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.

I asked why I should be deprived of attending the performance.

"I do not like the idea," said Doblana, "of Mitzi being alone in BrÜnn. I cannot accompany her on that particular evening, but I think that you, her fiancÉe, ought not to neglect her."

"Good Lord!" exclaimed Mitzi, "Am I not old enough to remain alone for one evening? If I am such a child, then surely you will not consider Patrick grown up either. He is but one year older than I."

"How will you manage?" asked her father.

"I think I will stay the night at the hotel."

"I do not think that it befits a young lady to stay a night alone at an hotel."

"All right, then I will go and stay with Augusta."

Doblana acquiesced. But this time I made an objection.

"Augusta," I said, "will be in Vienna on that particular evening; she will want to see Aladdin."

Mitzi glanced at me with an angry look.

"Anyhow," she protested, "Franz will have no leave. He will be in BrÜnn."

"That is just what I object to," I declared. "The best thing would be for you to return to Vienna. I will be at the Northern Station to bring you home."

This was finally decided upon, and Mitzi left us in the afternoon for BrÜnn. At six o'clock there came a wire from her addressed to Doblana, just as he and I were about to leave for the theatre.

It ran:

"Safely arrived. House full. Best luck to Papa. Mitzi."

An hour and a half later Aladdin began.

When you write your reminiscences, as I am doing now, you will be supposed to talk of other people. You will see how difficult it is. I always want to talk about myself. I remember things only inasmuch they concern me. Other people's feelings are not half as important to me as my own. Thus, that evening, at the beginning they were so intensely bitter, that I think I must record them, although Doblana was the hero of the day. I was, naturally enough, reminded of my own first night ten days before. But while Lady Macbeth had been played before an unsatisfactorily filled house, the one to-day was packed. All the imaginable beautiful and jewelled ladies were present, while at BrÜnn the provincial simplicity of the feminine public (the male part is about everywhere the same) was so exaggerated, that my poor mater's diamonds were, as you have seen, thought worthy of a newspaper notice. Whoever was of importance in Vienna, political and military people, financiers, diplomatists, and artists, was to be found on that first night. One hardly noticed that the great Court Box was empty, and that no Royalty was present; for all the other noted members of Society had come. I will confess that I felt jealous. And this jealousy increased as the orchestra started playing Doblana's music.

Oh, what an orchestra! We have a few fine orchestras in London, but how much superior are the Vienna Philharmonics. Neither Munich, nor Dresden, can boast of such artists. To hear one's music performed by them must be heaven.

Such then were my feelings as Aladdin began. Who would have thought that a couple of hours later my sentiments would be reversed and that instead of envying Doblana, I would pity the poor fellow?

I had seen the ballet at different rehearsals. Joseph Dorff's book was clever, Doblana's music pretty, tuneful and well scored, although in no way remarkable, and the staging simply marvellous. There is no Parisian nor Russian ballet which can compete with those of the Vienna Opera. Not only are the dancers and mimics incomparable, but fortunes are spent on the scenery and the costumes, which are proofs of the most perfect theatrical taste.

The first act was placed before and inside the famous cavern where Aladdin finds the lamp. In the original tale this cavern is uninhabited, but in the ballet there were populations of pretty spirits and servants of the lamp. These gave a pretext for all sorts of charming dances. And there was one dance which had a real success, namely, that of the precious stones. It was performed by small girls dressed as rubies, emeralds, sapphires and so on, who formed lovely groups representing the different jewels. The whole had a kaleÏdoscopic effect, changing from one second to the next, and was uncommonly pleasant.

Yet this was nothing in comparison to what was to come in the second and third act. In the former there was the magnificent arrival of Aladdin at the Sultan's court. He came on a splendid white charger and was accompanied by forty white and forty black slaves, who afterwards showed all the skill taught by the Viennese dancing masters. In the last act there came the piÈce de rÉsistance, namely, the building before the eyes of the public, not in one night, but in ten minutes, of Aladdin's unique palace. Things of such kind are very easy to be done in fairy tales and not much more difficult on a stage when the manager disposes of unlimited wealth. All the wonders of the Arabian Nights were to be presented to the audience on that evening.

The first act had gone well, better even than anybody had expected. There are usually but short entre-acts in the Vienna Opera. But first nights, especially of Grand Ballets, are such social events that they do not admit this rule in all its rigour. Therefore nobody was surprised when the entre-acte instead of the usual ten minutes had lasted twenty. Groups had been chatting and laughing and showing their toilettes and jewels. But in the end everybody had left the foyer and returned to the seats. Yet nothing happened. The musicians were at their places, but no conductor was present. Ten more minutes passed. The public gave signs of impatience, a thing unheard of in this sanctissimum. But these signs of impatience lasted one instant only. Then the house became painfully silent.

I should have liked to go and see behind the curtain what had happened. But this was not a provincial theatre where such visits from the public to the stage could be permitted. In this Imperial and Royal Court theatre there were strict rules; and I could only wait with the other people.

The wildest rumours began to spread. The amount of improbabilities human brains can invent in a few minutes is incredible. And here two and a half thousand were busy finding the extraordinary reason of this long pause.

Yet as inventive as their brains were, they proved no match for the reality. For after three-quarters of an hour, which seemed an interminably long time, a bell was heard, and a gentleman in evening dress appeared before the curtain. He was sickly pale.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he said, "I have much regret in announcing that the further performance of the ballet Aladdin has been forbidden by all-highest order. The money for purchased seats will be refunded to-morrow in exchange of the coupons of the tickets."

The announcement had the effect of a thunderstorm, putting an end to the suspense of the last minutes. I could not say what was greater, consternation, regret for the composer, disorder among the discontented spectators, or curiosity to know the secret reason of this catastrophe.

For my part I left the theatre as quickly as possible and went to the little side door in the Opera Street, at the rear of the premises, where Doblana was wont to leave. There was already a terrific crowd. But although I had (I have no more) the soft fingers and delicate hands of a pianist, I possess also the strong elbows of an English sportsman, and I succeeded in reaching the door. Just at that moment a man came out of the house. He looked pale, haggard, with the expression of a drunkard. It was Doblana.

He scarcely recognised me, but I pushed my arm under his and led him away.

It was cold and foggy.

I shivered as I asked him what had happened.

"It is the Archduke," he stammered, "who has forbidden the performance."

There was something like a sob in his voice.

"The Archduke? His own work? Why?"

"I don't know myself."

After a few steps made in a painful silence, he added:

"We had a little difference yesterday, at the dress rehearsal, but nothing of importance."

"What was it?"

"He wanted to cancel the dance of the precious stones, saying that it was like a kindergarten that had gone mad."

"And?"

"Well, I objected to such a cut and said: 'Nonsense, Herr Graf.' Thereupon he sat down, pronouncing not another word more."

"And what did he do to-day?"

"He did nothing. He did not even come. During the first act a letter from the First Master of Ceremonies was delivered, saying that he forbade the performance to go on."

"But how is it possible to treat the public in this way?"

"Oh, the public!"

He shrugged his shoulders and went on explaining:

"They are not supposed to be regular spectators as in an ordinary theatre. They are the guests of the Emperor, and they, as it were, buy an invitation to assist at the performance, which is in reality supposed to be given not for the general public, but for the private pleasure of His Majesty."

"And was there nothing to be done?"

"We have tried, that is why we had to keep the audience waiting so long. The conductor hurried to the First Master of Ceremonies, and the Manager to His Majesty himself, while I drove to the palace of the Archduke. I was not received at all, nor did the manager see the Emperor, and as for the conductor, he was told by the First Master of Ceremonies that he regretted, but had to obey orders."

Instinctively, we had taken the direction of the Karlsgasse. I had a very nasty feeling, as if poor, innocent Doblana had suddenly become a criminal, and I his accomplice. I was dazed as if I had had a smack in the face.

We were passing a large cafÉ near the Elisabeth Bridge, where Doblana and I sometimes used to meet some friends.

"Let us go in," I said, "and show your self publicly. Make the best out of a bad case. After all you are innocent of the disaster that has befallen you. Go in, there are surely a few journalists inside. Let yourself be interviewed and protest against the manner you have been treated."

You ought to have seen the terror in the poor man's face. He opened his eyes, his nostrils, his mouth and drew backwards his lower jaw as if he had wanted to swallow it. (As a matter of fact, he must have been starving, for he had had no food the whole day.)

"Protest!" he cried at last. "I?—Mr. Cooper, you desire my death. As if my situation was not sufficiently bad! This is not a free country like yours, where you can talk as you like. No! I have but one thing to do, to go home and hide myself. I am done for."

And so we went to the Karlsgasse. The house seemed desolate to me. The servant, Fanny's unworthy successor, believing that we would sup outside and come home late, had gone to bed. So I proceeded into the dreary kitchen (a kitchen without a cook is always dreary, and without fire it can drive you to desperation) and made some tea on the gas-stove, while Doblana who had lit a cigar was walking up and down in the salon.

"It is terrible," said he at last, after he had swallowed a little tea, "how Austria is changing. What happens to me is but an instance of the new spirit that reigns here. Or should I not call it otherwise? This spirit, which comes from Berlin, this Pangermanic spirit is not a new spirit, but a reactionary spirit, a dark, mediÆval spirit, a spirit that recognizes no right, but only might. What this Archduke has done to me to-day, in our time of enlightenment, is nothing else than an act of mediÆval brutality.

"All evil comes us from Berlin. It spoils our art, it spoils our music. What they call the higher form is simply amorphous. What they call deep ideas is empty commonplace. The motives which are behind it all are vicious, sensual, degenerate, disgusting depravity. What we see in their painting, figures now too long, now too short, with swollen abdomens, with grinning faces, we find in their music, in the grossness of their motives, in the brutality of their orchestrations. This music is a breath from a stinking morass.

"And this is not all. Berlin is so mediÆval in its views that they want war, universal war. War which will give the death blow to Austrian music, for music does not live in times of war. Fifty years ago they said: Germany for the Germans! Now they are crying: the world for the Prussians! And as though Austria were a German state, as though there were no Slavs and no Italians in Austria, Berlin wants to drag us into her war schemes. And they will succeed. From our cruel paintings you can see it, from our coarse, frightful music you can hear it: they will succeed!"

Thus spoke Doblana, not a great prophet, no, only a humble musician. Do not believe, incredulous reader, that I make him utter a prophesy after the event. Nay! These words were actually spoken, a long time before anybody, before even he who spoke them, thought of the war, that war in which I am fighting, that war which, as in irony, Austria, gentle, joyous, dancing Austria began.

I looked at my watch, and suddenly I remembered that I was to meet Mitzi at the Northern Station. It was very late, perhaps too late. Still by making haste I might arrive in time. So I speedily went away. But as it is always when you are in a hurry, the taxi took a long, circuitous route, what they call a short cut, and I arrived too late. The train had arrived nearly ten minutes ago, and I could find no trace of Mitzi at the station.

Heaven knows what gave me the idea that something was wrong. When I came back to the Karlsgasse, I saw the light in the windows of the salon as they had been when I had left. I ascended the stairs and rang the bell. Nearly at once I heard Doblana's dragging step, who came to open the door.

"Alone?" he cried, in a state of utmost anxiety.

Mitzi had not arrived.

The nervousness of the poor man was terrible. Exhausted as he was I did not dare to leave him, and I passed with him the worst night of my life. I have only to think of it to find any night in the trenches, amidst the roaring of the shells, restful by comparison.

At the earliest hour in the morning we went to a telephone office where we asked for communication with the Grand Hotel in BrÜnn. After a long half-hour we got through, only to learn that FrÄulein had not been seen on the previous day at the hotel.

We tried the theatre. The one thing we heard was that she had been very successful as always and had left immediately after the performance.

We returned to the Karlsgasse. Mitzi had not arrived. Only the postman had called and brought several letters. None of them being from her, Doblana threw them carelessly into his pocket and asked me whether I was coming with him to BrÜnn. Of course, I acquiesced. But I will confess that I, so to say, made a condition of our having some breakfast before. It may be that youth is more hungry, but I could not go on without food.

At last we sat in the train. We had more than an hour before us.

Mechanically Doblana looked through his letters, passing them silently to me. The first was an invoice for flowers he had offered the evening before to several dancers.

The second was one of good Hammer, written immediately after the interrupted performance in very warm words, taking part in the sorrow that had befallen his friend.

The third was from the publisher. But I could not read it to the end, for Doblana, who was perusing the fourth one, suddenly uttered a stifled cry.

The letter was from the Archduke.

"My dear collaborator, my worthy Mr. Doblana," (it ran about—I do not recollect the exact words—), "I have taken my revenge. You have treated my dear wife like the basest of women, only because the chief of my family had prohibited my marrying her. Your behaviour was an unforgettable insult to the best, the most deserving and amiable woman, in whom you have seen nothing but a despicable, venal dancer. You have continued your disdain, your hatred beyond the tomb. What I have done is my retaliation.

"It is I who have taken away from your house and destroyed your Griseldis. It is I who have prohibited the performance of your Aladdin, knowing that I would hit you in your weakest spot, your ambition. And I may as well tell you that, while you may keep your position as a horn-player at the Opera, its doors are henceforth closed to the composer Doblana.

"You need not worry about the cost of the production at the Opera. I have made good the damage my vengeance has occasioned.

"As for you, I do not wish that it should cause you any pecuniary loss. The idea of having harmed my former collaborator in this paltry way would be unpleasant to me. I put the value of Griseldis and Aladdin at 25.000 crowns each and enclose therefore a cheque for 50.000 crowns to indemnify you.

"Alphons Hector."

I cannot describe the wrath of my poor friend. And I had to struggle with him to prevent him from tearing the cheque to pieces. And this may give you the measure of his indignation. For you know how great was his love of money.

I should like to state that the Archduke had moreover shown himself wrong in two points. Ambition was not Doblana's weakest spot, it was precisely money. Nor was Alphons Hector's prediction right, for two years later an opera of Doblana's composition was successfully produced at the Viennese Opera.

As for the Archduke, or the Herr Graf, or Joseph Dorff, however you may call him, he completely disappeared a few days after the memorable Aladdin night. Some say that he undertook a journey on his yacht, and that it was lost with all hands. Other people think that he has settled down to a private life somewhere in South America. In any case he was nevermore heard of.

But to resume my story. All researches in BrÜnn as afterwards in Vienna did not succeed in finding Mitzi. The only clue we obtained (it was from Augusta von Heidenbrunn that we got it) was the fact that her brother Franz had disappeared together with my fiancÉe. He had, for her sake, become a deserter.

A few weeks went by, which I passed nearly without interruption on Doblana's side. He slowly recovered from the awful shock this whole affair had caused him. Then I proceeded to Graz to assist at the performance of Lady Macbeth in this town. Without Mitzi, without her overwhelming talent, without her charm it was bound to be a failure. And I came back to Vienna more discouraged, more disheartened than ever. Again I saw much of Doblana, and I can assure you that we were a pretty pair of dejected composers. On this subject I could write pages, but out of pity for you I won't.

One day, as we sat there smoking, and pondering silently over our shattered hopes, the bell rang. We heard the maid opening the door, and in the next minute Mitzi entered. She was dressed exactly as I had last seen her, but her features were drawn, she was pale and seemed to have suffered. In this moment I swore that I would avenge her, if ever I could, of the scoundrel who had brought her to this.

She had stopped at the door. We had both, Doblana and I, risen in a violent surprise. During an unterminable minute no word was spoken. Then, at last, she whispered piteously:

"Father!"

And as no answer came she said:

"Patrick, I have come back."

Again there was that gloomy, cruel silence. And suddenly we saw her fall down crying, sobbing, shaking. Then her father approached her and lifted her up. He did it with infinite gentleness, but he said no word.

My dear reader, you are perhaps a sentimental person and you will, may be, condemn your old friend Patrick for not having made the movement which her father made. But you see....

A few days before I had read William J. Locke's novel The Morals of Marcus Ordeyne, one of the most brilliant and delightful this wonderful writer has achieved. There was a certain analogy in Mitzi's return and in that of Carlotta. Like her she came back empty handed, having also probably pawned everything. It was heart-breaking, and like Marcus I felt faint. Perhaps, if I had spoken one single word at that moment everything would have happened otherwise. However, my morals are not the morals of Marcus Ordeyne—and that one word, I spoke it not.

Slowly her father led her into her room. I used the moment to slip out of the house. I went to my lodgings, nearly mad, and packed my things. The same evening saw me on my way to England, never to go back.