LA PROVA
“I found Christine neither at the Café des Trois Mousquetaires nor at
that address in the Singer Strasse which the priest had given me. The
very question, put to Albert Dietz, the proprietor of the _café_, moved
him to great mirth.
“‘It is very easy to see that you are a countryman,’ he said; ‘and I
advise you to button up your pockets while you are in this city. It is
three months since Mademoiselle Zlarin sang on our stage. You will find
her at the Opera House, as all Vienna could have told you this month
past.’
“‘Oh,’ cried I, ‘so she has become Mademoiselle Zlarin since we parted?
And at the Opera! _Per Baccho_, you must want singers badly if you can
find place for such as her. Was her husband with her, do you know?’
“He shrugged his shoulders impatiently.
“‘Old man,’ said he, ‘if I ran about Vienna looking after the husbands
of all the ladies who sing on my stage, there would not be shoemakers
enough in the city to sole my boots.’
“‘True,’ said I; ‘yet she is not as the others. I would stake my life
on that.’
“‘Stake it on nothing so risky,’ cried he; ‘when you have seen as much
of women as I have, you will not be so ready.’
“‘_Accidente_,’ exclaimed I, ‘this is no place for an honest man to cry
his wares. One word more, Herr Dietz. You would tell me, I doubt not,
that Mademoiselle Zlarin sings in the chorus of the opera?’
“‘I could tell you no such thing,’ he replied; ‘she has been given the
part of Joseph in Mascagni’s “L’Amico Fritz.” She is no great singer, I
admit. But there is the devil in the music she makes with her violin;
and she acts a part with _verve_ enough for six women. I could have
filled this garden twenty times when she was playing. The men went
mad about her. God knows, we had all the fine folks in the city here.
_Donnerwetter_, it was a bad day for me when she received the offer to
go to the Opernring, but I could not refuse. They said that the Emperor
wished it. He heard her at Esterhazy’s house. And now she lives like
a little Princess. Well, I am not the one to bear her ill-will. It is
something to see a smile upon her pretty face.’
“I thanked him in my heart for this, and went away to seek Christine,
as bewildered as man ever was.
“‘_Dio mio_,’ I said to myself, ‘that things should be thus with
her--she who was a beggar reared in beggary! Well it was that I came to
seek her in Vienna. She will not forget old Andrea who gave her bread.
And he can snap his fingers at the priest to-day. If she be rich, what
is the friendship of those at Jézero to her now? A plague upon them
all--who turned an old man from their door.’
“For a truth, this was the way the thing appeared to me, excellency. I
reflected that if Christine had married the Lord Count, it would have
been a dreary business at the best. She would have been immured in the
great house like a nun in her cell. She would have been cut off like
one in a tomb from the companionship of her true friends. I made sure
that she would be compelled to turn her face even from me, who gave
her bread. But with Christine earning money for herself--_Bon Dieu_,
what should she care for the gloomy man whose love had brought so many
misfortunes upon her! I would be her protector always. Cost me what it
might, I would be near her to help her when she had need of me. There
was her husband, of course: but him, I judged, it would be easy to
deal with. He would not forget that I had held my tongue when a word
of mine might have delivered him to the Count. I would see that he
learnt to respect me. I would not neglect to remind him that it was yet
possible to make a hussar of him. Luck seemed to be mine at every turn.
I walked through the crowded streets of the great city and cracked my
fingers for joy as I went. The burden of years seemed to be gone from
my shoulders.
“It was midday when I arrived at the Opera House. I had been saying to
myself as I went along that after all I should not be surprised that
such a strange gift of fortune had come to my child. Her sweet face
alone was enough to win her that. And there had always been a devil
in the music she had made from her crazy fiddle. I had seen this very
opera, ‘L’Amico Fritz,’ played in my own city of Sebenico, and I had
always said that an _impresario_ would be lucky who could find a singer
not only able to sing the part of Joseph, but also to play the violin
while she sang. How it came about that little Christine had found a
voice I knew not, for although she took a part in the Mass as a child
she had received no schooling in this art. But that her mastery of the
violin would be a fortune to her I felt sure. And this made me the
readier to believe the story which Herr Dietz had told me.
“You know the new Opera at Vienna, signor? Yes! then you can assent
when I maintain that there is no house like it in the world. Holy
Virgin, what a sight to see! What painting--what gold--what splendour!
I have been in that house but twice as a spectator, and I can never
forget the things I saw--the lamps, hundreds, thousands; the pictures,
oh! the colours of them; the great folk, what dresses! what splendid
women; the scenery, the palaces, the green gardens--greener than any
in my own Italy! And the music! Body of my soul, it is the choir of
heaven come down to us while yet we live; it is the chanting of the
spirits of joy and of laughter and of dreams.
“I remembered all these things as I sought for little Christine that
day; and my heart was very light to think that she--the vagrant of
Zlarin--was to take her place in this house of splendour and of
magnificence. Nor did I fail to be amused when I stood for a moment
in the sunshine of the Opernring, and read upon a great bill that
Mademoiselle Zlarin would on the following Monday evening play the
part of Joseph in Mascagni’s opera. I made sure that she had chosen
to remember her island home in this pretty fancy, and had posed as a
Frenchwoman for memory of the mother she had never seen. Two minutes
later I stood at the stage-door of the theatre asking for her.
“There was that which we call _la prova_ being held at the moment of my
arrival; but a commanding word to the door-keeper, and a gulden thrust
into his hand, secured me his favour quickly.
“‘She is singing now, as you may hear for yourself,’ said he. ‘I have
authority to admit no one, as a rule; but if you are a kinsman and
have come from Jézero, as you say, it is another affair. Slip down that
passage there, and you will catch her as she returns to her room.’
“I obeyed his suggestion quickly, and going down the passage, whose
walls were encumbered with vast piles of paint-besmeared canvas, I
found myself presently out upon the great stage. For some minutes I
could see nothing, so dark was the scene--so little corresponding to
that which I had imagined it to be when I sat in my humble place in
the _piccionaja_. By-and-bye my eyes accustomed themselves to the dim
light. I began to make out the boxes and the galleries, now veiled in
white cloth. I could see the _lumiera_ high up, as it were, at the
summit of a great dome; the countless stalls below me ranged themselves
like cushions of satin upon an amphitheatre of snow. When at length
I could occupy myself with that which was passing at my hand, so to
speak, I was aware that forty or fifty others, shadowy forms, hovered
over the boards which I trod--here a woman talking earnestly to a man
behind the shelter of a wing; there a ballet-master rating a dozen
pale-faced girls; here, again, a carpenter busy with hammer and nails;
there, again, a _suggeritore_, scrip in hand, and tongue well oiled.
As the scene became more clear to me, I began to understand that the
rehearsal was nearly over. Indeed, the main business was done, and the
musician, seated before a piano on the right-hand side of the stage,
was playing his notes for one singer alone. Excellency, a flare of gas
cast an aureole of light about that singer, and I recognised her--but
not until I had looked at her for the third time. She was little
Christine!
“She had her fiddle in her hand, and there was a pretty laugh upon
her face when the conductor thumped merrily with his right hand and
beat time with his left. I observed with satisfaction that she was
well dressed, and that her figure had matured since last I saw her.
Presently she began to sing, and this was my greatest surprise of all,
for though there was no great volume of voice, it was singularly sweet
and pure; and my ear told me that her execution was very exact. I said
to myself that she must have studied hard to arrive at so pleasing a
result; and when, a few moments later, she snatched up her violin and
played the music of her part, I wondered no more that she had come
to the opera. Scarce another woman in Europe could have given such a
display in arts so different.
“The music being finished, and the conductor having risen from his
desk, I thought it time to make myself known. Advancing quickly across
the stage, and holding my arms out as a father should to a child, I
said:
“‘Christine, do you not know me--old Andrea of Sebenico? Oh, blessed be
the day!’
“Her response to my cordiality was not such as I had looked for,
excellency. She did not even offer me her cheek to kiss, but started
back, a flush upon her face.
“‘Surely,’ she cried, ‘it is Andrea--and what does he do here?’
“‘_Per Baccho_,’ said I, ‘but this is a winter’s welcome for one who
gave you----’
“She silenced me with a stamp of her pretty foot.
“‘Why did you not go to my house,’ she exclaimed; ‘do you wish to act
your message here in the theatre? Oh, for a truth, this old man would
play the father to all the lost children in Vienna!’
“‘Christine,’ said I, ‘God forgive you for that saying. I have come far
to bring a message to you; but I can go back as I have come if you have
no wish to hear me.’
“I knew that this would play upon her curiosity, and I was right.
“‘You have come from Jézero?’ she asked quickly.
“‘Certainly,’ said I; ‘and to Jézero I will go again at a word from
you.’
“It was astonishing, excellency, to observe the effect of these few
words upon her. All the colour left her face; I could see that she had
begun to tremble.
“‘Come,’ she said presently, ‘we will go to my house, and you shall
tell me your message as we ride.’
“A few moments later I was in her carriage with her--the first time in
my life I had ever set foot in a carriage. I saw that those upon the
pavements stopped to watch us as we passed, and that few men did not
turn to look again at the little singer whose name was upon everyone’s
lips.
“‘Christine,’ said I, ‘this is indeed the day of my life. That I should
come to Vienna to hear such things, and to ride with you in your own
carriage!’
“She laughed merrily; but becoming serious at once, she asked:
“‘Who sent you to me from Jézero?’
“‘My love for you, little one, and a word which the priest dropped to
me. You are not forgotten there, Christine, though I make sure you have
long forgotten them.’
“This surmise of mine, made at a venture, was a thing I had better have
left unsaid. She turned upon me, her eyes flashing:
“‘How dare you say that--how dare you think it?’ she exclaimed; ‘have I
not suffered enough because to forget is the one thing denied to me?’
“‘Christine,’ said I, ‘is it possible that a woman can suffer who has
such opportunities as fortune has given to you?’
“She laughed again--a rippling laugh of irony.
“‘You speak of opportunities,’ cried she; ‘what are they but the fruits
of our own work? Such opportunities as are mine have been earned by
nights and days of ceaseless slavery. They are my sleep, my food, my
heart. I have lived twenty years of my life in a month, that I might
forget, and yet must remember more every day. Oh, I love, I love--I
shall love always, Andrea. I would give all the years of my success for
one hour of love in the gardens at Jézero.’
“I had not looked to find her in this mood, and it pleased me but ill.
Before I could reason with her, we drove up at a house in the Wallner
Strasse, where she had an apartment on the first floor, and I followed
her to her rooms. They were small, but furnished with exceeding taste,
and the _déjeûner_ which was spread upon the table of her dining-room
was a repast to set appetite running.
“‘_Eccoli_, little one,’ cried I, surveying the fruit and the flowers,
and the rich red wine in the cut-glass decanters, ‘of a truth fortune
has done well to you. That your talent should have brought you such a
reward! Did I not say always----’
“She silenced me sharply, and it was plain to me that my style of
speaking was such as she did not care her servants to hear.
“‘Come,’ she said, ‘we will talk of this another time. I must be at the
theatre again in an hour, and I have much to say to you. It was well
with them at Jézero when you left?’
“‘Certainly, it was well with them--as well as it may be in that
gloomy place. _Dio mio_, who would live in such a barn when he might
come to this city? I tell you that the very paper hangs in strips upon
the walls. You remember what was being done when you went away? _Per
Baccho_, they made a pretty job of it, for the Count came home next day
and sent the lot of them about their business. Certainly, that man is
fortunate who has no need to live at Jézero!’
“My object in saying this was, if possible, to take her thoughts from
that which I saw still troubled her so deeply. But the more I talked,
the readier was she to listen, and the questions she put to me were
not to be numbered. ‘It may be as you say,’ she said, ‘but Jézero will
always be very dear to me, Andrea. I could willingly have lived my life
there; yet that was not to be. Tell me, does Count Paul ever speak of
coming to Vienna?’
“‘I have heard nothing of it,’ said I.
“‘I am glad of that,’ she answered, though there were tears in her eyes
when she said it. ‘My husband would kill him if he came here!’
“‘Your husband!’ cried I; ‘_Santa Maria_, I had forgotten him. Yet what
talk! He has not the courage to lift his hand against a dog. Is he in
Vienna now?’
“‘He is at Buda,’ she said, turning from the subject.
“‘Christine,’ said I, understanding much from her silence, ‘you have
suffered at his hands?’
“‘If I had done so,’ she replied, ‘should I speak of it to you?’
“She rose from the table at this, and went to the window to look down
wistfully upon the crowded street below. It was hard to think that
success meant so little to one who had climbed so steep a road and
whose feet had been so often cut by the way. Before, however, I could
say anything to comfort her, the door of the room opened, and the
servant announced a visitor.
“‘Lieutenant Gerold,’ she said.
“I stood up to make my bow, and found myself in the presence of a boy
who wore the uniform of a hussar regiment--a mere stripling, who
carried a great basket of flowers upon his arm, and had a shamefaced
smile which spoke of his confusion.
“‘Christine----’ he said, coming forward, but stopping abruptly when he
saw me.
“She turned to meet him with a face lit up by the gladness of her
welcome.
“‘Zol,’ she cried, ‘I told you to bring me no more flowers.’
“‘But,’ said he--and it was a boy’s excuse--‘they were very cheap.’
“‘Oh,’ she cried, ‘that is what you always say. Don’t mind old Andrea
here. You have heard me speak of him often. I used to sit upon his knee
once.’
“‘Lucky old rascal!’ replied the lad, playfully.
“‘But that was long ago,’ she added immediately; and then she held out
her hands to the lad for his flowers. I saw that he pinned one to her
breast with trembling fingers.
“‘I am coming to the theatre to-day,’ he said, but in a very low voice.
“‘Have I not forbidden it?’ she exclaimed.
“‘The greater reason that I should come. I love you the most when you
forbid things. And I have a week’s leave. It will be a week in the
theatre. You will not make me unhappy, Christine?’
“He bent down and kissed her hand, and I saw that she did not draw it
back when his lips touched it.
* * * * *
“That night, excellency, my letter went to the priest at Jézero.
“‘Trouble yourself not at all about Christine,’ I wrote, ‘for fortune
has been very kind to her here, where, if my old eyes do not deceive
me, she has both a husband and a lover.’
“‘It was a lie!’ you say. Aye, surely; yet for the child’s sake I lied
then, as I would lie to-day, to-morrow, and to the end of time. For
what service would it have been to her to have snatched her from her
triumphs in the city and to have immured her in the gloomy house of the
Zaloskis? Nay, I knew that it would be none, and I could have danced
for joy when I put my letter into the box.
“‘Now indeed,’ cried I, ‘will they have cause to remember old Andrea,
whom they turned from their door in the day of his necessity.’”