"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?