Like most modest, unassuming persons I am proud of a lot of things.
Thus, without any boasting, I think I am fairly discreet. You may
therefore imagine how astonished I felt when I found myself next
morning in Mr. Doblana's studio, carefully rummaging his drawers in
search of the manuscript of his ballet _Griseldis_. I had an excuse:
I was doing detective work, and the discreet detective is a type that
has still to be invented. But you may believe me: I was unceasingly
blushing.
During the night I remembered a conversation which I had overheard
by chance--please, _do_ not forget that I am a discreet person--a
conversation between Mr. Doblana and the _Herr Graf_. It had taken
place the first time that I was admitted to the Round Table, and I have
duly reported it in Chapter III.
(I am absolutely distressed always to be obliged to refer the reader
to previous chapters. It gives this story, which otherwise would be
quite pleasant, an almost scientific appearance. But my unbounded
inexperience in the art of writing must be taken into account.)
This conversation then had mentioned the loss of one of Mr. Doblana's
works. The name of the work was not stated, nor how it had been lost. A
musical work may be lost otherwise than by the actual disappearance or
destruction of its manuscript. A hostile report may mean its definite
ruin. But once the idea had struck me that Mr. Doblana's strange
calamity was indeed the loss of his manuscript, the recollection of
that colloquy with the _Herr Graf_ strengthened my opinion. So I tried
to make sure whether _Griseldis_ really had disappeared.
After I had made an hour's careful search, and inspected every paper,
leaf by leaf, without finding the slightest trace of the manuscript, I
decided that I was right. I further concluded that the horn-player was
convinced of its having been stolen, and this with the help of his own
daughter.
As it had a considerable monetary value, he must have been very sore
about the disappearance of his work. The simplest thing would of course
have been to communicate with the police. But tied to a collaborator
of so high a position as the _Herr Graf_ he could not well take such
a step without consulting him. Clearly Doblana had not obtained his
support, a prominent member of the Court having probably no desire for
any business with the police. Thus the matter was at an end for my poor
host. He had to remain quiet, and despair was his only consolation.
But I at least was not compelled to have any consideration, and I
wanted badly to free Mitzi from the suspicion which lay upon her.
From what I knew, it was absolutely unjust. She had been lured into a
journey, and her absence had been misused.
By whom?
Who was the thief?
An examining magistrate must sometimes have a very uncomfortable
feeling. For, if one has a preconceived idea in such a case, it is
difficult to free oneself from it. I experienced this. In my mind
Giulay was the main hinge on which the whole business turned. From
the beginning I had conceived it so, and hard as I tried to get rid
of this idea, it always came back to me: Giulay had sent the wire, in
spite of his denial, knowing quite well that it would decide Mitzi to
go to Salzburg. And Giulay did not like Mr. Doblana, as he had shown by
attacking him in a tactless and violent way, without apparent reason,
in the course of the evening at the Tobacco Pipe.
The great difficulty for me consisted in the impossibility of talking
about the whole affair to Mitzi. I held the man to be capable of any
villainy. But there was no probability of getting Mitzi to divest
herself of the prejudice she had in favour of the ugly Hungarian. If
I had expressed but a little of my thoughts she would at once have
accused me of wronging him, she would have resented it as an annoyance;
and for no consideration would I wish to annoy her.
So I kept my suppositions to myself. One point above all seemed to me
important. The thief must have known not only that, on receipt of the
telegram, Mitzi would hurry off to Salzburg, but also that Fanny was
absent on a holiday. At one moment I suspected the plump servant girl
of being Giulay's accomplice. What if her going to visit her dying
mother had only been a feint? Suppose that she had returned in order
to admit Giulay? However, I soon set aside this theory; Fanny was
altogether devoted to Mitzi, and no consideration could have decided
her to do such a treacherous thing.
I asked both of them, Mitzi as well as Fanny, whether anybody had known
that the latter would have a three days' holiday. As I did not want to
tell them why I asked the question, they did not think as hard as I
should have liked. They could not remember. And Mitzi who, of course,
guessed that my inquiry was somehow connected with the great mystery,
only wondered why I still worried over that old, half-forgotten affair.
There is, as a matter of fact, a mistake into which readers of
detective stories are generally enticed. It is to believe that the
persons involved are doing nothing else but thinking of their case.
They have no business, no trade nor profession, they have no friends
to call upon, they have no letters to write, no plays to see, no books
to read, they hardly ever rest, and they wash, dress, eat, and sleep
only when it is necessary for the conduct of the case. This is all
untrue; in reality, it happens quite otherwise. I am sure I was as
interested in my case as any detective in his, yet I thought of it only
occasionally, and I went on having my lessons with old Hammer as well
as with Mr. Doblana and thinking of my _Macbeth_.
When the horn-player first heard of my operatic ambitions, he said that
it would be quite a good exercise, and that writing was the best way
to learn how to do it. The opera would certainly not be performed, but
that did not matter, as I was not working for money, being sufficiently
well off without the paltry sums which I might earn in the form of
royalties.
With Hammer it was quite otherwise. He grew immediately enthusiastic.
Enthusiasm was one of his principal features. My words, repeated rather
parrot-like from what Bischoff had said to me, namely, that it would
be "a tissue of terror, of trembling, of anxious forebodings and of
dreadful silence," pleased the old organist specially. To say the
truth, I had no proper idea of how this tissue was to be produced.
Hammer told me that it always had been his ambition to write an opera,
but that he never had been able to find a libretto which he had judged
suitable for his particular talent.
"Bischoff has proposed _Macbeth_ to me too," he said. "But the
objection that I believed myself unable to express the local colour was
too great. I was afraid of failing in one of the most important points.
This danger does not exist for a Scotchman like you."
"But I am no Scotchman."
"Isn't Hampstead in Scotland?" (He pronounced it Hampshtead with his
undeniable Austrian accent.) "You told me, it was up North."
"North London--and you must not tell that to a Londoner--they believe
it is West."
"I regret it for your sake. Have you any idea of Scotch folk tunes?"
"I know _Auld Lang Syne_."
"That is better. But I advise you, before you begin with the
composition of your great work, to write a few Scotch songs as an
exercise, like Wagner, who wrote a few songs as studies for his
_Tristan_."
The advice seemed good to me, and I composed fifteen Scotch songs as
an exercise for _Macbeth_ which, according to Mr. Doblana, was itself
but an exercise for future operas. I chose them among the many lyrics,
which exist in good metrical German translations, so that I had them
ready in both languages. I wrote my songs in what seemed to me an
incredibly short time at the rate of a song a day. Modest as I am, I
must nevertheless confess that they are not bad, considering that I
am ... no, that I was a British composer. British composers have been
told so many times about their having no talent that they have come
to believe it. But it is not true. We have quite as much heart and
feeling and imagination as other nations. Only we have also the fog.
Which means that we may be allowed to be born in our isles, but that
we will do well to go and compose somewhere else. This is what by
chance I had done. Thus it happened that my fifteen Scotch songs were
quite possible, and one at least was good. But who would not have been
inspired by Sir Walter's immortal words?
"Breathes there the man, with soul so dead.
Who never to himself hath said
This is my own, my native land!
Whose heart hath ne'er within him burn'd,
As home his footsteps he hath turn'd,
From wandering on a foreign strand!"
These songs have never been printed, yet I am glad to have written
them. They sleep in a drawer in a nice cosy house in Belsize Park. They
sleep, but they are not dead. They live in my memory and remind me of
the most beautiful day which was yet given me to live.
* * * * *
Post.
And an exceptionally big mail, containing three letters and a few
papers. The "Illustrated London News," sent to me by an old aunt. They
are full of war pictures which she forwards to me so that I may have an
idea how things look in reality, as we in the trenches have certainly
only a very vague idea of the aspect of the whole business.
One of the letters is from a lady who signs Thirza Ellaline de Jones,
and is addressed to my regimental number only.
"Dear Nº...," it runs, "if, as I suppose, you are a lonely soldier, I
wish to inform you that I am willing to offer you my friendship, for I
am myself a lonely maiden. I often think how awful it must be for you
to have nobody to think of, and that in your murderous business you
are never relieved by that wonderful thought: 'It is for her that I do
all these sanguinary deeds.'
"I am of a romantic, passionate nature, and I am sure you ought to
like exchanging ideas with me. My character is rather pessimistic,
having thoroughly read Shopenower (_sic!_), yet I feel sure I could
cheer you up. Besides, I think that our acquaintance, started under
the fire of the guns, could after the war lead to a more pleasant
union. I am scarcely of middle age, but I look much younger than I
am, and I feel younger still. I do not enclose my photo, for I think
that men who have gone through the serious business of war are not
concerned with trifles. But I may add this: The war will not finish
before every man is disabled. You will then be entitled to a pension.
If it pleases you, you may now add to this the amount of my private
income which is of £140 a year.
"Answer by return, and you will be a dear.
"Yours ever,
"THIRZA ELLALINE DE JONES."
The letter is typewritten, and the traces of wax on the back show that
it is reproduced from a stencil. What a mania!
The second letter is from a firm, Levy and Levy, who offer the highest
prices for souvenirs, especially for German helmets.
And the third one is from home.
"My dear Patrick," writes the mater, "we are glad to hear that you are
all right, and hope that you will endeavour to keep so. I strongly
advise you to wear the same underclothing you are used to, namely,
that of Doctor Lahmann. I would have sent you some, but I find that
their place in Holborn has disappeared. They have probably been wound
up by our Government, who do not see the difference between good and
bad things. But I imagine that among the prisoners you take, you will
find one able to procure from Germany whatever you want.
"I do not know on what mysterious business Bean is engaged. But she
comes three times a week to town, all the way from Bedford. She
says that what she does is a holy duty, which I think is rubbish.
I suspect father of being in the secret and resent his hiding it
from me. Still, I must say that she is as pretty as ever, even
prettier. And also that old Dicks is making pots of money out of a big
Government contract for tinned vegetables.
"I regret your enthusiasm over father's silly idea to upset you by
having your Scottish march played in the middle of the battlefield,
instead of leaving you quiet and cosy in your trench. I hope that you
will soon send us good news. I remain your always loving
"MOTHER."
And dad joins a half sheet:
"My darling boy,
"Nothing could please me more than the thought that you have been
happy for a moment, while hearing the 'Pibroch o' Donuil Dhu.' I am so
busy that I have scarcely the time to write. I will only add to what
your mother says, that a word to the wise will be sufficient. Bean is
the dearest girl I know and will be quite well off. And between men I
may say this: I know you used to object to her being so thin. She is
growing plump now.
"A thousand kisses from your loving
"DANIEL COOPER."
Bean plump, Bean growing actually plump! I confess that this opens
perspectives I had not suspected. Still....
You see, she is nine years my junior. And as I am twenty-nine (rather
a ladylike age, isn't it?) you will be able to calculate that she is
twenty. And I suppose that it is also twenty years since our respective
respected parents regard us as betrothed. Yet, it has never been spoken
out openly.
Violet Dicks, commonly called Bean, is indeed pretty. She plays the
piano a little, but with such apathy that I have always avoided
listening to her other musical achievements, which consist in a little
singing and a little concertina playing. However, I must say that
there is something like mutual consent in my ignorance of her musical
performances. She is very shy, not generally, but in matters musical,
and would never dare to sing or to play to a composer, even to an
abdicated one. She plays tennis, but is no good at bridge. She writes
many unimportant letters, all exceedingly short, and never reads a
book, nor anything else. She spends all her pocket-money on dragging
her mother to London every time a new musical play comes on. She says
she loathes them, but she is always hoping that there will one day be
a good one. She is also interested in petty charities, bazaars, garden
parties, and so on. And as far as it is possible with her, she is in
love with me.
But I do not think that hers is one of those great, magnificent loves
we read of in books. She is more a vegetable than a flower; as a flower
she is only a violet, as a vegetable only a bean. A green bean. A
slender, green bean.
Yet I have a certain tender feeling for her. I should not like her to
suffer in the least. I feel myself quite capable of marrying her, and
even of being a good husband to her, if it were absolutely necessary.
On no account could I let her die from a broken heart. But then, I
suppose it would not break.
She is not, like Thirza Ellaline de Jones, of a romantic, passionate
nature, nor does she even know that Schopenhauer ever existed. And if
it were essential for a lonely soldier like me to exchange ideas with a
female, I would rather do it with Bean who has none, than with Thirza
Ellaline who has less. As for the reason why I do all these "sanguinary
deeds," Thirza Ellaline must excuse me and mind her own business.
There exists something which I should call the chastity of patriotic
sentiment, and it would be immodest to divulge it.
No, Thirza Ellaline, oh thou of the unphotographable face! In spite of
thy private income of £140 (and I add, not because of Bean's income
which is probably twenty times bigger, a fact that I could overlook if
thou wert a little more photographable and a little less pessimistic) I
say _nay_ to thee. Nay--never!
Whereas Bean... It is still: "not yet." But I confess that the idea
of her has been growing lately somewhat more familiar. I do not know
when, why, nor how that change began. That she wept when she heard the
"Pibroch o' Donuil Dhu" performed by the band of the Salvation Army has
but little to do with it. Weeping under such stress has happened to
more hardened people. Now there comes the news of her growing plump.
But it comes as a mere abstraction, for I feel unable to imagine a
flat pancake as a round dumpling. No, I don't know why, but there is
now something in the word Bean--a meaning--which was not there before.
It is but slight, yet it is. Still, can it ever grow as long as there
lives the remembrance of another?
* * * * *
Let me tell you how it occurred.
I had finished those Scotch songs and was rather pleased with them.
They were written to suit Mitzi's voice, and so one evening I played
them to her. The one I preferred, namely, Scott's "_Breathes there a
man_," was unfortunately the one which agreed least with her particular
ability. But you ought to have heard her singing "_My heart's in the
Highlands, my heart is not here_." There was such an ardent longing
in her voice, such a desire of seeing again the mountains covered
with snow and the "wild-hanging woods," and to hear once more the
"loud-pouring torrents." It was all so true, so sincere. I made her
sing it again and again. She appreciated Burns' words. She had only to
think of the beautiful Austrian Alps which she knew so well. But she
understood also my setting of the words. She sang it as I would have
done it, had I had a voice and mastered the difficulty of controlling
it. She sang it directly out of my own soul. Never was there such a
comprehension, such a communion of feelings.
She was standing behind me, a little to my right. Her pleasure in
singing my song was equalled by mine at hearing her. When she had
performed it eight or ten times I stopped at last. I was overcome with
emotion.
And suddenly I felt her hand caressing my hair.
I trembled. I perceived something happening; a breath, so to say, a
mere nothing. Joy and terror at once filled my heart. I gazed at her,
and in the twilight I saw a tender smile around her lips. It made me
feel out of breath, as if I had been walking too fast.