"I am sure," she said when I had finished, "if you do it, it will be
very beautiful. This evening, will you play that lullaby to me?"
I objected, for I did not like to play the piano at the hotel where we
would be at once surrounded by these offensive acquaintances you are
compelled to make in watering-places. But Bean begged so much that in
the end I yielded.
While I was playing she seemed pale and strangely spiritual, watching
me with adoring eyes. When I had finished she said nothing. Not one
word. But when shortly afterwards she went to bed we shook hands, and I
noticed that her's was as cold as ice.
"Good night, kiddy," I said.
She only pressed my hand a little harder, but said nothing.
The two maters noticing, of course, the incident and greatly
exaggerating its importance, found in it some fuel for the cherished
hopes that were burning in their breasts.
There was some more of that fuel in store. For when Bean and I went a
few days later to Knaresborough, where I offered her a little row, what
if she did not go and upset the boat, so that our row became a swim!
She uttered an imploring cry, but the next moment I had her in my arms.
She clung to me quite desperately, her slender little body shaken by
fright one moment, by a storm of laughter the next. The situation was
not without danger, and the anxiety in my own heart made me rather
tender with the kid. Yet, we safely reached the shore, where she lay
exhausted, her hands keeping their hold of me, and murmured:
"Oh Pat ... Pat ... how brave you are...."
And after a while she added:
"I knew you were brave, when I heard that you were going to tackle
_Lady Macbeth_."
From that moment I was so much fêted, so often called a hero, so
incessantly praised for having saved Bean's life, that I took to
flight. I did not even wait till the parents returned to London.
At the station Bean pushed a few roses in my hand. She seemed serious,
and I felt her tiny fingers tremble.
"You'll keep them?" she asked.
"I will, kiddy."
Reader, you must by now be well aware of my character, and therefore
know that I kept the roses. However, as the petals have gone, all I
still possess is the stalks. I think this detail would interest you,
for I know you all sympathize with Bean.
I think I also ought to tell you that I had given Dad a hint--although
only a delicate one--of what he had to prepare for, concerning Mitzi.
Dad and I had never had any secrets from each other, and there was a
really chummy relation between us both. I confess that I understood
nothing of his Insurance schemes, yet I never objected to any of them.
I was in consequence rather surprised to find him a little cool when
I spoke about my Austrian love. He pretended that I was speaking only
of my future primadonna, not of my promised bride, and even for the
former he showed a certain mistrust. Once more I heard the old story
that it was dangerous to confide the success of my opera to a beginner.
Of course, I forgave him, for it was his rôle, being the eldest, to be
careful. And then, he did not know Mitzi.
Anyhow, the little I had said about her prevented me from staying at
Doblana's house as I had done before, and though Mitzi objected I had
to tell the horn-player the reason. I was much too much imbued with the
English idea of a long engagement not to have been taken completely by
surprise when his first question was, On what date did I intend to fix
the marriage. However, although I could only answer that I had not yet
thought of it, but that I hoped Mitzi would not oblige me to wait more
than a year or eighteen months, he received my invitation to regard me
as his future son-in-law fairly well.
As I have already intimated, Mitzi did not seem at all pleased. She
pretended that I had robbed her, by speaking so early to her father,
of all the sweetness of our secret love. And I am sure we would have
quarrelled over this point had I not remembered of a saying of my dear
dad, that married life was an uninterrupted series of concessions,
and had I not applied this principle also to the time preceding the
marriage.
There was another reason for my forbearance: a composer must hold his
temper in check with his primadonna. It was, however, more difficult
than one may think, for I found Mitzi on my return to Austria
altogether ... somewhat changed.
You will remember that the late Mrs. Doblana had on her death-bed
implored her husband to let bygones be bygones, and to reconcile
himself with the Archduke Alphons Hector and his children. Up to now
the horn-player had refused. But as the moment of the performance of
his _Aladdin_ was approaching, his highly developed sense for all that
touched his interests told him that a more conciliatory attitude would
be advisable. His sojourn at St. Gilgen, at a short distance from
Salzburg, was probably not chosen without intention, and whilst he did
not himself see Franz and Augusta von Heidenbrunn, he tacitly consented
to Mitzi frequenting them freely.
You will perhaps remember that I had a certain mistrust of the Countess
Augusta. On what that mistrust was based I am quite incapable of
saying. It was mere instinct. But I have always noticed that girls, as
soon as they were friends, had secrets. And these secretive manners
have, in my idea, an evil influence on their morals.
It is to the influence of Augusta von Heidenbrunn that I attributed the
fact of finding Mitzi, as I have said, altogether ... somewhat changed.
This expression must not be taken as funny. She was changed very little
indeed, but that little change affected her through and through. I
still knew little of women, but I would have been, say, colour-blind
had I not noticed that something had happened.
She had always liked to go out, but now the number of errands which
obliged her to be away from home had increased enormously. I had
thought that our London cook held a record for outings--still, Mitzi
beat her.
Again, she had always been nicely dressed, but now the care she took of
her toilet had increased tenfold.
Sometimes when I arrived at the Karlsgasse I found her pensive, not to
say gloomy, at other times excitedly merry.
When I asked her that inevitable question: "You love me?" which I am
sure is asked a hundred times a day between any engaged couple, she
still answered that she did and knew her love was not good enough; but
she also added that she was my _friend_, and that her _friendship_
should be a pillar for our future happiness. Sometimes her tenderness
was overflowing, sometimes she she was sulky and inscrutable.
Once, after one more unsuccessful trial at singing my song _Breathes
there a man_, I signified my regret and my doubt whether she would ever
be able to express what I had tried to indicate in that song. Thereupon
she declared that her singing was much too good for my song.
"That is entirely true," was my answer, "but you should not say so."
"Anyhow," she retorted, "I think that in matters artistic I reason
at least as closely and rightly as you; and in these questions one
may always rely in preference on a woman's judgment. Women possess
infinitely more delicacy."
"Say that you dislike that song...."
"I will never say that, because I like everything you compose. But am I
not free to sing what I choose?"
All this frivolous cavilling was unimportant. I remembered Daniel
Cooper and his female partner. There cannot be a couple better mated
than these two. I don't think that they ever quarrelled, but there was
a continuous wrangling over small, insignificant details, a miniature
feud, just enough to prevent monotony. Evidently my married life was to
be a similar one.
Yet, once there arose such a difference between Mitzi and me that I was
afraid lest it should mean the breaking off of our match.
I hope that you have still some slight remembrance of what we will call
"The Mystery of the Griseldis score." Anyhow, if you have forgotten,
neither Mr. Doblana nor his daughter had. He always treated her with
the same coldness. I, of course, could not notice it, as I had never
seen them on more friendly terms, but Mitzi often complained of his
indifference. And it was only too natural that "The Mystery of the
Griseldis score" should return again and again in our talk, as it had
been the origin of our love.
Well, as _Lady Macbeth_ was advancing rapidly, it became necessary
to find a theatre for its first performance, and as I had not the
slightest experience in theatrical business, and as Mr. Doblana assured
me that there were at the Imperial Opera enough new things accepted to
fill at least two years (his _Aladdin_ amongst others) I decided to
accept the services of a theatrical agent. Mitzi advised me to go to
Giulay. Indeed, he had the reputation of being very clever. But every
agent has. Nor was it his quasi-celebrity that induced me to call upon
him. It was the fact that I still held that his part in "The Mystery of
the Griseldis score" had been deeper than Mitzi suspected.
I called upon him and found him to my surprise completely businesslike.
He was still ugly, and his voice loud and discordant, but he did not
in his office tell any funny yarns as he used to do at the Round
Table. That he was clever, there could not be the slightest doubt,
for in scarcely a week's time he had induced the manager of the Brünn
municipal theatre to play my opera. At the same time he also settled
that Mitzi was to make her début as Lady Macbeth. Mitzi, or as she
was called in the contract, Amizia Dobanelli. Four performances were
mutually guaranteed--by the manager to be performed--by me to be paid
for should the receipts not be sufficient.
Please, merciful reader, spare me; and do not enquire about the other
points of that contract. They were so many humiliations. It would make
me blush. Still it was a contract, and I confess, I would not have been
able to get it by myself.
My business with Giulay had been the pretext for much intercourse, and
my desire to know him better had determined me to see him more often
than was strictly necessary.
One day I found an old lady in his office. Like Giulay, she wore a lot
of jewellery, like Giulay she had a discordant voice. And from one
particularity, namely, from the extraordinary amount of refractory
black hair which grew in her nose I could make a guess at some
consanguinity. As a matter of fact she was his mother, and in spite
of her negative beauty seemed to be a decent sort. Giulay made a
fuss about me and my opera, and the result was an invitation to come
and lunch on the following Sunday with the two Hungarian people at
their home in the Maroccanergasse. This street, although situated in
a fashionable quarter, was far from smart, the principal reason for
this being that one side was filled nearly in the whole of its length
by the ugliest barracks in the whole town. So at least the negative
beauty of the two Giulays was in harmony with their surroundings. Nor
was the house where they lived one of the palatial buildings of which
you see so very many in Vienna. It was a modest dwelling, one of those
habitations where fortunes are made rather than spent. There was no
marble hall, no carpet in the stairs, no electric light. Still it was
very decent. In the third story of this house my hosts had their abode.
When I rang the bell, Maurus Giulay himself came to open the door.
The apartment had an air of stinginess which contrasted with its
jewel-bedecked inhabitants. It was all respectable and without any
artistic taste, the right lodging for small people. Only one detail
struck me as remarkable, namely, that the walls of the drawing-room
were entirely covered with photographs. There were artists and
artistes, authors and composers, some famous and most unknown. Whether
there was any wall paper beneath these photos I could not say; probably
there was, but it had certainly not proved sufficiently hideous.
The meal was scanty and pretended to be refined. We had about two
dessert-spoonfuls of soup served in coffee cups, then a little anchovy
paste on tiny pieces of toast as a hors d'oeuvre, and one whiting
between us three. I must say that the old lady hardly ate anything,
busy as she was waiting upon us two gentlemen. Yet it looked rather
funny, that solitary whiting, as did afterwards the two thrushes for
three, accompanied by a little salad adorned with a hard egg, which was
cut into quarters, so that there was even one too many. And then there
was a little cheese, a little butter, with a little bread, and a little
fruit, very little, and some coffee in mocha cups, viz.: smaller cups
than those which had served for the soup.
There was also in the centre of the table a cake, rather a large cake,
if you please, and to be candid, I had enjoyed the prospect of having
some. I daresay I would have endured it. But none was offered, and to
this day I do not know whether it was a dummy or a real one, and in the
latter case whether it was one they had kept from one year to the other
for such festivities, or if it was to serve for another party in the
evening.
Yet, I must not get too slanderous, for there was at least one thing I
enjoyed thoroughly: a Coronas cigar that Giulay offered me. It is not
an expensive cigar, costing about sixpence, but I recommend it to the
few Englishmen who will, after the war, visit Austria.
While I was smoking it, Mrs. Giulay apologized for her lunch and
especially for her waiting upon us.
"You see," said she, "it is not at all easy to be at the same time
cook, housemaid, and hostess. But I am used to having no servants. When
Maurus was born, his father was a dying man. I was left very poor. I
have had to struggle badly to give my boy a sound commercial education.
I could not afford a servant girl during these hard times. Ten years
ago he opened his agency and was at once very successful. Still for
several years the utmost economy was necessary. Then the habit was
formed; and I cannot get myself used to the idea of having a servant."
I did not, on the moment, reflect on this story. I only said to myself
that one must not judge people by appearances, and that Mrs. Giulay was
a more worthy woman than I had at first conceived.
But afterwards, when I had left them, I meditated how little progress I
had made by my connexion with Giulay in the "Mystery of the Griseldis
score." And then, suddenly, an idea struck me which would have made
me go immediately to the Karlsgasse if it had not been a Sunday, and
if I had not known that the person who unexpectedly had become very
important in my clue, was then not to be found there.
The next morning, however, saw me at Doblana's house. He was not in,
Monday mornings being regularly devoted to orchestra rehearsals at the
Opera.
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.