My first idea had been to talk immediately to Mr. Doblana and inform him that I intended marrying his daughter. I told Mitzi this while we were going home through narrow, dark streets, as becomes thieves and lovers. But she objected. She was rather cool, the result probably of yonder bootmakers' lad's intervention.
"I know you love me," she said, "and always will. I too love you, but I don't know yet how to do it well. I cannot tell you what I feel. If you were at once to speak to father, either he would say yes, or he would say no, but in both cases you would have to leave our house at once. Father is no artist, he is a trader in music, and he is meanspirited as all tradespeople are. He does not understand love as artists do. He would only see the impropriety of your staying any longer with us. And I do not want to be lonely. I want you with me. Think only that I just found my heart. You do love me?"
I wanted to take her in my arms, and to kiss her again. But although there was nobody in the street she prevented it.
"And you always will love me?" she asked once more.
"Always, Mitzi!" I said.
And, my word, I am afraid that this always still holds good a little.
When we arrived at home Doblana was not yet in and Fanny had gone to bed. In the drawing-room, where a couple of hours before Mitzi had sung herself definitely into my heart, we halted. She looked at me, and I opened my arms; for a moment she laid her cheek against my shoulder, then she took my head between her hands and kissed me. It was very sweet ... but it lacked Schubert.
Then she went into her room, and I into mine.
It was she who the next day came to speak about Macbeth.
"You want me to play Lady Macbeth?"