You are here
قراءة كتاب My Austrian Love The History of the Adventures of an English Composer in Vienna. Written in the Trenches by Himself
تنويه: تعرض هنا نبذة من اول ١٠ صفحات فقط من الكتاب الالكتروني، لقراءة الكتاب كاملا اضغط على الزر “اشتر الآن"
My Austrian Love The History of the Adventures of an English Composer in Vienna. Written in the Trenches by Himself
She nodded meekly.
"But not entirely well? You feel tired? You have got a headache?"
"No, no!" she protested smilingly.
"I see. You want a little more brandy."
"No, no," she repeated.
But I was not satisfied. She seemed distressed.
"You are anxious about your luggage. Do you want me to go and see?"
"I have no luggage."
"You have no luggage?"
"No."
I was surprised. For she had brought none into the car either. Still, that was no business of mine.
"Can't I do anything for you?"
"You may tell me the time."
"It is a quarter past four."
"And since when are we here?"
I named the foreshadowed moment:
"3.33."
"Three-quarters of an hour!" she cried. "But we will arrive in Vienna at an impossible hour."
She looked alarmed.
At last, after what appeared an endless delay, but what was in reality only another half-hour, an engine arrived, and both trains tied together were drawn into the next station. There followed a lot of manœuvring; the train which had run into our's had first to be removed, and then the two engines, of which only the wheels were still in a possible state. The luggage van was replaced and the luggage repacked. And, finally, at nearly six o'clock, we resumed our journey at a breakneck speed.
The young lady seemed rather oppressed, probably by visions of some more terrific accidents. Each time, when there was a switch, the jolting caused by transferring the carriage from one line of rails to another seemed to send a thrill of fear through her frame. Nevertheless, she proved a very willing and agreeable talker. Perhaps was she too nervous to keep silent, for I had to inform her of the time every quarter of an hour. But she did not tell me why; whether somebody was awaiting her, or whether there was some particular reason for her to dread her late arrival. Nor did I learn anything about her. She remained clad in mystery. After several hours' conversation I did not know any more of her than when I had seen her first. On the other hand, she knew all about me and, as a matter of fact, I suppose that it was I who did most of the talking. I tried thus, by showing my confidence, to win hers. But in vain.
At last we reached Vienna. We were full three hours late. As she had told me about the difficulty of getting a cab, I asked her whether I might not go and fetch her one.
"Yes! She would be pleased!"
So, having designated a certain pillar in the great hall, where she was to wait for me with my bags, I went in search of a Jehu. (I do not know whether in Vienna Jehu would be an acceptable nickname, but never mind.) It was not a very easy task, and I had plenty of time to prepare myself for the three questions which I absolutely must ask her before we parted: Whether, when, and where I should see her again. I knew that in Vienna it was the fashion to kiss the hand of a lady at such a moment. And I saw myself already bending over her hand and kissing it, asking her the fateful questions.
But, when after ten minutes I came back, the fair Comtesse had gone. My bags were standing lonely near the pillar and greeted me with a mocking grin.
II.
Sergeant Young gives a few orders and then turns to me.
"I have read that first chapter of your book," he says. "For a man without any experience as a writer it is not so bad. But, of course...."
Sergeant Young, my particular chum, is the most extraordinary man of the regiment. Take a pint each of Figaro and d'Artagnan, half a pint of demigod, a spoonful each of Scotchman, Frenchman, and South African, mix well and put into khaki: You will have Sergeant Young ready for use. Since the beginning of the war he has been dreaming of a commission and, my word, nobody ever deserved one if he does not. We have been together at the Dardanelles, and what remains of our Division—although it is not much—was saved by him.
He is a funny man. You do not know whether he is rich or poor, for one day he has the manner of a grand seigneur and the next day he is satisfied with a beggar's fare. You cannot guess what he is in civil life. At one moment you may take him for a broker from the Stock Exchange, at the next for an art critic, or a farmer, an innkeeper, an accountant, a horsebreaker, a historian, or a miner. We only know that he is a splendid soldier and an excellent fellow.
It is in his quality of an art critic that I have given him to read the first chapter of my book.
"You see," says he, "if I were to write a book, I would begin with the beginning."
"I do begin with the beginning," I retort, "only there are some preliminary facts which may as well be told in the course of the narrative. I like to enter in medias res."
"You need not swank about your Latin," he answers. "You remind me of the War Office. They (he has an undescribable way of accentuating the word they when he speaks of the War Office) they, too, like young officers to get acquainted with the 'preliminary facts in the course of the narrative'; while my opinion is: An officer must begin with the beginning. Look here, P. C., suppose you had been Holy Moses, you would have written the Bible thus: 'God created man in his own image, after having created the great whales, and even at an earlier date two great lights. I may as well tell you that before that he had said: Let there be light, and that at the very beginning he had created heaven and earth.'"
And very sternly the Sergeant adds:
"I wish to know why you were in Munich...?"
"I wanted to improve myself in the noble art of composition."
"Don't interrupt me ... and why you left it for Vienna?"
"I will tell you."
He: "Not yet. I must hear about another thing first. Did you miss a rat yesterday?"
I (with an expression of guilt): "I did."
He: "I thought as much. But that bacon was not bacon at all, and therefore ought not to have been bad. We will find a prompt remedy to this sort of things. Write down what I will dictate to you."
I take a sheet of paper and my fountain pen. It's one I found on the body of a dead Turk, but, my word, he might have bought a decent one before getting shot.
This is what the Sergeant dictates:
"To the Editor of the Evening News,
London, E.C.
"Sir,
"The enemy is in our midst, and our brave army is sold to alien scoundrels. Some Germans have secured Government contracts for bacon. But, of course, the Government, which never knows what to do when the Evening News has not told them beforehand, have omitted the principal thing. Is there a single word in these contracts to specify that bacon must be flesh of swine? What Tommy gets under the designation of bacon I don't know, but the German contractors do.
"I am,
"Sir,
"Yours truly...."
"You sign," he adds.
"Your name?" I ask.
"My name? Never!" he cries.
His name is the one thing of which he is afraid. When he but thinks of his name his heart sinks. His name is his secret. He has enlisted under a false name. He calls himself Charles Young, but in reality he is Friedrich Wilhelm Young.
When my chum was born, his father was under the influence of the deeds of the then Crown Prince, our dearly