed, in a long white
gown, with long, rich, fair plaits falling on her bosom--there stood
my Comtesse. As she saw me awakening from my dream, she put her left
forefinger on her thick, fleshy lips and whispered anxiously:
"Don't talk aloud."
I wanted to take her light, to press, nay! to kiss her hands, but she
prevented it.
"I have come," she said, "to ask you, whatever might happen, not to
tell my father that you met me at Salzburg."
"I promise that, Miss Doblana...."
You see, clever reader, I had grasped the situation quite as quickly
as you, I had realized who the mysterious person was to whom Mr.
Doblana was so greatly alike, that it had struck me on my first visit
at the Karlsgasse; I had devined that SHE was neither a Comtesse, nor
an elderly spinster with hair-curlers, nor Lady Macbeth, nor even the
Landgravine as I had wished her, but Miss Doblana, who was apparently
not as ill as her father had told me, yet very pale.
"I promise, but why?"
This "Why" was not precisely chivalrous, and you might even call it
indiscreet, but Miss Doblana evidently expected the question.
"To-morrow morning," she replied, "my father has a long rehearsal at
the opera. He leaves here at a quarter to ten and will not be home
before two. I will be in the _salon_ the whole time during his absence.
If you wish it I will then tell you all."
It was said in the faintest whisper. Without a sound she opened the
door and disappeared. Not even the door creaked. Fanny had done her
duty.
But was it Fanny?