The mater had suffered from rheumatism, and therefore Harrogate had been chosen as a summer resort. Besides, at that time, there still existed a Mrs. Dicks, who was always liverish and who had been ordered to Harrogate, too. Mrs Dicks was the best soul you could imagine, but a very plain woman. Yet when she died a couple of years after the events I am recording, her husband mourned her deeply. To anybody who wanted to hear it he stated that he had lost the best of wives and Bean the best of mothers.

Mrs. Cooper and Mrs. Dicks were great friends, which provided (in the form of endless chats) some consolation for their forced stay at Harrogate. For I cannot think that anybody would go to Harrogate if he was not obliged. Perhaps it was because I came straight from Vienna, which is surrounded by the most lovely villages and woods, I could not find the slightest charm in the tedious landscape of Harrogate with its tiny heath and nearly invisible pine forest. After what I used to hear in Vienna, the so-called music in the Valley Gardens appeared to me a parody without any sense of fun. And after the fragrance of the air on the Kahlenberg, in the BrÜhl, or on the Eisernes Thor, where I had made excursions, the rotten egg perfume of the sulphur springs at Harrogate was simply repulsive.

And then, instead of Mitzi, I had Bean. She was at that time a mere kid of twelve, just beginning to be a flapper. I have generally been shy with young ladies, and have avoided their company. But I never have considered Miss Violet Dicks a young lady. She just was Bean—and is still.

You will have noticed that my modesty has hitherto prevented me from giving a detailed description of your humble servant's physical charms. Be it sufficient for you to know that there were at Harrogate many ladies whose profession, not to call it trade, was to be young. Ladies who used to let their eyes rest with all signs of satisfaction on my tall and evidently handsome figure.

Being afraid (I think you can fancy my feelings) I used Bean as a shield. I would not take a walk without her by my side to protect me from some suppositious attack by one of the ladies, in whom I saw so many birds of prey. I daresay it was dreadfully mean of me to misuse the child like this. For when we rambled along the fields I scarcely spoke, absorbed as I was in the mental work on Lady Macbeth, an effort that never ceased. Yet, although I took so little notice of her, the child's eyes were always shining, and whenever she spoke her voice was thirsting with excitement.

Once I asked her if my taciturnity did not annoy her.

"Oh!" she answered, "it is just splendid to be with you. I know you think of music. You listen to your thoughts. One day I will listen to your music. I am waiting. I won't get impatient."

"Should you like to know the plot of my opera?"

"Oh, it would be just delightful!"

Just splendid. Just delightful. That was her way of expressing herself.

I told her the story of Lady Macbeth.

"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.

I made a beautiful gesture with my hand and turned to Mitzi.

"A short time before I went to England I found out what had so much upset your father. Your visit to Salzburg had been used for foul play; during your absence your father's score of Griseldis had been stolen."

"What?" cried both women.

"It is so," I continued. "Mr. Doblana suspects that it was stolen with FrÄulein Mitzi's support. This, and the desire of the Archduke that no fuss should be made in which his name would necessarily be involved has prevented police inquiries. But I do not share Mr. Doblana's opinion. I thought and, of course, still think, that FrÄulein Mitzi is absolutely innocent. I believed then that the Salzburg wire had been sent by the Comtesse Augusta...."

"Oh!" cried Mitzi.

"I believed so until yesterday. I apologize now; my suspicion was evidently erroneous. I also thought that for some unknown reason Mr. Giulay had stolen the score...."

"Oh!" exclaimed Mitzi again.

And Fanny protested vigorously:

"It is not true!"

"In this part," I declared, "I feel unable to give in. My proof is that Fanny tried to protect Mr. Giulay by telling us that story of the cook, and again tries to shield him now."

"What else?" asked Fanny ironically.

"Fanny and Giulay," I concluded triumphantly, "acted in agreement. Fanny was in Giulay's service, was his accomplice. Her leave had begun on the Friday morning. She went at once to Salzburg from where she sent the wire. There is a train leaving Vienna at ten o'clock which arrives at three in Salzburg. FrÄulein received the wire at about five. It fits to a nicety."

"It is not true!" cried the maid again, bursting into tears.

"Then why," prompted I, "why did you tell that story of the cook? Why did you declare that you knew that it was a month since Mr. Giulay had left Vienna even for half a day?"

She sniffed.

"Fanny," said Mitzi gently, "you have always been a good girl. Why did you tell these lies?"

Fanny sniffed more. With her nose, with her mouth, with all her throat. If it had been possible she would have sniffed with her ears. But there came no reply.

"Fanny," repeated Mitzi, "you see that appearances are all against you."

A paroxysm of sniffing answered, while the girl assented with her head, and her tears redoubled. Who would have thought she had so much water in her?[2]

"You must tell us the truth," insisted Mitzi. "You will understand that by your silence you only strengthen the suspicion which lies upon you."

There was a pause. And then, suddenly, Fanny turned upon me with clenched fists, her wet face purple with rage. She trembled with anger.

"What did I do to you," she said with a cry of exasperation, "that you should come and wrong me so? I am no thief, nor is Mr. Giulay. He has not taken the music, nor have I sent the wire ..."

"But, Fanny," interrupted Mitzi.

"No FrÄulein, it's no use ... you won't prove anything. The young gentleman wants to know the truth. Well, I will say the truth: I used to walk out with Mr. Giulay ..."

Mitzi and I were speechless at this revelation.

"... and during these three days we were on the Semmering[3] together and didn't leave each other for a minute. That's all. And now, FrÄulein will be good enough to take my notice."

With these words Fanny left the room. And then another tempest burst. This time I was the victim. I will not give you many details. But you may imagine Mitzi's state of mind. She had in one minute, as the result of Fanny's confession, lost a good maid who had faithfully served her for six years, and seen her belief in her esteemed friend Giulay ruined, Giulay, who was carrying on a love affair with such a low class girl. And all that through me, without my having even succeeded in finding a solution for "The Mystery of the Griseldis score."

I will add here that Fanny informed her fancy gentleman of the whole discussion, and how I had suspected her and him. You will not be surprised to hear that the theatrical agent's interest in me and my work disappeared there and then, and that he did not undertake one more step for me.

But this is only a secondary matter. For the present the avalanche of reproaches that fell on me was quite sufficient. A regular scene took place between Mitzi and her detective-composer. (For wasn't I a student in both these callings, of which I can only say that either is the worse?)

You, who have been kind enough to read these confessions, you know that I gave my inmost heart to the composition of my Lady Macbeth, and you will learn only too soon how I fared. So much for the composer. Now for the detective. You also know with what care I investigated "The Mystery of the Griseldis score," how patiently I waited and kept my suspicions for myself as long as I was not sure. If in the end I was deceived by appearances, if I made a blunder, was it my fault? What business had Fanny to walk out with Giulay, and Mitzi to embark upon an operatic career against the wish of her father?

Well, we were very busy, Mitzi saying nasty things to me, and I trying to soften her, when we heard Mr. Doblana's key turning in the lock. He was coming home from his rehearsal. Then we perceived the noise of a smaller key. He was opening the letter box. And after a minute he walked in, finding us seated in two opposite corners of the room, as far as possible from each other—Mitzi looking sullen—I meek.

And he? Gracious me, what a sour face he made. He walked up and down for a minute or so, and if there had been on our part the slightest wish to talk, we would not have dared to do it, so cheerful did he look.

At last he mumbled a few words about treachery, respect due by the children and so on, and after these short preliminaries the storm, the third one of the day, broke forth. He had just received a letter from the manager of the BrÜnn municipal theatre. Miss Doblana not being of age, her father was required to endorse the contract.

My word, he was in a rage. No!—he was not going to give his consent to such utter folly. He was indignant at being deceived in this way.

"Have I not a thousand times expressed my wish that you should not go on the stage?"

"Oh," answered Mitzi sweetly, "you have certainly done it more than a thousand times. But I have failed to understand why."

"Is the example of your unhappy aunt, of La Carina, not enough?"

"My mother, too, was an operatic singer."

"I do not speak of your mother, I speak of your aunt."

"Well, what of her?"

"Was her's not a life of shame?"

"I feel unable to see it in that light."

"Was your mother not ashamed of her? Did she not for years hide from me the mere existence of your aunt Kathi, of La Carina? Was I not cheated by your mother every day exactly as I have now been cheated once more by you? And what for? I ask you, what for? Do you think that every she-cat that walks miaowing over the boards will find an Archduke?"

I thought that it was time for me to step into the battle.

"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?