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Updated: June 25, 2025
It was frankly built for Mizzi. He called Wallie Ascher into his office. "I wouldn't try her out here for a million. New York's too fly. Some little thing might be wrong you know how they are. And all the rest would go for nothing. The kindest audience in the world when they like you. And the cruelest when they don't. We'll go on the road for two weeks.
Fenger's face at sight of Mizzi, and Theodore with his violin, and Otti with her shawls and paraphernalia. Though," she added, seriously, "it's mighty kind of you, and generous and just like a man." "It isn't kindness nor generosity that makes me want to do things for you." "Modest," murmured Fanny, wickedly, "as always." Fenger bent his look upon her. "Don't try the ingenue on me, Fanny."
"Yes," said Mizzi, listlessly. "He doesn't know the show's closed. We'll take a chance on his being home for dinner. Unless you're too tired." "I'm not tired." The Jap admitted them, and Hahn cut off his staccato exclamations with a quick and smothering hand. They tiptoed into the big, gracious, lamp-lighted room. Wallie was seated at the piano. He had on a silk dressing gown with a purple cord.
Theodore smiled a wry little smile. "Mizzi is named after Olga's chum. You see, in Vienna every other well, chorus girl I suppose you'd call them is named Mizzi. Like all the Gladyses and Flossies here in America. Well, Olga's special friend Mizzi " "I see," said Fanny quietly. "Well, anything's better than Fanny. Always did make me think of an old white horse."
They settled themselves comfortably, sitting or standing. Their faces held the broad smile of anticipation. "She asked them what they want her to sing. They told her. It's the same every day." Mizzi Markis stood there before them in the mud, and clay, and straw of the building débris.
The head-gear a soaring winged affair of stiffly starched white, that is a pass between the Breton peasant woman's cap and an aeroplane. Black stockings and slippers finish the costume. Otti and Mizzi spent the glorious September days in Lincoln park, Otti garbed in staid American stripes and apron, Mizzi resplendent in smartest of children's dresses provided for her lavishly by her aunt.
Perhaps the next emperor of Germany will be a Dada. An Ober Dada who knows? Once the world learns to laugh we may expect radical changes. And in München I know a dancer, Mizzi. Dear God, what legs! You must come there to see legs. Faces in the Rhineland. Ankles in Vienna. But legs, dear God, in München! It is the Spanish influence. Let us drink to Mizzi...." The wine was vanishing.
If a policeman asks you why you are dressed that way tell him it is the costume worn by nurses in Vienna. Give him your name. Tell him who your master is. If he doesn't speak German and he won't, in Chicago some one will translate for you." Not a Sunday paper in Chicago that did not carry a startling picture of the resplendent Otti and the dimpled and smiling Mizzi.
She opened it with a rush of happiness. It was like a loving hand held out to her in need. It was a day letter. "We sail Monday on the St. Paul. Mizzi is with me. I broke my word to you. But you lied to me about the letters. I found them the week before the concert. I shall bring her back with me or stay to fight for Germany. Forgive me, dear sister." Just fifty words. His thrifty German training.
Not one of them wore overalls or apron. Out again with their bundles and boxes of food very small bundles. Very tiny boxes. They ate ravenously the bread and sausage and drank their beer in great gulps. Fifteen minutes after the whistle had blown the last crumb had vanished. "Now, then," said Wallie, and guided Hahn nearer. He looked toward Mizzi. Everyone looked toward her.
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