The "Two Eagles" was one of those little cafés which abound in
Vienna; good beer, music, and freedom; the rendezvous of students,
with a fair sprinkling of the military.
To Marie, peeping out from the tiny, none-too-clean room, they had
given her to dress in, it seemed far worse than it really was, for
the girl's eyes had only looked on life at the convent, and from the
windows of her father's house. The clicking of the steins on the
bare tables, the rough voices of the waiters as they hurried back and
forth, the scraping of chairs on the sanded floor, the floating
layers of blue smoke through which the lights blurred, the students
with their wide black ties and unkempt hair, with here and there a
splash of color where some officers sat sprawled about a table. This
was a world of which she had never dreamed, and she shrank
instinctively from its cheap tawdriness. Through it all, breaking
out in shrill peals, or suppressed giggles, came the laughter of
women. Laughter more than anything is indicative of caste, and this
coarse mirth was strange to Marie's ears.
Away at the far end, was the platform on which Herr Schultz was
playing the piano, with a white-faced, wizened young man beside him,
scraping on a violin.
How was she to get there? The time had come. One of the greasy
waiters had just knocked at her door and told her they were ready,
but the route lay in and out among those many tables, those staring
faces. She never knew how she reached the platform. She was keenly
conscious of the scraping of her shoes on the sanded floor, and of
the voices about her.
One woman laughed in a sneering way as she passed her table, and her
companion reached out and tried to grab Marie's hand. In pulling
away, she almost fell over the shining boot of a young, round-faced
officer, a boot which had been thrust in her way purposely, and whose
owner roared with mirth at her terrible confusion. She was vaguely
conscious of an older man at his side, at whose sharp word the
offending boot was withdrawn. As she passed, here and there rough
voices flung appraising phrases at her, that sent the blood flaming
into her cheeks.
But after what seemed an interminable journey, she at last reached
the little platform and the shelter of Herr Schultz's side.
"Never mind, child," whispered the kindly old man, "you'll grow used
to it all. What shall we sing first?"
Marie's heart was in her throat. She felt as though she never should
be able to even speak, to sing was an impossibility. The white-faced
violinist murmured an encouraging word. Herr Schultz patted her arm,
his weak mouth tremulous with reassuring smiles.
She told herself that she was in no way a part of this cheap, vulgar
place. It need not touch her. She was there to sing, to earn her
living. Her cheeks burned, but she swallowed bravely, and as Herr
Schultz struck the opening chords, she turned and faced the room,
which seemed to swim in the blue haze of the tobacco smoke. Before
her eyes was a blur of black and white, with here and there a spot of
color made by some soldier's uniform. Her small, sweet voice
trembled, and she sang the rollicking music-hall ditty, as though it
were a sentimental ballad, but she seemed to have struck the vacuous
fancy of the young officer, over whose foot she had tripped, and
while her voice still clung to the last note, he acclaimed his
approval.
Indeed she seemed to have pleased the majority of her audience, who,
with their characteristic love of music, applauded vociferously,
pounding on the tables with their beer mugs and shouting noisily.
She resumed her seat with the pleasure that appreciation, from no
matter how mean a source, always brings.
As she waited while the old man turned over the music before
beginning another song, her eyes were caught and held by the pale
blue ones of the young officer who had started the applause. She
felt her face grow scarlet under his gaze. Some intangible instinct
warned her of danger, but she was grateful to him for his
demonstration of approval, so she tried to force her trembling lips
to smile her thanks. He was quite young, his pale blond hair worn
stiff in the familiar paint-brush style, was almost white against his
flushed forehead, and his full lips were very red. He was sprawled
in his chair with his thick legs in their tight blue trousers,
straight out before him, his head sunk between his shoulders. The
man at his side touched him quietly on the arm and said a few words
which Marie could not catch. The youth pulled himself together and
turned once more to the table and through all of her next song, which
was the Schubert one, he paid no more heed to her. Even at its
conclusion, he did not vouchsafe the approbation he had given her at
first. But the rest of the room was unanimous in their praise.
She was trembling. She had pleased them, and she was so anxious to
please. Herr Schultz looked at her proudly over his shoulder, as he
struck the opening chords for the white-faced violinist, who smirked
at her.
After a brief rest, she rose at the old man's nod, and sang again,
and again, till her throat felt tight, her voice grew husky and her
eyes smarted with the unaccustomed tobacco fumes. But her audience
was insatiable.
A noisy student rapped loudly on his table and called for yet another
song. His companions echoed the command and leered laughingly into
her face.
From another table in a corner, a fat, oily looking man with diamonds
on his fingers, and a heavy triple chin, beckoned to her with what he
must have thought was an ingratiating smile. But the woman with him,
a slim, dark little creature, with thickly rouged lips and cloudy
black hair, jerked angrily at his arm, and he swung about in his
chair so that Marie saw only his great back.
Brower, the proprietor, came up and patted her roughly on the
shoulder.
"She caught on, Schultz," he wheezed in his heavy voice, that was
habitually hoarse from beer and tobacco smoke. "I think she'll do!"
She had succeeded, objectionable and unpleasant as these surroundings
and the people were. She had conquered, she had overcome the
harrowing embarrassment that had shocked her refined nature. She
felt a certain sense of pride that she had not failed, that she had
not been vanquished by her weaker emotions. It gave her more
confidence in herself. If she could do this, she could do other
things, better, more suited to her temperament and ideals. She would
endure this place only so long as she must, and at the first
opportunity of a better position, leave it. Tired, but glad that for
the immediate future at least she need not worry about the fewness of
the pennies in her savings box, Marie slipped on her coat, and
clinging to old Schultz's arm, trudged happily home.
After a few days, her shyness partly left her, she was more at ease,
more sure of herself and the approval of her personality and singing
was even more marked. The first time, the room had only been a blur.
Her self-consciousness had made it impossible for her to note more
than a vague outline, but now that the tension had relaxed somewhat,
she was able to distinguish the details of her surroundings. She
began to see here and there a beckoning finger that called her
hospitably to share its owner's table. Sometimes she saw the angry
frown and quick proprietory nudge of the woman who accompanied him
and resented his interest in the little singer. She began to hear
her name called in a familiar diminutive, as groups of students would
ask for favorite songs. Secure under the shelter of Herr Schultz's
wing, she smiled her thanks from the platform.
One night, she stood wrapped in her cloak, waiting for her guardian
as he gathered up his music. The last guest was leaving beerily, and
the greasy waiters were going about turning out the lights and
mopping up the splashed tables.
Brower came heavily up to the platform. He looked at Marie with an
unpleasant grin.
"Tired, Fräulein?" he asked, "never mind, you'll be home in a little
while. You've done very well! But to-morrow, I want you to be nice
to my friends."
Herr Schultz, without turning, stopped in his task of gathering the
sheets of music, and the proprietor went on.
"To-morrow I want you to pay a few visits among the tables.
Remember, the more we sell to drink, the more you are worth to me."
Schultz turned quickly, his heavy eyebrows drawn together in a frown,
his weak mouth working tremulously.
"The Fräulein is only here to sing," he said, his voice shaking, "she
does not go down among the tables."
"What have you got to say?" thundered Brower, "If you don't like the
way this place is run, you can go! There are plenty of
piano-players!"
Marie looked on in terror, only half understanding. Her face went
white as she realized what this would mean.
"Oh, no," she begged, "if he goes I must go."
This was not what Brower wanted. The girl had really been a
profitable investment. His clientele was pleased. New people were
beginning to come. More money was being spent. Allowances must be
made.
"Look here, Schultz," he growled, "everything will be all right, she
needn't drink, I only want her to go about and be pleasant. You're
here where you can watch her."
In Schultz's faithful breast, the knowledge of what it would mean at
his age, to lose his position, struggled with his fear for Marie.
Brower was right, there were so many piano-players, but he knew well
what this sort of thing led to. He had seen it so often.
"She can't go down among the tables," he repeated doggedly.
Brower struggled between rage and cupidity. He would gladly have
kicked the old man into the street, but the source of income which
the girl meant, must not be lost.
"All right," he shrugged, and for the time, the matter was dropped.