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قراءة كتاب My Austrian Love The History of the Adventures of an English Composer in Vienna. Written in the Trenches by Himself
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My Austrian Love The History of the Adventures of an English Composer in Vienna. Written in the Trenches by Himself
The Project Gutenberg eBook, My Austrian Love, by Maxime Provost
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Title: My Austrian Love
The History of the Adventures of an English Composer in Vienna. Written in the Trenches by Himself
Author: Maxime Provost
Release Date: July 14, 2014 [eBook #46284]
Language: English
Character set encoding: UTF-8
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MY AUSTRIAN LOVE
By the same Author:
MONTOREL
The Story of a Coincidence.
The Times: "A highly romantic tale, well knit and well told."
The Daily Graphic: "A unique achievement."
The Athenæum: "An excellent story."
The Globe: "A literary tour de force."
Birmingham Mercury: "A masterly work."
Birmingham Gazette: "Wonderful."
Glasgow Herald: "Freshly written, deliciously holding our attention throughout."
etc., etc., etc.
No Lover of Fiction can Afford to miss Reading
"MONTOREL."

MY AUSTRIAN LOVE
The History of the Adventures
of an English Composer in Vienna
Written in the Trenches
by Himself
BY
MAXIME PROVOST
(Author of "Montorel.")

London:
THE IRIS PUBLISHING CO.
30-31 FURNIVAL STREET, E.C. 4.
Many of the personages are genuine. Maurus Giulay, for instance, whose initials I have kept, and Bischoff. As for Hammer, I think that musicians will easily recognize Anton Bruckner, the famous antagonist of Brahms.
What more have I to say?
Not much.—Only to ask my readers to be as indulgent towards "My Austrian Love" as they were towards "Montorel."
M.P.
(Does not mean Member of Parliament.)
CONTENTS
PAGE | |
INTRODUCTION | 7 |
I | 10 |
II | 26 |
III | 45 |
IV | 72 |
V | 97 |
VI | 128 |
VII | 152 |
VIII | 173 |
IX | 198 |
X | 228 |
XI | 252 |
XII | 278 |
INTRODUCTION.
Exactly in the middle of the railway bridge by which the Salzach is spanned Bavarian territory ceases and Austria begins. I knew that; but I was much less impressed by this probably interesting fact (for, why on earth would one have taken so much care to inform me, if it were not interesting?) than by the singular beauty of the spot. I had just a glimpse of the two isolated hills between which the river flows, of the lovely valley thus formed, and of the lofty fortress that rises above the towers and spires of the city. In the next minute the train stopped and cries of "Salzburg, all change!" or its German equivalent, resounded.
At once my neighbour, an irascible Frenchman, who from Munich had shared the carriage with me, flew up in a rage, gesticulating, full of noise.
"It is not true," he cried, "I don't have to change!"