Surprising as it may seem to you, I had the courage, the next day,
to take the bull by the horns and to ask Mitzi about Franz von
Heidenbrunn. She merely laughed.
"My dear," she said, "firstly I am your fiancée, and as such must
be very careful with you. Secondly, Franz is my cousin, and we have
known each other for so many years that we are like brother and
sister. Lastly, you knocked on my door at an awkward moment, when I
was changing my dress. You did not want me to show myself to you in my
underwear, did you? While Franz came three minutes later when I was
dressed again."
You go and argue with a woman if you can. I could not. I just felt
silly. And I suppose I looked it. For she came near me and stroked my
cheek gently.
"Don't make a face, dear," she said. "I quite understand your feeling
miserable after having read the papers; but, never mind, it will wear
off...."
"I know, Mitzi," I answered meekly, "I cannot have it both ways, and
write an opera that pleases us both, and the critics too."
And there was no more discussion about Franz von Heidenbrunn. Our talk
shifted, and I was informed, too late, alas! that the Austrian critic,
as well as the German, is always prepared to write favourably for a
consideration, being hardly paid at all by the newspapers themselves,
and regards as his legitimate victims such people who have not made
backsheesh arrangements in advance.
On the third day _Lady Macbeth_ was repeated. This time the house was
packed full, even the hundred and fifty bad seats were sold out. The
question whether La Dobanelli was wearing tights or not under her
chemise had been discussed in the whole town, and had proved such an
irresistible attraction that at her first appearance she was greeted
with warm applause.
Franz von Heidenbrunn was again in the audience. Whether he visited
Mitzi in the entre-acte I cannot say--I did not, having no desire to be
turned away again.
I also went to see the third performance, which was exactly like the
second one. The same kind of audience, thirsting for a sensation, and
for the third time Franz von Heidenbrunn among the spectators.
As we travelled back to Vienna, Mitzi and I, we had a few words about
her chemise in the last scene.
"Was this the same chemise you had the two first times?" I asked her.
"No," she replied laughing, "you do expect a lady to put fresh linen on
from time to time, don't you?"
"That chemise was shorter than the other," I remarked, more sternly
than I had intended to.
"Oh! An inch or two perhaps."
"An inch is much in those latitudes," I jested.
"Look here, Patrick," she answered sullenly. "Let me alone with your
remonstrances. You ought to know by now that I do my best for your
opera, which would have been a complete failure without me."
She said it coldly, heartlessly. It made me suffer. But, swallowing my
torment, I answered nothing, and we continued our journey in silence. I
felt that we were not getting on at all nicely and wondered how I was
to educate her to be less of an artist,--and more my wife.
* * * * *
There is in drama a certain system of construction, as you ought to
know. Probably you don't, still there is. First comes the exposition,
then the opening of the action, then the growth during which it grows
(of course) to the climax; then the fall or, as it must sometimes be
called, the return which precedes the close. In life the return which
follows all climaces is always nasty, and you wake up after every
excitement with a bit of a moral headache. Hoping is an ungrateful
business. Look, for instance, at our friend Cotton, our good Guncotton.
He has finished his chemistry treatise--think what it means to have
written all these formulas in the trenches--and he has this very
morning received the news that his manuscript has arrived safely in
London. Now he walks about, his eyes full of rosy dreams, of fears,
and of hopes. And I can so well understand his feelings, his thoughts.
Patrick Cooper went through all these emotions. And afterwards, dear
me! Only my case was a worse one, for the devil had amused himself
in mixing the poison of love into my adventure of artistic hopes and
ambitions.
And by the way, as I am talking of the devil, it occurs to me that
the little man with the tuft of black beard on his chin, who appeared
to me four times, must have been ... HE. He laughed, the evil fellow,
when he came for the fourth time and saw that his matchmaking work was
seemingly accomplished.
Yet lately I had not seen him again. He must have been busy somewhere
else. Perhaps will you see a connexion between his disappearance and
the following events.
The fourth performance of _Lady Macbeth_ coincided with the _première_
of Doblana's _Aladdin_ at the Viennese Opera. I thought it was my duty
to be present at the day of honour of my master, a small sacrifice
indeed, as there was not much joy for me in attending my own opera
before an injudicious public, which really came only to see Amizia
Dobanelli in her chemise. Besides, as the opera was making money, there
was every prospect of more performances taking place.
When I expressed my intention to Doblana and to Mitzi the horn-player
at once objected. I could very well go and see the dress rehearsal of
_Aladdin_ instead of the first night.