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i

SCHOENBERG’S
E ARLY
CORRESPONDENCE
ii

S c h o e n be rg i n Wor d s

G e n e ra l E d ito r s
S a bi ne Fei s s t a nd S e ver i ne Ne f f

Volume 1: Schoenberg on Form, including Fundamentals of Musical

Composition, edited by Áine Heneghan

Volume 2: Schoenberg’s Models for Beginners in Composition,

edited by Gordon Root

Volume 3: Schoenberg on Counterpoint, including Preliminary

Exercises in Counterpoint, edited by Severine Neff

Volume 4: Schoenberg on Performance, edited by Avior Byron

Volume 5: Schoenberg’s Program Notes and Musical Analyses,

edited by J. Daniel Jenkins

Volume 6: Schoenberg’s Correspondence with Anton Webern,

edited and translated by Benjamin Levy

Volume 7: Schoenberg’s Correspondence with Alma Mahler, edited

and translated by Elizabeth L. Keathley and Marilyn McCoy

Volume 8: Schoenberg’s Early Correspondence, edited and translated

by Ethan Haimo and Sabine Feisst

Volume 9: Schoenberg’s Correspondence with American Composers,

edited and translated by Sabine Feisst
iii

SCHOENBERG’S
E ARLY
CORRESPONDENCE

1891—​M ay 19 07

E D I T E D A N D T R A N S L AT E D B Y E T H A N H A I M O
AND SABINE FEISST

1
iv

1
Oxford University Press is a department of the University of Oxford. It furthers
the University’s objective of excellence in research, scholarship, and education
by publishing worldwide. Oxford is a registered trade mark of Oxford University
Press in the UK and certain other countries.

Published in the United States of America by Oxford University Press

198 Madison Avenue, New York, NY 10016, United States of America.

© Oxford University Press 2016

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in

a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the
prior permission in writing of Oxford University Press, or as expressly permitted
by law, by license, or under terms agreed with the appropriate reproduction
rights organization. Inquiries concerning reproduction outside the scope of the
above should be sent to the Rights Department, Oxford University Press, at the
address above.

You must not circulate this work in any other form

and you must impose this same condition on any acquirer.

Library of Congress Cataloging-​in-​Publication Data

Names: Schoenberg, Arnold, 1874–1951, author. | Haimo, Ethan, 1950—editor, translator, writer
of added commentary. | Feisst, Sabine, 1962—editor, translator, writer of added commentary.
Title: Schoenberg’s early correspondence : 1891–May 1907 / edited, translated, and with
commentary by Ethan Haimo & Sabine Feisst.
Description: New York: Oxford University Press, 2016. | Series: Schoenberg in words | Includes
bibliographical references and index.
Identifiers: LCCN 2015050037 | ISBN 9780195383720 (hardcover : alk. paper)
Subjects: LCSH: Schoenberg, Arnold, 1874–1951—Correspondence. |
Composers—Austria—Correspondence.
Classification: LCC ML410.S283 A413 2016 | DDC 780.92—dc23
LC record available at http://lccn.loc.gov/2015050037

1 3 5 7 9 8 6 4 2
Printed by Sheridan Books, Inc., United States of America
v

Contents

Preface and Editorial Notes vii

Acknowledgments xvii
Frequently Used Abbreviations xix

I. Let ter s before 190 0 1

II. Let ter s, 190 0 –​1 901 17

III. Let ter s, 1902 61

IV. Let ter s, 1903 156

V. Let ter s, 1904 223

VI. Let ter s, 1905 295

VII. Let ter s, 1906 320

VIII. Let ter s, t h rough May 1907 367

v
vi

vi Contents

Appendix 1: Undatable Letters 399

Appendix 2: Items Not Included 405
Select Bibliography 409
Index 413
vii

Preface and Editorial Notes

Notwithstanding Arnold Schoenberg’s central importance for the music of

the twentieth century, relatively little of his early correspondence has been
published in German transcription, let alone translated into English. The
present book addresses that scholarly gap. By presenting English transla-
tions of and commentary on all known (and available) letters to and from
Schoenberg beginning with the first surviving letters (1891) and continuing
to the end of May 1907, this book sheds new light on Schoenberg’s early biog-
raphy and career.
The rationale behind the starting date may seem obvious, but our decision
to include all available letters and to stop at the end of May 1907 requires some
explanation. Since an edition of all the approximately 20,000 surviving letters
is well beyond the capacity of any single, or even, as here, pair of editors, prior
editions of Schoenberg’s letters have presented some subset of the total. Erwin
Stein was the first to prepare a volume of Schoenberg’s letters, Ausgewählte
Briefe (1958). For that volume he selected letters and excerpts thereof that he
found to be particularly interesting and important. He tended to choose let-
ters that Schoenberg wrote to prominent figures (Ferruccio Busoni, Richard

vii
viii

viii P r e f a c e a n d Ed i t o r i a l N o t e s

Dehmel, Vasili Kandinsky, Alban Berg, Thomas Mann, Anton Webern, and
so forth) or that addressed compositional or biographical issues he deemed
important. Moreover, he included only letters written by Schoenberg, not by
his correspondents. Other publications have dealt with Schoenberg’s com-
munication with a specific figure such as Berg, Busoni, Heinrich Schenker,
Alexander Zemlinsky, and so forth. In the Schoenberg in Words set (of which
the present book is a part), other subsets are chosen: Schoenberg’s correspon-
dence with Alma Mahler, Webern, and American composers.
In this volume we decided to take an alternative approach, one which
we found particularly advantageous. We present the complete text of every
available letter, both to and from Schoenberg, within the designated time
frame, including letters not only to and from famous figures but also let-
ters to and from less well-​k nown correspondents. We believe that a full pic-
ture of Schoenberg and his milieu is best achieved by seeing not only what
Schoenberg wrote but what others conveyed to him.
Since the nineteenth century, one of the most popular (and enduring)
historiographical models has been Thomas Carlyle’s “Great Man Theory,” the
idea that history can largely be explained by the impact and influence of the
acts, decisions, and ideas of great figures. Books featuring only Schoenberg’s
correspondence with the leading lights of his day fit comfortably into Carlyle’s
historiographical model. But a competing model quickly emerged: Herbert
Spencer’s argument that great men and women are products of their
societies and cultures and that their actions flow out of the prevailing social
and cultural context. By presenting all the surviving letters, from both
prominent figures and far less well-​k nown correspondents, we anchor our
work firmly in Spencer’s model of thought. These documents give us some
inkling of what it was like to be a young, aspiring, but controversial com-
poser in Vienna and Berlin just after the turn of the twentieth century. We
see Schoenberg’s interactions with musicians, publishers, contest commit-
tees, writers, family, benefactors, friends, and foes. We discover his reaction
to criticism, how he worked with (or against) his publisher, how he tried to
promote his works, how he earned his daily bread, and countless other bio-
graphical and historical details.
ix

P r e f a c e a n d Ed i t o r i a l N o t e s ix

Starting with the first extant letters is obvious, but why did we include
correspondence only through the end of May 1907? The period of time cov-
ered by this book begins with Schoenberg as an unknown, unpublished, and
untested composer who had few compositions in his catalogue, no publications
to his credit, and almost no public performances of his works. Schoenberg
was someone who, at the beginning of our story, was compelled to take a job
at a cabaret in order to support himself and his family. But within six years,
he had become famous, primarily as a result of the extraordinary reactions to
the premieres of his String Quartet, Op. 7, and his Chamber Symphony, Op. 9.
By the end of May 1907, the reactions to these premieres had tapered off. Thus
the end of May 1907 seemed like a logical point in time to stop, marking as
it did the end of one phase of his career and the beginning of the next. Any
ending point may seem arbitrary, halting the story in media res, but stopping
after the hubbub died down following the controversial concerts in early 1907
gave us as reasonable an endpoint as we were likely to find.
There is an added reason that an edition of the early letters is particularly
attractive. One of the consequences of Schoenberg’s early anonymity is the
frankness with which he and his correspondents could write, not suspect-
ing that the letters would ever be read by anyone else. Thus there is a fresh-
ness to the dialogue that is not often matched in the correspondence of later
years. From 1909 onward, Schoenberg made it a regular practice to create
carbon copies of all the letters he wrote. (By contrast, in the period covered
here, he made almost no copies, and thus letters of his survived only if the
recipients saved them.) When someone is famous and makes copies of his
letters, saving them for posterity, it is reasonable to assume that the author
is self-​consciously aware that his words are no longer private. It follows that
letters can take on the feel of public manifestos, not private communications.
The same is true for Schoenberg’s correspondents. Before 1907, few of those
who wrote to Schoenberg could have imagined that their words would be
published (let alone translated) more than a century later. This too permitted
his correspondents to write with a directness that is unusual to find in the
correspondence of later years when his correspondents knew they were writ-
ing to a famous man.
x

x P r e f a c e a n d Ed i t o r i a l N o t e s

Our approach has been to publish every letter from the period, in full, no
matter how quotidian the subject. But what exactly is the definition of a letter?
This became an issue because a number of items preserved in various archives
and listed in various catalogues are presented as “letters” of, or to, Schoenberg
but we do not regard them as such. We have adopted a narrow definition of
a letter, restricting it to a handwritten (or typed) verbal message directed to
a specific recipient. This definition thus excludes items like insurance forms,
contracts, printed wedding invitations, membership cards, and so forth, all
of which have been included in catalogues of Schoenberg’s correspondence.
Any item listed in the Preliminary Inventory published in the last issue of the
Journal of the Arnold Schoenberg Institute or found in the Arnold Schönberg
Center correspondence database that does not appear in our book is listed in
Appendix 2 and the reasons for its exclusion are explained.
We wish to be as comprehensive as possible and have tried to include
every letter from the period. Fortunately, with few exceptions (letters sold
at auctions and now in private hands), we were able to get access to nearly
all of the surviving letters from our chosen time frame. Insofar as was pos-
sible, we consulted the letter itself or, if that was not possible, a photocopy
thereof. Sometimes, however, it was neither possible to see the letter itself nor
to obtain a photocopy, and we had to use an available transcription. We iden-
tify in the commentary all cases where we were unable to consult the original
or a photocopy and worked instead from a transcription.
As we found, however, there are substantive problems with the catalogues
of Schoenberg’s letters. Many letters are misdated, misattributed, or undated.
It follows that we cannot guarantee that we have identified all the letters
from the relevant period. Even excepting letters that are in private hands and
unknown to scholarship, there very well may be letters in the archives that
belong to our period but are either misdated or undated. We have done our
best to identify all the relevant letters, but we are under no illusions that we
have found everything there is.
The extant letters are most certainly only a fraction of those written to
and by Schoenberg in his early career. It is clear that many letters have been
lost (although previously unknown letters still surface from time to time).
Statistically, a higher percentage of letters to Schoenberg have survived than
xi

P r e f a c e a n d Ed i t o r i a l N o t e s xi

letters from Schoenberg—​not surprising in light of his relative anonymity

at the time. And although Schoenberg did seem to save many of the letters
that were sent to him, there are surprising lacunae. For example, the emi-
nent musicologist Guido Adler saved Schoenberg’s letters to him, but Adler’s
letters to Schoenberg from this period have disappeared. So too, theorist
Heinrich Schenker kept the letters and cards Schoenberg wrote, but there
is not a single surviving letter from Schenker to Schoenberg. There are also
multiple cases where Schoenberg’s half of an exchange is gone. Thus we have
numerous letters from Max Marschalk (of Dreililien Verlag) to Schoenberg,
but Schoenberg’s letters to Marschalk have not survived. There are many let-
ters from Zemlinsky, but Schoenberg’s letters to Zemlinsky have disappeared.
All the more reason why it makes sense for us to publish all the surviving let-
ters: often one can deduce from a letter to Schoenberg what he had said in his
half of the exchange even in the absence of that letter, and vice versa.
To the extent possible, our translations are literal, but not to the point that
the resultant English would be incomprehensible or notably awkward. Also,
we have attempted to capture the feel of the text. Schoenberg (like everyone)
writes in different styles to different people—​we have tried to distinguish
between the style he uses when writing to flatter a performing musician (e.g.,
Arnold Rosé or Gustav Mahler), or the style he uses when he writes to friends,
or the style he adopts in writing to his publisher. We also had to face one
of the perennial problems of translating from German to English: German
sentences are often far longer and more complex than is usual in English. We
decided that rather than break long German sentences into multiple, shorter,
English sentences, we would retain the complex, compound sentences and
not break them into shorter groups of sentences. Incomplete sentences in
German are retained in English. On the other hand, German tends to use for-
mal terms of address in a way that sounds strange and excessively pompous in
English. Rather than making literal translations of quintessentially German
salutations such as “Herr Professor Doktor,” we have elected to translate this
to the more typically English, “Professor.” And in addresses from envelopes
(and sometimes, salutations in letters) we omit “Herrn,” and “Wohlgeboren.”
Sometimes the authors of the letters forgot to add necessary punctuation
such as question marks or commas. We have tacitly supplied any missing
xii

xii P r e f a c e a n d Ed i t o r i a l N o t e s

punctuation. We also tacitly add punctuation to conform to English prac-

tice. Throughout, we retain the division into paragraphs of the original. Some
words (particularly words beginning with the letter “C”) have alternate spell-
ings (e.g., Carl, Karl) and appear both ways in the letters. At the price of some
inconsistency, we leave the spelling of such words as is.
As a rule, in the texts of the letters (but not the commentary), we have
elected to leave all proper names in their original spelling. Thus when
Schoenberg’s name appears in the text of the letter, we leave it in the spell-
ing used at that time (“Schönberg”). But in the commentary, we revert to
the English spelling that he himself decided on after his immigration to the
United States in 1933 (“Schoenberg”). Similarly, in these letters Zemlinsky’s
name appears as “Zemlinszky” which we retain in the texts and addresses,
reverting only to its more common form (“Zemlinsky”) in the commentary.
So too, in the addresses, street and city names are not translated and retain
their original spelling (e.g., “Wien”), but in the translation and the commen-
tary we use the accepted English version (e.g.,“Vienna”).
For all the letters we have adopted a consistent format and order (unlike
the letters and envelopes themselves which have a wide variety of formats and
orders). We start with the date of the letter followed by the correspondent’s
name and address (if known) and the name and address (if known) of the
recipient of the letter. Thereafter the text of the letter, from the salutation to the
signature (or through the postscript, if any) and our commentary (“Notes”)
are presented. Some further detail about each of those categories follows.

Date

When the date of the letter is written somewhere on the letter itself, we pres-
ent the date without square brackets: e.g., “1 January 1900.” If the letter itself
is undated (a common occurrence), but there is a surviving (and reliably asso-
ciated) envelope with a legible postmark, we identify it as postmark date, a
necessary distinction because the date of posting could be different from the
date of writing. When a date is uncertain, we place it in square brackets with
a question mark following. When a letter has no date and no postmarked
envelope, we give it an approximate date based on the contents of the letters
xiii

P r e f a c e a n d Ed i t o r i a l N o t e s xiii

and provide a rationale for our decision in the notes. When a correspondent
provided the day of the week, we include that after the date, month, and year.
When the given day of the week contradicts the letter’s date, we explain in the
notes which of the two dates is more likely to be correct.
We estimate that we have corrected approximately 10 percent of
the dates for the letters (from 1891 to May 1907) listed in the Preliminary
Inventory. Unfortunately, a very bad archival decision was made at the
Library of Congress, which houses most of the original Schoenberg letters,
and that decision has hampered attempts to provide a reliable chronology for
Schoenberg’s early correspondence. In most cases, the librarians discarded
the original envelopes and wrote the date of the postmark in pencil in the
upper right margin on the letter’s first page. Thus it is not possible to check
and confirm the evidence for dates when the letter itself is undated and the
date was assigned on the basis of an envelope that is no longer extant. This
would not be an issue were it not the case that when postmarked envelopes
have survived, the dates assigned by the librarians at the Library of Congress
are sometimes manifestly wrong. Common errors are misreading the dates,
transposing the numbers (calling 1.5.1900 January 5, 1900 and not 1 May
1900), and confusing the originating postmark with the delivery postmark
(“bestellt”). In our commentary we address these issues.

Name and Address of the Author

We include the name (as it appears in the letter, or as it appeared at the time)
of the author of the letter, followed by the street address, the city, and what-
ever additional address information was provided on the envelope, in the let-
terhead, or written out in the letter itself and in whatever order. Regardless
of the source and regardless of the order in the original, this information is
presented in the standardized order described above. If information is not
provided in the original, it is omitted from our listing entirely or provided
with square brackets if we are sure what the address or city was. If address
information was included in the letter itself (for example, following the sig-
nature), that information appears only in the address section of the letter and
not in the text of the letter.
xiv

xiv P r e f a c e a n d Ed i t o r i a l N o t e s

Name and Address of the Recipient

Here too we regularize the information, presenting it in the order of name,

street address, city, and additional information, regardless of how it appeared
on the envelope or the letter itself. If the address was prefixed or appended
to the text of the letter, we present it here and do not repeat it in the text of
the letter. It was customary for the name of the addressee on an envelope to
be prefaced with “Herrn” or “an Herrn” and sometimes “Wohlgeboren.” For
simplicity, we have omitted all such honorifics for the recipient’s name. Thus
while the original might be “Herrn Arnold Schönberg,” we record this simply
as “Arnold Schönberg.” In a few cases, Schoenberg’s correspondents added
“Componist” or “Kapellmeister” after his name and we have retained all such
designations. The details included for a particular address often differ from
letter to letter. Rather than attempting to regularize the information included
for addresses, we have let them stand as written.

Text

In this section we include a translation of the complete surviving or available

text of the letter from the salutation to the signature and the postscripts, if any.
Dates and addresses are not included here (as discussed above). Postscripts
are designated with “p.s.” only if the author used it. Passages or individual
words underlined in the original are represented by italics in our translation.
Titles of works are also italicized.
Our translations are based on the transcriptions we made of the German
texts. Most of the letters are handwritten, not typed. The handwriting of many
of the correspondents (including Schoenberg) was often very difficult to deci-
pher. (Interested readers are invited to look at scans of the original letters on
the website of the Arnold Schönberg Center, Vienna, to see for themselves
just how difficult it is. We particularly recommend the examination of Max
Marschalk’s handwriting.) Transcriptions of some letters are available in the
Schönberg Center database, but they are of varying quality and often contain
multiple errors or omissions. The editors (with the extensive help of Therese
Muxeneder) made fresh transcriptions of every letter (when the original or an
xv

P r e f a c e a n d Ed i t o r i a l N o t e s xv

image thereof was available) and those transcriptions served as the basis for
the texts of the translations.

Notes

Problems with, or questions about, the date are discussed first. Next, a brief
biographical note on the author of the letter is supplied (if written by some-
one other than Schoenberg), or the recipient (if written by Schoenberg). We
then have a running commentary on any issue that arises from the letter’s
text. If the topics under discussion are not clear, we provide context. We sup-
ply brief biographical notes or other background information for every name
or organization mentioned in the text. (In the relatively few cases where
we were unable to identify someone, we state that in the notes.) Generally
speaking, biographical or background information is provided at the first
mention of a name. Sometimes, however, if the name is mentioned only in
passing, we defer the biographical note to a later letter where the person in
question plays a more central role. Biographical notes are not repeated, so
readers will need to use the index to find the earliest mention of a person and
the associated note.
One unexpected consequence of our biographical research on all of
Schoenberg’s early correspondents and on every person mentioned in these
letters was the sobering discovery that many of them were directly affected
by the spread of Nazism in Europe in the 1930s and 1940s and the resul-
tant Holocaust—​and this in spite of the fact that these letters were written
more than thirty years before the beginning World War II. A number of
Schoenberg’s correspondents died in the ghettos or concentration camps,
including Elsa Bienenfeld, James Rothstein, and Louis Treumann; many oth-
ers (not to mention Schoenberg himself) were forced to flee for their lives,
scattering to the four winds—Palestine, the United States, Great Britain, the
Soviet Union, Brazil, Switzerland, and elsewhere. Given that Holocaust denial
still persists, we have found that without even trying or intending to docu-
ment its devastating implications, it was impossible to ignore the omnipres-
ence of this crime on the lives (and in some cases, premature deaths) of a
significant proportion of the professional music community in Europe.
xvi

xvi P r e f a c e a n d Ed i t o r i a l N o t e s

In many letters, there are references to sums of money, expressed in

Florins, Gulden, Kronen, and Marks. When a currency is cited, we convert it
into its 2013 value in US dollars so as to give the reader an approximate sense
of the sums involved. However, it is important to recognize that translating
historical currency into modern equivalents is, at best, an inexact science,
and that the results can vary widely depending on the method used. Before
World War I, all the currencies involved were on the gold standard, so it is
possible to give a fairly precise equivalent in US dollars from the period in
question. The principal challenge is deciding exactly what US dollars from
the early twentieth century are worth today. We have used a Cost Price Index
calculator that assigns a multiplier of 29.48 for 1901 and 26.08 for 1902–​7
dollars versus 2013 dollars. However, there are other methods of calculating
conversion rates: GDP per capita, relative share of GDP, consumer bundle,
and so forth. The results achieved by using these methods can differ markedly
from those using the Cost Price Index.
The “Notes” section concludes with citations of published English trans-
lations of complete letters (but not of excerpts) and of previous editions in
German that include commentary.
In Appendix 1 we have included a few letters that are undated but may
very well belong to our period. In the commentary to those letters, we explain
why we feel they might belong in our period.
All told, there are more than 300 letters in this book. It is hoped that the
broad range of topics and issues covered in those letters will help readers of
this volume gain a fresh impression, not only of the young Schoenberg and
his character, but also of the many interesting and important figures with
whom Schoenberg corresponded. Taken as a whole, these letters paint a vivid
portrait of Schoenberg and his times.
xvii

Acknowledgments

The authors wish to thank all those copyright holders who kindly granted
permission for us to publish the letters for which they hold the rights. We are
grateful that they made it possible for us to present a comprehensive view of
Schoenberg’s correspondence. Special thanks are due to Arnold Schoenberg’s
children, Nuria, Ronald, and Lawrence, and to his grandson, Randol, for
their support and encouragement, and for granting us permission to publish
Schoenberg’s letters.
It is almost impossible for us to express the extent of our thanks and grat-
itude to Therese Muxeneder, chief archivist of the Arnold Schönberg Center,
Vienna—​our debt to her is too great to describe in a few words. She promptly,
expertly, and efficiently answered our many questions, provided us with
material, helped us with transcriptions, identified puzzling abbreviations and
references, and caught some of our mistakes. Without her help, this book
would never have been completed, or if completed, would be riddled with
errors. Many thanks are also due to archivist Eike Fess and the rest of the
staff at the Arnold Schönberg Center, which not only makes research possible

xvii
xviii

xviii Acknowledgments

but does everything in its capacity to help Schoenberg scholars accomplish

their goals.
Thanks to the following libraries and their staffs for their assistance: Music
Division, Library of Congress; Oswald Jonas Collection, University of
California, Riverside; Special Collections Library, University of Michigan,
Ann Arbor; Hargrett Library, University of Georgia; Music and Hayden
Libraries, Arizona State University; Goethe—​und Schiller-​Archiv, Klassik
Stiftung Weimar; Musikabteilung mit Mendelssohn-​Archiv, Staatsbibliothek
Berlin—​Preußischer Kulturbesitz; and the archive of the Gesellschaft der
Musikfreunde, Vienna.
In the process of deciphering letters written in Sütterlin and Kurrentschrift,
we also received assistance from Gerhard Bär, Hermann Feißt, Ursula Huber-​
Feißt, and Ute Steinam. Additional thanks are also due to Michael Beckerman
of New York University and David Hunter at the Fine Arts Library, University
of Texas at Austin, for making their facilities available to us. Special thanks to
Severine Neff, Elizabeth Keathley, J. Daniel Jenkins, R. Wayne Shoaf, Bar-​Ilan
University (for research support), and Arizona State University (for research
support).
We are indebted to Suzanne Ryan, Editor in Chief of Humanities and
Executive Editor of Music for Oxford University Press in New York, who
inspired the Schoenberg in Words series and who together with her team
enthusiastically and expertly guided our project through production and
publication.
Last, but not least, we express much gratitude to our families.
Ethan Haimo, Bar-​Ilan University, Ramat-​Gan, Israel
Sabine Feisst, Arizona State University, Tempe, Arizona, USA
November 2015
xix

Frequently Used Abbreviations

ASC Arnold Schönberg Center, Wien

ASJ Therese Muxeneder, “Arnold Schönbergs Jugendkreise,” Journal of the
Arnold Schönberg Center 12 (2015), 264–​329.
ASLS Rudolf Jung, “Arnold Schönberg und das Liszt-​Stipendium,” Beiträge
zur Musikwissenschaft 8, no. 1 (1966), 56–​63.
ASSW Arnold Schönberg, Sämtliche Werke, ed. Josef Rufer et al. (Mainz and
Vienna: Schott and Universal, 1966–​).
BWS Alexander Zemlinsky: Briefwechsel mit Arnold Schönberg,
Anton Webern, Alban Berg und Franz Schreker. Briefwechsel der
Wiener Schule I, ed. Horst Weber (Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche
Buchgesellschaft, 1995).
Ennulat Egbert Ennulat, Arnold Schoenberg Correspondence: A Collection
of Translated and Annotated Letters Exchanged with Guido Adler,
Pablo Casals, Emanuel Feuermann, and Olin Downes (Metuchen,
NJ: Scarecrow Press, 1991).
Eybl Martin Eybl, ed., Die Befreiung des Augenblicks: Schönbergs
Skandalkonzerte 1907 und 1908 (Vienna: Böhlau Verlag, 2004).

xix
xx

xx Fr e q u e n t l y U s e d A b b r e v i a t i o n s

EYBL-​WEG Martin Eybl, “Der Weg in die Öffentlichkeit: Frühe Interpreten

Schönbergs,” Journal of the Arnold Schönberg Center 10 (2015),
240–​254.
JASI-​PI “Preliminary Inventory of Schoenberg Correspondence,” ed. Paul
Zukofsky et al., Journal of the Arnold Schoenberg Institute 18–​19, nos.
1–​2 (1995–​6), 13–​752.
SCHS Charlotte E. Erwin and Bryan R. Simms, “Schoenberg’s
Correspondence with Heinrich Schenker,” Journal of the Arnold
Schoenberg Institute 5, no. 1 (1981), 23–​43.
Weindel Martina Weindel, “Busonis ‘Berliner Orchesterabende’: Eine
Nachlese unveröffentlichter Briefe von Schönberg, Mahler, Bartók
und Sibelius,” Schweizer Jahrbuch für Musikwissenschaft 23, ed.
Schweizerische Musikforschende Gesellschaft (Frankfurt am
Main: Peter L Lang 2003), 315–​324.
xxi

SCHOENBERG’S
E ARLY
CORRESPONDENCE
xxii
 I

Letters before 1900

19 May 1891
From: Arnold Schönberg
[Wien]

To: Malvina Goldschmied

[Nikolsburg]

Dear Malvina!
Even though you did not take leave of me in the manner that I, as a cousin,
have a right to expect, nonetheless, I do not wish to take offense and with
the present letter open what hopefully will be a really lively correspon-
dence between us. First of all, I must ask of you not to pay attention to
the shape and type of writing paper, because unless I break into Ottilie’s
drawer, nothing else is available. As for your letter to mama, I must
admit that I was completely surprised by it. Although I always thought
very highly of you, I would not have expected this kind of letter from
you. It displays very good style, great formal elegance, and richness of
thought. You should know that I am no flatterer, but your letter has much
to recommend it.

1
2

2 S choenberg’s E a r ly C or r e sp ondence

I am happy to hear that you feel well in Nikolsburg, but it would

make me even happier to hear that you are bored in Nikolsburg—​you
see that my old evil side shows up again. The thought suddenly occurs to
me that I really have not yet written anything new to you. So I really am
at my wit’s end. Is there something in the life of your cousin that would
interest you; perhaps it would interest you to know that today (Vienna,
19 May 1891) I finally began to work in the office at the bank (I of course
mean the book); could it be useful for you to know that yesterday, after
a long pause, I composed something new—​a song without words—​and
that I hope that, from this point forward, an epoch of happy creativity has
begun again? No, my modesty does not permit this at all. But nonetheless,
I wish to try to pique your interest for a question that I have in mind to
pose to you.
Ottilie recently remarked that you (like me/​editorial note/​) do not
believe in the existence of a higher being. Could you explain to me what
blows of fate caused you to abandon this idea which comforts millions?
Could it perhaps be the blows of fate that you read about in novels? Are
they perhaps the thoughts to which the lack of work and the inactivity of
the winter season have brought you? Is it, actually, like many other fash-
ions, an idea that one follows only for a single season? Tell me in more
detail.
In this letter, that I am writing at 11:30 p.m., I am sending to you,
enclosed, several flowers, with the request to follow the principle of
“a tooth for a tooth” in the form of “a flower for a flower.” Obviously,
I picked these flowers myself this morning, when I was with Grün at
the Prater, before I went to work. You would be surprised that I, who
previously was not known as a lover of flowers, now search for flowers.
I believe, however, that it is better to be the friend of the one who sends
the flowers or of the lovely female sender, so that upon seeing the flower,
one remembers the kind sender, upon smelling it, one recalls the sound of
her bright voice. And since I now have nothing more to write, that is, no
more space, because I must leave some space for important postscripts,
3

L e t t e r s b e f o r e 19 0 0 3

so I close my letter for now in the expectation that soon it will not be an
orphan, and I send you my most friendly and most cousin-​like greetings

Arnold Schönberg

p.s. I If you answer me, I ask that you send your answer to me at work:

Arnold Schönberg
Firma Werner & Co.
Wien I
Wipplingerstrasse 39

p.s. II It seems to me that my prophesies about the weather during your

stay in Nikolsburg will not come to pass.

p.s. [III] Could you let me know if Nikolsburg is connected to Vienna by

telephone?

Notes

The editors were unable to consult the original. At one time the letter was in
Rio de Janeiro (Malvina’s residence after 1938). More recently it was in the
possession of one of her heirs and said to be in Italy. The editors used the
transcription held at the Arnold Schönberg Center, Vienna (ASC).

For a summary of Schoenberg’s employment at the bank, see ASJ, 276–​9.

Malvina Goldschmied (1877–​?), Arnold’s first cousin on his mother’s side.

She emigrated to Brazil during the Nazi era. Schoenberg addresses Malvina
with “Du.”

Ottilie Kramer Blumauer (née Schönberg,1876–​

1954), Arnold’s younger
sister.

Nikolsburg is the German name for Mikulov, a town in the Czech Republic,
approximately 85 kilometers north of Vienna.

It is not clear what Schoenberg meant by “I of course mean the book.”

4

4 S choenberg’s E a r ly C or r e sp ondence

The composition to which Schoenberg alludes (a “song without words”) has

not survived.

Toward the beginning of the third paragraph Schoenberg was probably trying
to be humorous when he stated “dass Du (wie ich/​Anmerkung der Redaction/​)”
[“that you (like me/​editorial note/​)”].

“Grün” could not be identified.

Firma Werner & Co was a private bank where Schoenberg was an apprentice
from 1891 to 1895.

26 May 1891
From: Arnold Schönberg
[Wien]

To: Malvina Goldschmied

[Nikolsburg]

Ma chére cousin!
I received your letter. I cannot, however, put one pressing question out
of my mind. I believe I wrote in my letter that hopefully our correspon-
dence would become quite lively. Why, in your first letter, did you have
to undermine this presupposition in its very essence? Not only did your
letter arrive after much delay, but also, it is very short. What reason did
you have to cause me to wait so long for your answer until you “came
to the opinion that” finally it was time to write? Please be so good as to
clarify this point for me as soon as possible.
Actually, your letter did not satisfy me in any way. You say, for exam-
ple, that I was too quick to rejoice that you were not having a good time.
Now that is a nice phrase, but it is badly used here. Because, first of all,
as far as I remember I wrote that it was my evil side that wished that you
5

L e t t e r s b e f o r e 19 0 0 5

would not have a good time; second of all, I did not rejoice at all. You
write further that you take issue only with some of the nonsense that is
found in the Bible; now here, as an unbeliever, I must oppose you and
state that nowhere in the Bible is there any nonsense. For the most dif-
ficult questions, regarding morality, lawgiving, the economy, [and] medi-
cine, are resolved in it in the simplest form, admittedly often from the
contemporary perspective, such that the Bible is, in general, the founda-
tion of all of our modern state institutions (excepting only the railroads
and the telephone). When you state that when you revere in God only
Nature, it is somewhat unclear to me what you mean by that.
Should you perhaps revere both of them, and place the one higher
than the other, as perhaps one could conclude from the following sen-
tence: “and it cannot [achieve] everything that is ascribed to God.” In
general, these two theses are completely obscure to me from your letter.
You say further that you are not yet able to form an opinion [Urteil] and
then you add: “perhaps it would happen, but then you would laugh at
me.” I must however refute this for you. When you form an opinion on
a matter, then you may consider it to be correct. It is correct in that it is
valid for you as long as it remains within you. But as soon as you express
it to someone else, it is no longer a correct opinion, but merely a subjec-
tive opinion. Generally speaking, and particularly so with this question,
no one can say that his opinion is the correct one, for everyone has views,
that for him, are correct. Then I would not laugh at you in any event, were
you to make your opinion known regarding these points, since I, as you
ought to know, have never held a subjective opinion in contempt, even if
it were very different from my own.
Regarding the flowers which I sent you, I thank you for the basket
which you sent to me because I will keep the flowers that I will send you in
the future in it.
You write that you have not become a late sleeper there. This time
you are right, because you did not become a late sleeper there, you were
already one before you arrived.
I should say to Ottilie that she should write to you; it will not hurt
me. You might perhaps say to me what benefit is it for me? Since you have
6

6 S choenberg’s E a r ly C or r e sp ondence

not shown me what the resultant benefits are (probably because of a lack
of room), I will not carry out this assignment. (By the way, I know that
Ottilie already wrote you on Monday.)
You write at the end of your letter: “Since I have no more news to
write, I remain yours truly, M.”
Tell me, do you remain yours truly Malvina, so that I should forgive
you that you have no more news to write, or that you would otherwise
remain also yours truly Malvina? Or do you have some other reason for
joining together these two unrelated sentences?
You see that with this letter I am trying to create a lively correspon-
dence between us by writing immediately and at length. I really cannot
understand you in this at all. Why did you make me wait so long? I have
to think that you write me only unwillingly, although up to now, perhaps
from vanity, I have known no reason why. I believe that my writing is not
especially boring; I presume from our prior correspondence that you have
not honored me with your hatred. So why have you caused me to wait so
long? It is extremely painful for me. If you do not want to write to me,
please tell this to me as soon as possible, because I do not like to remain in
doubt for long and I also do not want any letters written out of a sense of
duty. I ask you to give me an explanation of this as soon as possible.
Hopefully you are really healthy in Nikolsburg. Do you have red
cheeks already; don’t you want to get rid of the paleness?

In that I look forward to your prompt reply, I remain, yours truly, your
cousin, Arnold Schönberg. (I l … y . . !)

p.s. You must, however, read my letter with somewhat more attention, for
in every sentence I very consciously alluded to something very special.
Read it perhaps the way I read your letter. Should it seem to you perhaps
that the surface is smooth, then the water is, however, very deep, and
often the smoother the surface, the deeper the water. For I must confess,
as I walked in the Prater, I have considered carefully what I would write
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
Miss Parrett’s instructions, and to ask if she would require the motor,
the invariable reply was that “she would let him know later.”
The first time they met, Miss Parrett had taken a dislike to the
chauffeur, and this dislike had recently been increased by an outrage
of more recent date. She had seen Owen, her paid servant, in
convulsions of laughter at her expense; yes, laughing exhaustively at
his mistress! This was on the occasion of a ridiculous and distressing
incident which had taken place one sultry afternoon in the garden.
The Rector and his daughter were helping Susan to bud roses—a
merry family party; the chauffeur was neatly trimming a box border,
Hogben raking gravel, Miss Parrett herself, hooded like a hawk, was
poking and prowling around. All at once she emerged from a tool-
shed, bearing in triumph a black bottle, which she imprudently
shook.
“I’d like to know what this is?” she demanded, in her shrillest pipe.
The answer was instantaneous, for the liquor being “up,” there was a
loud explosion, a wild shriek, and in a second Miss Parrett’s identity
was completely effaced by the contents of a bottle of porter. The too
inquisitive lady presented a truly humiliating spectacle. Hood, face,
hands, gown, were covered with thick cream-coloured foam; it
streamed and dripped, whilst she gasped and gurgled, and called
upon “Susan!” and “Aurea!”
As the stuff was removed from her eyes by the latter—anxiously
kind, but distinctly hysterical—almost the first object to catch the old
lady’s eye was the chauffeur, at a little distance, who, such was his
enjoyment of the scene, was actually holding his sides! He turned
away hastily, but she could see that his shoulders were shaking, and
told herself then that she would never forgive him. She bided her
time to award suitable punishment for his scandalous behaviour—
and the time arrived.
The malicious old woman enjoyed the conviction that she was
holding this too independent chauffeur a prisoner on the premises,
precisely as she kept the detestable Joss tied up in the stables. Joss
rattled and dragged at his chain, and occasionally broke into
melancholy howls, whilst the other paced to and fro in the red-tiled
yard, thinking furiously and smoking many more cigarettes than were
good for him.
Accustomed from childhood to a life of great activity, to be, perforce,
incarcerated hour after hour, awaiting the good—or evil—pleasure of
an old woman who was afraid to use her motor, exasperated
Wynyard to the last degree. The car was ready, he was ready;
usually about six o’clock Miss Parrett would trot out in her hood and
announce in her bleating voice—
“Owen, I shall not require the car to-day!”
Sometimes she would look in on a humble, fawning culprit in the
stable, and say, as she contemplated his beseeching eyes—
“Hah! you bad dog, you bad dog! I wish to goodness you were dead
—and you shall wish it yourself before I’ve done with you!”
It was not impossible that these amiable visitations afforded Miss
Parrett a delicious, and exquisite satisfaction.

The Drum Inn closed at ten o’clock, and even before the church
clock struck, the Hogbens had retired; but the former Hussar officer,
accustomed to late hours, and with the long summer night seducing
him, found it impossible to retire to his three-cornered chamber—
where the walls leant towards him so confidentially, and the
atmosphere reeked of dry rot. No, he must breathe the sweet breath
of the country, have some exercise, and walk himself weary under
the open sky.
Mrs. Hogben—who had now absolute confidence in her lodger, and
told him all her most private family affairs—entrusted him with the
door-key, that is to say, she showed him the hole in which—as all the
village knew—it was concealed. Sometimes it was one in the
morning when the chauffeur crept upstairs in stockinged feet,
accompanied by Joss—yes, Joss! There were a pair of them, who
had equally enjoyed their nocturnal wanderings. The dog slept on a
bit of sacking, in his confederate’s room, till Mrs. Hogben was astir,
then he flew back to the Manor, and crept through the same hole in
the yew hedge by which, in answer to a welcome whistle, he had
emerged the preceding evening. Behold him sitting at the kitchen
door when the kitchen-maid opened it, the personification of injured
innocence—a poor, neglected, hungry animal, who had been turned
out of doors for the whole long night.
These were delightful excursions: over meadows and brooks,
through deep glens and plantations, the two black sheep scoured the
country, and, as far as human beings were concerned, appeared to
have earth and heaven to themselves. Wynyard roamed hither and
thither as the freak took him, and surrendered himself to the
intoxication that comes of motion in the open air—a purely animal
pleasure shared with his companion.
They surprised the dozing cattle, and alarmed astonished sheep,
sent families of grazing rabbits scuttling to their burrows; they heard
the night-jar, the owl, and the corn-crake; bats flapped across their
path, and in narrow lanes the broad shoulders of Wynyard broke the
webs of discomfited spiders. The extraordinary stillness of the night
was what impressed the young man; sometimes, from a distance of
four or five miles, he could hear, with startling distinctness, the
twelve measured strokes of Ottinge church clock.
During these long, aimless rambles, what Joss’ thoughts were, who
can say? Undoubtedly he recalled such excursions in ecstatic
dreams. Wynyard, for his part, took many pleasure trips into the land
of fancy, and there, amidst its picturesque glamour and all its doubts,
distractions, and hopes, his sole companion was Aurea! Nothing but
the hope of her return sustained and kept him day after day, pacing
the Manor yard, in a sense her prisoner! His devotion would have
amazed his sister; she could not have believed that Owen, of all
people, would have been so enslaved by a girl, could have become
a dumb, humble worshipper, satisfied to listen to her laugh, to catch
a radiant glance of her dark eyes, and, when he closed the door of
the car, to shield her dainty skirt with reverent fingers.
Presently there came a spell of bad weather, the rain sweeping
across the country in great grey gusts and eddying whirls, moaning
and howling through the village, making the venerable trees in Mrs.
Hogben’s orchard quite lively in their old age, lashing each other with
their hoary arms, in furious play.
It was impossible for Wynyard to spend the entire evening indoors
over Mrs. Hogben’s fire, listening to tales of when “she was in
service,” though he was interested to hear that Miss Alice Parrett as
was—Mrs. Morven—“was the best of the bunch, and there wasn’t a
dry eye when she was buried.” He also learned that Mr. Morven was
rich for a parson, and had once kept a curate, well paid, too; but the
curate had been terribly in love with Miss Aurea, and of course she
wouldn’t look at him—a little red-haired, rat-faced fellow! and so he
had gone away, and there was no more regular curate, only
weekends, when Mr. Morven went abroad for his holiday. And now
and then Mrs. Hogben would fall into heartrending reminiscences of
her defunct pigs.
“Afore you come, Jack, I kep’ pigs,” she informed him; “one a year. I
bought un at Brodfield—a nice little fellow—for fifteen shillings to a
pound, and fattened un up, being so much alone all day, I could
never help making sort of free with the pig, and petting un. He
always knew me, and would eat out of my hand, and was a sort of
companion, ye see?”
“Yes,” assented Wynyard, though he did not see, for in his mind’s
eye he was contemplating Aurea Morven.
“Well, of course, he grew fat, and ready for the butcher, and when he
was prime, he had to go—but it just broke my heart, so it did; for
nights before I couldn’t sleep for crying,” here she became
lachrymose; “but it had to be, and me bound to be about when the
men came, and the cries and yells of him nigh drove me wild;
though, of course, once he was scalded and hung up, and a fine
weight, it wor a nice thing to have one’s own pork and bacon.”
Her companion nodded sympathetically.
“Howsomever, the last time I was so rarely fond of the pig, and his
screams and carryings-on cut me so cruel, that I made a vow, then
and there, I’d never own another, but take a lodger instead—and
you, Jack, be the first!”
“I’m sure I’m flattered,” rejoined Wynyard, with an irony entirely
wasted on his companion, who, with her skirt turned over her knees,
and her feet generously displayed, sat at the other side of the fire,
thoroughly enjoying herself.
“Tom is out,” he said, and this remark started her at once into
another topic, and a series of bitter complaints of Dilly Topham—
Tom’s girl.
“The worst of it is, she’s mighty pretty, ain’t she?” she asked
querulously.
“She is,” he admitted. Dilly was a round-faced, smiling damsel, with
curly brown hair and expressive blue eyes—a flirt to her finger-tips. It
was also true that she did lead poor Tom a life, and encouraged a
smart young insurance agent, with well-turned, stockinged calves,
and a free-wheel bicycle.
“I’d never put up with her,” declared Mrs. Hogben, “only for her
grandmother.”
“Why her grandmother?” he questioned lazily.
“Bless your dear heart, old Jane Topham has been a miser all her
life. Oh, she’s a masterpiece, she is, and lives on the scrapings of
the shop; she hasn’t had a gown this ten year, but has a fine lump of
money in the Brodfield Bank, and Dilly is all she’s got left, and the
apple of her eye. Dilly will have a big fortune—only for that, I’d put
her to the door, with her giggling and her impudence, yes I would,
and that’s the middle and the two ends of it!”
When Wynyard had heard more than enough of Dilly’s doings and
misdoings, and the biographies and tragedies of his predecessors
(the pigs), he went over to the Drum, listened to discussions, and
realised the prominent characteristics of the English rustic—
reluctance to accept a new idea. Many talked as if the world had not
moved for thirty years, and evinced a dull-witted contentment, a
stolid refusal to look facts in the face; but others, the younger
generation, gave him a new perspective—these read the papers,
debated their contents, and took a keen interest in their own times.
Wynyard generally had a word with old Thunder, and played a game
of chess with Pither, the organist. Captain Ramsay was established
in his usual place—smoking, silent, and staring. So intent was his
gaze, so insistently fixed, that Wynyard invariably arranged to sit with
his back to him, but even then he seemed to feel the piercing eyes
penetrating the middle of his spine!
One evening Captain Ramsay suddenly rose, and shuffled out of his
corner—an usual proceeding, for he remained immovable till closing
time (ten o’clock). He came straight up to where Wynyard was
bending over the chess-board, considering a move, and laying a
heavy hand on his shoulder, and speaking in a husky voice, said—
“I say—Wynyard—don’t you know me?”
 CHAPTER XVII
LADY KESTERS HAS MISGIVINGS

At this amazing question the chauffeur started violently, looked up

into the anxious, sunken eyes gazing into his own, and answered—
“No, to the best of my belief, I’ve never seen you before—never till I
came here.”
The man’s worn face worked with violent emotion—which he vainly
struggled to subdue.
“What!” he demanded, in a high, hoarse key, “have you forgotten
Lucknow?—and Jim Ramsay of the Seventh? Impossible!”
Wynyard glanced at him and again shook his head.
After a long pause, expressive of indignant incredulity—
“Why, man alive, you and I were at school together! Don’t you
remember your poky little room over the churchyard, and how we
fagged for Toler, and played hard rackets?”
As Wynyard still remained irresponsive, suddenly, to his horror, the
questioner burst into tears and tottered unsteadily towards the door,
wringing his hands, uttering loud convulsive sobs, and exclaiming,
“As a dead man out of mind! As a dead man out of mind! Tell them to
sound the Last Post!”
There was a loud murmur from the card-players, and old Thunder,
turning about and addressing the company, said—
“Poor old chap, ’e’s worse nor ever. At school together”—to Wynyard
—“Lor’ bless me! why, ye might be his son! I suppose ’e’s a stranger
to ye, mister?”
“Yes; I never laid eyes on him before.”
“He’s a-going off his nut,” declared a voice from the nap table; “he
did ought to be put away—he did.”
“Ay,” agreed the organist, addressing Wynyard, “his good lady won’t
hear of it; but it’s my opinion that he is no longer safe to himself or
others—it’s the loose and at-home lunatics that commit these awful
crimes ye read of in the papers, and makes your blood run cold.”
Wynyard made no reply. He had more than once heard Pither
himself spoken of as a madman and a crazy fellow; but he was
merely eccentric. As for Captain Ramsay, he was lost in conjecture
as to how that unfortunate and afflicted gentleman had got hold of
his real name?
This mystery was solved no later than the next evening. In the lovely,
soft June twilight he was walking past the Claringbold’s empty farm,
and here came upon the captain, who was leaning over the gate,
and signalled imperatively to him with his stick.
“Look here!” he called out, and Wynyard stood still. “You’ve been a
puzzle to me for nearly six weeks—and at last I’ve got you.”
“Got me!”
“Of course you are Owen Wynyard; you and I knew one another long
ago. Why, man! we were schoolfellows, almost like brothers, and
afterwards, when our two regiments lay in Lucknow—why, God bless
me! it’s over thirty years ago!”
Captain Ramsay had got hold of his right name, but otherwise he
was a raving lunatic.
“You are Owen Wynyard, aren’t you?” he asked impatiently.
“Yes, I am, but I don’t use the Wynyard here; and I must beg you to
keep it to yourself.”
“Oh, all right; in one of your old scrapes, my boy! Money scarce! Ha
ha!” and he laughed hysterically. “So you’re lying doggo from the
Soucars, but why here?”
“That’s my business,” he answered sharply.
“Come, come, don’t be so grumpy and short with me, Owen. You
were always such a rare good-tempered chap. What has changed
you, eh? Now, come along home with me, and we will have a good
‘bukh’ over old times,” and, as he spoke, his grasp—a fierce,
possessive clutch—tightened painfully on his prisoner’s arm.
“But,” objected the victim, “I was going for a turn.”
“No, you are not; you are coming straight home with me. My wife will
be glad to make your acquaintance. I forget if you’ve met her?” and
he touched his forehead. “I’m a little funny here, Owen. India, my
boy! she takes it out of all of us one way or another—teeth, hair,
liver, brains. Come on now—right about turn!” he concluded
facetiously.
There was no use in resistance or in having a violent personal
struggle with the lunatic—nothing for it but to submit; and, in spite of
his reluctance, Wynyard was conducted, as if in custody, right up to
the door of Ivy House. Were he to refuse to enter, he knew there
would only be a scene in the street, a gaping crowd, and an
unpleasant exposure.
“Look, look, Tom!” cried Mrs. Hogben, pointing to the opposite
house, “if the captain hasn’t got hold of our young fellow, and a-
walkin’ him home as if he had him in charge—he has took a fancy to
him, I do declare!”
“There’s more nor one has took a fancy to Owen,” remarked Tom,
with gruff significance; “but, as to the captain—well—I’d rather it was
him—nor me.”
The captain entered his house with a latchkey and an air of
importance; there was a light in the square hall, and a door at one
side was ajar. He called out—
“Katie, Katie, come and see what I have found for you!”
A door was opened wide, and there stood Mrs. Ramsay in a tea-
gown, with a little black Pom. in her arms. She looked amazed, as
well she might, but instantly dissembled her surprise, and said—
“Good-evening—I see my husband has invited you in for a smoke?”
“Smoke!” said Captain Ramsay, passing into the drawing-room, and
beckoning Wynyard to follow him. As he did so, he glanced
apologetically at the lady of the house, and it struck him then that he
was looking into a face that had seen all the sorrows of the world.
The room was furnished with solid old furniture, but Mrs. Ramsay’s
taste—or was it Miss Morven’s—had made it a charming and restful
retreat, with pretty, soft wall-paper, rose-shaded lamps, flowers, a
quantity of books, and a few Indian relics—such as a brass table, a
phoolcarrie or two, and some painted Tillah work which he
recognised as made near Lucknow.
“Katie,” resumed her husband, after a pause, “I know you will be
pleased to hear I’ve met a very old friend,” and he laid his hand
heavily on Wynyard’s shoulder. “Let me introduce Captain Wynyard
—Owen Wynyard of the Red Hussars. He and I were quartered
together in Lucknow, a matter of thirty-three years ago—why, I knew
him, my dear, long before I ever set eyes on you!”
As he concluded, he gazed at her with his dark shifty eyes, and
Wynyard noticed the nervous twitching of his hands.
“I’m sure I’m delighted to make your acquaintance,” she said, with
the utmost composure, though her lips were livid. Jim was getting
worse—this scene marked a new phase of his illness—another
milestone on the road to dementia.
“We were inseparable, Katie, I can tell you, and went up together for
our leave to Naini Tal, and stayed at the club, rowed in the regatta,
had a ripping time, and went shooting in Kumaon. I say, Owen, do
you remember the panther that took your dog near Bhim Tal—and
how you got him?”
Wynyard nodded assent—in for a penny, in for a pound! He was
impersonating a dead man, and what was a dead dog more or less?
“Do you remember the cairn we raised over him, and he was so
popular, every one who knew him, that passed up or down, placed a
stone on it?”
“Wouldn’t you like to go and smoke in the dining-room?” suggested
Mrs. Ramsay. “Jim, I’ll ring for Mary to light the lamp, she does not
know you are in.”
“No, no, I’ll go myself,” and he shuffled into the hall.
“He has taken you for some one else, of course, poor fellow!” she
said, turning quickly to Wynyard, and speaking under her breath.
“Yes,” he answered, “for my father—but please keep this to yourself
—I’ve always heard I am extraordinarily like him.”
“Then humour him, humour him, do. You see how bright and happy
this imaginary meeting has made him. Oh, it will be so kind of you to
talk to him of India—he loves it—how I wish you knew the country—
you must pretend, and I will coach you. Lucknow is very hot, and
gay, not far——”
“But I needn’t pretend,” he broke in, “I know the country—yes—and
Lucknow too. I was there with my father’s old regiment.”
She stared at him for a moment in bewildered astonishment.
“I say, you won’t give me away, will you?” he added anxiously.
“No; is it likely? If you will only come and talk to him of an evening
now and then, it will be truly one of the good deeds that will be
scored up to you in heaven. Ah, here he is, and the lamp.”
“Now come along, Owen,” he said briskly. “Here you are, I’ve got my
best tobacco for you. Let’s have a bukh!”
And what a bukh it was! Captain Ramsay carried on most of the
conversation, and as he discoursed of old friends, of shikar, of
camps and manœuvres, racing and polo, his sunken eyes kindled,
he became animated; it was another personality to that of the silent,
drooping figure known to Ottinge. Wynyard, as he listened and threw
in a word or two, could now dimly realise the good-looking smart
officer in this poor stranded wreck.
Mrs. Ramsay, who had brought her work and her little dog, sat
somewhat apart, beyond the shaded lamp’s rays, listened,
wondered, and inwardly wept. What vital touch to a deadened mind
had kindled these old memories? What a mysterious organ was the
human brain!
And the taciturn chauffeur, he too was changed—it was another
individual; he sat there, smoking, his elbow on the table, discussing
army matters (now obsolete), notable generals, long dead and gone,
the hills and plains of India, the climate—that, at least, was
unchanged—with extraordinary coolness and adaptability. The guest
was playing the rôle of being his own father, with astounding
success. And what a good-looking young fellow! she noticed his
clear-cut features, the well set-on head, the fine frame, the
distinguished looking brown hand that lay carelessly on the table.
The scene was altogether amazing; this sudden recognition seemed
to have aroused Jim from a long, long mental slumber. Was it a sign
of recovery—or was it a symptom of the end?
When at last Owen rose to go, Captain Ramsay made no effort to
detain him, but sat, with his head thrown back and his eyes fixed on
the opposite wall, lost in a reverie of ghastly vacuity.
It was Mrs. Ramsay who accompanied her guest into the hall, and
inquired, in her everyday manner—
“And when is the motor of Ottinge coming back?”
“I am to fetch it to-morrow.”
Then, in another voice, almost a whisper, she added—
“I am so grateful to you. My husband and your father seem to have
been like brothers—and you really managed wonderfully. You have
given Jim such pleasure, and, poor fellow, he has so little!” Her eyes
were dim as she looked up, “Even I, who am with him always, see a
change. I am afraid he is growing worse.”
“Why not better?” asked Wynyard, with forced cheerfulness. “Have
you seen a mental specialist?”
“Oh yes, long ago; his condition is the result of sunstroke, and they
said he—he ought to be—put away in an asylum; but of course his
home is his asylum.”
Her visitor was not so clear about this, and there was no doubt that
now and then the captain’s eyes had an alarmingly mad expression.
“Can you manage to come and see him occasionally, or is it asking
too much?”
“I’ll come with pleasure; I have my evenings off—the car never goes
out at night, as you may know; but I’m only Owen Wynyard, late of
the Red Hussars, in this house, if you please, Mrs. Ramsay.”
“Of course; and I shall be only too thankful to see you whenever you
can spare us an hour,” and she opened the door and let him out.
From this time forth there commenced an intimacy between the
chauffeur and the Ramsays. He not only spent an hour now and then
with the captain, smoking, playing picquet, and talking over old
times, but he gave Mrs. Ramsay valuable assistance with her
boarders, treated bites, thorns, and other casualties with a practised
hand; on one occasion sat up at night with a serious case of
distemper; on another, traced and captured a valuable runaway. He
admired her for her unquenchable spirit, energy, and pluck, and
helped in the kennel with the boy she employed, and undertook to
exercise the most boisterous dogs of an evening. These thoroughly
enjoyed their excursions with an active companion, who, however,
maintained a strict but kindly discipline; and, of a bright moonlight
night, it was no uncommon sight to meet the chauffeur, four or five
miles from Ottinge, accompanied by, not only Joss, but by several of
Mrs. Ramsay’s paying guests.
The friendship between the captain and the chauffeur naturally did
not pass unnoticed, and the verdict of the Drum was that the young
fellow, having spare time on his hands, had been “took on as a sort
of keeper at Ivy House, and gave a help with the kennel and the old
man—and the old man was growing worse.”
Leila had arranged to pay a flying visit to Brodfield when her brother
went there to fetch the motor, and he found her awaiting him in a
gloomy sitting-room of that once celebrated posting-inn—the Coach
and Horses.
“Three months are gone!” she said, after their first greetings, “so far
so good, ce n’est que le premier pas qui coute!”
“There are a good many pas yet! It’s awfully nice to see you, Sis,
and be myself for once in a way,” and then he proceeded to unfold
his experience with Captain Ramsay.
“Oh, how ghastly! The poor lunatic talking away to you, and taking
you for our father! Imagine him recognising you by the likeness, and
skipping thirty-three years! No one else suspects you, do they?”
“His wife knows my real name, and that’s all; I had to tell her, but she
is safe as a church. Miss Susan has been curious.”
“Bless her dear simple heart!”
“I say amen to that; but of all the mean, purse-proud, tyrannical old
hags, give me Bella Parrett! She’s always bragging of her family, too,
and her crest—in my opinion it ought to be a civet cat!”
“Oh, Owen,” and she laughed, “it’s not often that you are stirred to
such indignation.”
“Ah, you don’t know her.”
“Apparently not. Well, what do you say to a move, and to better
yourself? I believe I could find you a capital place in Somersetshire,
not so retired, more in the world, and with quite smart people.”
“No, thanks, I’ll stick to this now—anyway till Christmas.”
“But, Owen, when the old woman and the motor are so objectionable
—by the way, I must inspect it before you start to-morrow—why
remain?”
“Oh, I’ve got the hang of the place now. I know the people, I’ve
comfortable quarters—and—er—I like Miss Susan——”
“Do you like any one else, Owen, come?”
“I like the parson, and the schoolmaster, and Tom Hogben.”
“Well, well, well!” throwing herself back, “I see you won’t give me
your confidence! I am positively certain there is some one in Ottinge
you like much better than the parson and the schoolmaster—or even
Miss Susan.”
“I swear there is not,” he answered, boldly confronting her. (Aurea
was not in Ottinge, but visiting her rich London relatives, doing a bit
of the season with, to borrow the native term, “Mrs. General
Morven.”)
Leila was puzzled. Owen, she knew, was a hopelessly bad liar, and
his face looked innocence itself.
“I’ve got a box for the theatre here—a company on tour. We may as
well go—you can sit in the back,” she said, rising.
“All right; it’s to be hoped none of the Ottinge folk will be there, and
spot me!”
“Not they! Don’t you know your Ottinge by this time? Is it likely that
any one of them would come all this way to see a mere play?”
“Miss Susan might, she loves an outing and any little bit of
amusement; but she’s not at home, and if she was, she would not
get the use of the motor.”
“The theatre is only across the square—it’s quite near, so we may as
well walk;” and they did. Lady Kesters in a high black dress, her
brother in a dark suit, passed unnoticed among the crowd, and
enjoyed the entertainment.
The next morning Lady Kesters left Brodfield by the ten o’clock train
for London, having previously inspected the celebrated green gem at
the garage. She even got into it, examined it critically, and laughed
as she descended.
“Oh, what a take in! What a shame to have cheated those poor old
women! Why, Owen, I believe it must be years and years old!”
“And a bad machine always; strong when you want it to be weak,
and weak when it should be strong. Some of these days it will play
me a trick, I’m sure.”
“What, that old bone-shaker! No, no. Well, I’m afraid you must soon
be starting—as you say Miss Parrett awaits you, watch in hand—and
so must I. It’s been awfully good to see you, and find you are getting
on so well—‘a chauffeur almost to the manner born.’ Martin takes a
profound interest in our enterprise.”
“He keeps me supplied with lots of tobacco and A1 cigars. Tell him
that Miss Susan asked me if I got them in the village? and Miss
Parrett, who is as sharp as a razor, inquired how I could afford to buy
them? I ventured to offer a couple to the doctor—I told him they were
a present; he took them like a lamb, and asked no questions.”
“What! does a lamb smoke? Well, I’ll tell Martin how much his
offerings are appreciated, and that you really are fit—and quite
happy, eh?”
“Yes, tell him that neither of you need worry about me; I’m all right at
Ottinge.”
But when, an hour later, Lady Kesters gazed meditatively on the
flying Midlands, with her thoughts concentrated upon her brother,
she was by no means so sure, that he was all right at Ottinge!
 CHAPTER XVIII
THE REASON WHY

Whilst Ottinge had been dozing through lovely summer days, Aurea
Morven was enjoying a certain amount of the gay London season.
General and Mrs. Morven had no family—Aurea was their only
young relative, the Parretts’ only niece, the parson’s only child; and,
though she was the light of the Rectory, he was not selfish, and
shared and spared her company. Besides, as Mrs. Morven said,
“Edgar had his literary work, his large correspondence, his parish,
and Jane Norris to look after him, and it was out of the question to
suppose that a girl with such beauty and attractiveness was to be
buried in an out-of-the-way hole like Ottinge-in-the-Marsh—although
her father and her aunts did live there!” Mrs. Morven, a masterful
lady on a large scale, who carried herself with conscious dignity,
looked, and was a manager—a manager of ability. She was proud of
the general’s pretty niece, enjoyed chaperoning her and taking her
about, and anticipated her making a notable match; for, besides her
pretty face, and charming, unspoiled nature, Aurea was something of
an heiress.
It seemed to this clear-sighted lady that her niece was changed of
late, her spontaneous gaiety had evaporated, once or twice she had
sudden fits of silence and abstraction, and, although she laughed
and danced and appeared to enjoy herself, refused to take any of
her partners seriously, and shortened her visit by three weeks!
Miss Susan had arrived at Eaton Place for a couple of days. It was
arranged by the girl that she and her aunt were to leave town
together—though the general and his wife pleaded for a longer visit,
offering Aurea, as a temptation, a ball, a Windsor garden-party, and
Sandown—the filial daughter shook her head, with smiling decision;
she had promised the Padre, and, besides, she wanted to get back
to the garden before the best of the roses were over! Theatre
dinners were breaking up at the Ritz, and a stream of smart people
were gradually departing eastward. Among the crowd in the hall,
awaiting her motor, stood Lady Kesters, superb in diamonds and
opera mantle. She and Miss Susan caught sight of one another at
the same moment, and Miss Susan immediately began to make her
way through the throng.
“So glad to meet you!” gasped the elder lady. “I called yesterday
afternoon, but you were out.”
“Yes, so sorry—I was down in the country. Do come and lunch to-
morrow.”
“I wish I could, but, unfortunately, we are going home. Let me
introduce my niece, Aurea Morven—Lady Kesters.”
Lady Kesters smiled and held out her hand. Could this extremely
pretty girl be the reason of Owen’s surprising contentment? She
looked at her critically. No country mouse, this! her air and her frock
were of the town. What a charming face and marvellous complexion
—possibly due to the Marsh air!
“I have known your aunts for years”; and, though addressing Miss
Susan, she looked straight at Aurea, as she asked, “And how is the
new chauffeur suiting you?”
The girl’s colour instantly rose, but before she could speak, Miss
Susan flung herself on the question.
“Oh, very well indeed—most obliging and civil—has been quite a
treasure in the house and garden.”
Lady Kesters raised her delicately pencilled eyebrows and laughed.
“The chauffeur—gardening! How funny!”
“You see, Bella is so nervous in a motor, it is not often wanted, and
Owen likes to help us. We find him rather silent and reserved about
himself; he gives the impression of being a bit above his place?” and
she looked at Lady Kesters interrogatively.
“Really?”
“I suppose you can tell me something about him—as you said you’d
known him for years?” continued Miss Susan, with unconcealed
eagerness. “I am, I must confess, just a little curious. Where does he
come from? Has he any belongings?”
“Oh, my dear lady, do you think it necessary to look into your
chauffeur’s past! I believe he comes from Westshire, his people—er
—er—lived on my grandfather’s property; as to his belongings—ah!
there is my husband! I see he has found the car at last, and I must
fly! So sorry you are leaving town to-morrow—good-bye!” Lady
Kesters now understood her brother’s reluctance to leave Ottinge—
she had seen the reason why.
Miss Susan and her niece travelled down to Catsfield together, were
met in state by the motor and luggage-cart, and created quite a stir
at the little station. Miss Morven had such a heap of boxes—one as
big as a sheep trough—that the cart was delayed for nearly a quarter
of an hour, and Peter, the porter, for once had a job:
The ladies found that, in their absence, the neighbourhood had
awakened; there were large house-parties at Westmere and
Tynflete, and not a few smart motors now to be seen skimming
through the village. It was a fact that several tourists had visited the
church, and had “tea” at Mrs. Pither’s, and patronised her
neighbour’s “cut flowers.” The old church was full on Sundays,
dances and cricket matches were in prospect, and Miss Morven, the
countryside beauty, was immediately in enviable request.
Miss Parrett had relaxed her hold, so to speak, upon the car, and
lent it daily, and even nightly, to her niece and sister; indeed, it
seemed that she would almost do anything with the motor than use it
herself; and though she occasionally ventured to return calls at a
short distance, it was undoubtedly pain and grief to her to do so—
and, on these occasions, brandy and heart-drops were invariably
secreted in one of its many pockets.
Owen, the automaton chauffeur, was the reluctant witness of the
many attentions showered upon his lady-love, especially by Bertie
Woolcock, who was almost always in close attendance, and put her
in the car with many voluble regrets and urgent arrangements for
future meetings. He would linger by the door sometimes for ten
minutes, prolonging the “sweet sorrow,” paying clumsy compliments,
and making notes of future engagements upon his broad linen cuff.
He little suspected how dearly the impassive driver longed to
descend from his seat and throttle him; but once he did remark to the
lady—
“I say, what a scowling brute you have for a chauffeur!”
Meanwhile, Miss Susan looked on and listened to Bertie’s speeches
with happy complacency. Bertie was heir to twenty thousand a year,
and it would be delightful to have her darling Aurea living at
Westmere, and established so near home.
One evening, returning from a garden-party, Miss Susan and her
niece had a narrow escape of being killed. Aurea was seated in front
—she disliked the stuffy interior, especially this warm weather; they
had come to a red triangle notice, “Dangerous to Cyclists,” and were
about to descend a long winding hill—the one hill of the
neighbourhood. Just as they commenced the descent with the brake
hard on, it suddenly broke, and in half a second the car had shot
away!
Wynyard turned his head, and shouted, “Sit tight!” and gave all his
mind to steering; he took the whole width of the road to get round the
first corner, and then the hill made an even sharper drop; the car,
which was heavy, gathered momentum with every yard, and it
seemed impossible to reach the bottom of the hill without some
terrible catastrophe. Half-way down was another motor. Wynyard
yelled, sounded the horn, and flashed by; a pony-trap, ascending,
had a narrow escape of being pulverised in the green car’s mad
flight. Then, to the driver’s horror, he saw a great wagon and horses
on the road near the foot of the hill, and turned cold with the thought
that there might not be room to get by. They missed it by a hair’s-
breadth, and continued their wild career. At last they came to the
level at the foot of the slope, and Wynyard pulled up, after the most
exciting two minutes he had ever experienced. He glanced at his two
companions; they were both as white as death—and so was he!
Miss Susan, for once, was speechless, but at last she signed that