My Austrian Love

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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."

* * * * * *

[Illustration]

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.")

[Illustration]

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!"

I muttered something like "Custom Regulations," but he went on vociferating:

"It is not true! I was told in Paris that the handbags and the other small things would be examined in the carriage, and the heavy luggage in Vienna. I refuse to get out."

He was right. I had been told the same thing in Munich, but, as an Englishman, I was wont to hold my peace. So I alighted.

In the same minute an official approached our carriage and invited the Frenchman to do as he was bid. The official was not very polite, it must be said in justice to the Parisian, but the latter clamoured at once, shaking his fists: "It was disgusting, and he was going to do as it pleased him!" Whereupon the man with the red cap introduced himself in a gruff voice as an Imperial and Royal Official and menaced his antagonist with immediate arrest. I tried to dissuade both from quarrelling, but the Frenchman was deaf to all reason.