THE MORNING OF THE DAY
“I had found a lodging during my six weeks’ sojourn in the capital, at
a little Italian hotel in the Kohl Market. These six weeks had brought
winter to us, and the snow lay white and heavy upon the Prater. You
heard the tinkle of sleigh-bells everywhere; pretty women were the
prettier for their sables; the men went hurriedly to their work or
play, their steps quickened by the music of the frost. At the Palaces
there were great assemblages every night. The whole city seemed full of
the intoxication of dancing and of feasting. I, old man that I was, and
a stranger to the unresting pleasures of Vienna, found myself carried
away by them like a boy of twenty. Herr Strauss set my feet leaping
always. I discovered many a pretty face ready to laugh at my words. I
stood before the gorgeous shops and dreamt that some good genius had
dowered me with riches. There was money in my pocket always, for little
Christine saw to that.
“Such a novelty of pleasure caused the weeks to pass quickly, and the
first night of Christine’s appearance at the Opera in the part of
Joseph was upon me before I had learnt to realise the whole truth of
her altered situation. Not that the city neglected to talk of an event
so important. The fresh melodies of Mascagni were then making madmen
of us. We had carried my clever young countryman shoulder high to his
hotel; we had taken the horses from his carriage, and had cheered
like children upon a holiday when first we had heard the beauties of
‘Cavalleria.’ The promise of ‘L’Amico Fritz’ was upon all our tongues.
The _boulevardiers_ said that a prettier Joseph would not be seen upon
any stage; musicians cried out that the notes from Christine’s violin
were golden threads of harmony drawn from a skein of fire. She had made
a great reputation already at the Café des Trois Mousquetaires. People
pointed to her in the street, and said that the _première_ of the new
opera must be a triumph for her. I listened to all the talk, and my
pride grew strong when I repeated their praise. ‘_Securo_,’ said I, ‘is
she not my daughter, and will not there be a place for me in whatever
house of fame may be prepared for her? Glory be to God that she did
not marry the gloomy man of Jézero!’
“On the morning of that long-looked-for day, excellency, I rose betimes
and went to the great church of St. Stephen to the early Mass, that I
might pray for Christine’s success. I have always been a religious man,
and surely, even to one who doubts that his prayers will be heard, the
chance is worth the taking. ‘Little help indeed can I give her, but
such as I have shall not be held back,’ I said. And there was no man
in all the church who prayed more fervently than I that the little one
might reap a rich harvest, and leave a gleaning for those who had loved
her.
“I heard the Mass, and then returned to my home. To my surprise, I
found the young hussar waiting in my rooms for me. It was my thought
that hitherto he had treated me with some coldness, but now he shewed a
great readiness to be civil to me.
“‘I want a word with you, old Andrea,’ said he; ‘we will go and
breakfast at Daum’s, and you can talk while you eat.’
“‘Body of Paul,’ cried I, ‘you may count upon me for that! I
know nothing which puts hunger into a man like the droning of the
priests--God forgive me for the words. It is an honour to be your
servant, Lieutenant, though I would that my coat was more worthy of the
office. _Accidente_, it is as full of holes as a cheese out of France.’
“‘_Blitzen_,’ cried he, surveying me critically, ‘you speak truth! We
will go to the Graben, old Andrea, where there is plenty of shadow.’
“I followed him out, and when an admirable breakfast was served, and he
had filled his glass the second time--for he ate very little--he began
to question me.
“‘You were at Mademoiselle’s house last night?’ he asked.
“‘Surely,’ said I, ‘did we not meet there?’
“‘Ah, I remember that we did. Then you know nothing of the ill news she
has received?’
“‘_Diavolo_,’ cried I, ‘ill news--and whence comes that?’
“‘That is what I want to ask you. The devil take me if I can make head
or tail of it. I left her after the rehearsal just as merry as a girl
could be--and here to-day she has the face of a nun. It cannot be that
her cut-throat of a husband is troubling her, for he is not in Vienna.
It is something else, old Andrea, and you must help me to find it out.’
“He filled my glass as he spoke, and lighting a cigarette he threw
himself back in his chair, a picture of boyish concern which amused me
to see.
“‘_Nom du diable_,’ said I, ‘it is easy to talk of finding it out, but
he who runs after a woman’s whims must wear thick boots. She had no
letter that you know of?’
“‘If she had she kept it from me. And that’s what I complain of. She
tells me nothing. I hear hints all day, but devil of a word which would
let me help her. If she would only talk to me, everything would be
right in five minutes. But she won’t. That’s her obstinacy, my friend.’
“He began to drum upon the table with his hands, and to put on an air
of ferocity, as much as to say: ‘Oh, I will deal with it--and then!’ I,
on my part, while his tragedy air tickled me, fell to wondering what
news Christine had heard; and suddenly I divined the truth: the Count
of Jézero was in Vienna!
“‘Lieutenant,’ said I presently, ‘Christine has told you nothing of her
friends at Jézero?’
“He looked up quickly.
“‘What friends?’ he asked.
“‘Oh,’ cried I, as though it were a matter of no importance, ‘Count
Paul Zaloski, the Governor of the Province, took much interest in the
child two years ago. She looked up to him as to a father. He in turn
regarded her as his daughter. It may be that Christine has heard some
ill news about her benefactor. Possibly that benefactor has come to
Vienna, and in that case----’
“I stopped abruptly, aping the air of one who has some great mystery to
unfold. It had occurred to me on the instant, excellency, that I had
found the means to deal once and for all with Ugo Klun. So deep was the
thought of that moment that my hand trembled when I set down my glass,
and my brain burnt with excitement. As for the lieutenant, his face had
flushed suddenly like the face of a schoolgirl.
“‘_Blitzen_,’ cried he, ‘I heard something of a Count Paul, but what is
that you are saying--her benefactor? Name of the devil, who is he?’
“I drew my chair closer to the table.
“‘Herr Gerold,’ said I--for the intent was now strong upon me--‘if the
cause of Christine’s trouble is that which I think it, she may well
wear the face of a nun. How and why this comes to be you will hear
presently. I am going to tell you a plain story. It is a story which
you may be glad to hear--yet which may ultimately rob me of a friend.
I am a poor man, and my friends are very dear to me. You see how many
holes there are in my coat. Should I be able to help you in an object
which is very dear to you, I doubt not that you will remember my claims
when the day comes.’
“The thing was wisely said. I could see that my little lieutenant was
burning with the fever of impatience.
“‘God be my witness, old Andrea,’ cried he, ‘if you can put me in the
way of helping little Christine, I will fill your hat with gold!’
“‘Far be it from me,’ exclaimed I, ‘to seek a reward because I do my
duty. Nevertheless, I am old and growing feeble, and ill would it
become me to shew ingratitude to my benefactors. I thank you for your
promises, Lieutenant. May the day be soon when you shall redeem them!
And now to speak of Christine’s relations with Count Paul. I have told
you that she regards him as a father. She has reason to. He saved her
life when she was perishing of hunger in the mountains. She thinks
of him as a friend--it would be impossible for her to think of him
otherwise, for he is twice her age--a gloomy man, living like a hermit
in a house of gloom. It may be that she would have remained always at
Jézero, but for the cruelty of the scoundrel Klun, who dragged her from
her happiness that she might be his slave in this city. She was never
a wife to him. When she stood before the altar with him, she knew not
what the meaning of marriage was. He has no more claim to her love than
the first stranger you may meet in yonder street; yet this is the one
who threatens her always, saying, “When Count Paul comes to Vienna I
will do this and that.” You know well what insults, what cruelties,
this man has put upon her. Is not the day near when we should take it
upon ourselves to save her from him?’
“I put the question to him, but he had scarce the patience to hear me
out.
“‘Thousand devils!’ said he, ‘I knew nothing of all this.’
“‘Exactly,’ I replied. ‘Christine is not the one to cry her troubles in
the street. Yet few of her age have suffered as she has suffered. Had I
not made up my mind to speak to you, you would have heard no complaint
from her. Now, however, you will know what to do, and you will not
forget old Andrea, who wished you well in the work.’
“He was the more excited at this, bending over the table so that I
spoke almost into his ear while I told him that Ugo Klun had deserted
at Jajce, and that a corporal had lied to shield him from the service.
“‘It is written in the reports,’ said I, ‘that Master Ugo is dead. But
what of that? A word spoken by one in authority will set everything
right. It may even be that the village gossips tell a true tale when
they say that the lad fired on the corporal sent to take him. Should
that account be the true one, Lieutenant, little Christine’s husband
will be shot, and she will be free to give her love where she pleases.
_Eccoli_, there is a thing for you to dream of! Body of my soul, if I
had your little burden of years upon my shoulders, and my lips were
cold for want of the warmth of a little girl’s kisses, I would settle
the thing in an hour. What! you do not understand me?’
“He had jumped up from his seat as my plan unfolded itself; and now
he strode up and down the little room, while the waiter gaped with
astonishment and the glasses rattled upon the table.
“Far from misunderstanding me, excellency, he had rushed to my
suggestion like a drunkard to the wine; and the intoxication of it was
upon him already.
“‘_Blitzen_, old Andrea,’ said he, stopping by my table presently, ‘but
this shall be worth money to you! You are telling me the truth?’
“‘Telling you the truth! Holy Virgin, would I come to you with a lie
upon my lips? Ask any at Jajce whether or no Ugo Klun, the son of the
woodlander, was not drawn for service in that town.’
“‘I believe you,’ he cried, ‘I believe you, by G--! Come along with
me now--come instantly, for my feet dance with impatience. Thousand
devils! she shall have a pale face no more. I will never leave her
side again. Oh! there shall be money in your purse for this, old
Andrea.’
“‘One moment,’ said I, though my hand twitched and the pockets of my
mind hungered when he spoke of money; ‘no fool’s haste will help you in
an undertaking like this. Why, the man Ugo is not even in Vienna!’
“‘He comes to-night,’ cried he, laughing almost hysterically; ‘it shall
be his last night as a free man--the night that Christine plays Joseph,
too! Was there ever anything so good?’
“‘He comes to-night, you say,’ I replied; ‘then indeed must your
work be quick, for if he meets the Count of Jézero, God help little
Christine and Joseph that is to be!’
“‘Pshaw!’ said he, ‘to the devil with the opera!--let us go, old
Andrea.’
“The news that Count Paul was in Vienna had come to Christine from her
husband, Ugo. He had read it in a paper at Buda, and had chuckled over
the news.
“‘_Cospetto_,’ said he to himself, ‘I will frighten her again, and
she will be the readier to untie her purse-strings. She plays Joseph
to-morrow, and after that she will be rich. Certainly, I must return to
Vienna at once.’
“He posted the paper that night--it was the eve of the great day--and
on the following morning at seven o’clock he took train for the
capital. When he arrived at the Northern Station, he told the driver of
his drosky to go straight to the Opera House; and there he sent in a
little note to Mademoiselle Zlarin.
“‘_Carissima_,’ he wrote, ‘I have kept my promise. If you would save
the man of Jézero, be sure to speak with me before to-night. I am at
the Hotel Rákóczi.’
“He left the letter, pluming himself upon his cleverness, and began
to think by what means he could turn to his profit a circumstance so
fortunate. That Christine would take him at his word he never doubted.
Nor was he wrong in this. The news of the Count’s coming was like oil
upon the fire of her affections. The strength of the old passion filled
her veins and made her brain burn. She went through the rehearsal
of the morning hearing nothing, seeing nothing, giving no heed to
the scene about her. ‘He has come for love of me’ was the entrancing
thought which conquered all other thoughts, of prudence or of fear.
She longed to run to her lover’s arms, to kneel by his side as she
used to kneel, to know that here was her haven from the storm of life.
The remonstrances of the conductor, the anger of the stage manager,
fell lightly upon her ears. She whispered: ‘I love, I love.’ She was
ignorant that the supreme moment of her life was upon her.
“This mood of joy remained with her during the morning, to the
detriment of her performance, and to the annoyance of those playing
with her. But when the note from her husband was delivered to her, the
dream of pleasure passed swiftly, giving place to fear and a great
sense of helplessness. She had not thought that Ugo would return to
Vienna for some weeks at any rate. His sudden coming filled her with
terror and foreboding. She remembered the childish threats the man had
uttered. They were very real to her. She said that it lay upon her at
least to warn Count Paul. She shunned the suggestion that she must
seek him out and speak to him. ‘A letter will do,’ she said; and then
again she began to doubt, telling herself that he would laugh at such a
warning. No, she must see him; she must hear a word from his lips; she
must hide nothing from him.
“Once she had come to this conclusion--and it was the strong child
of her wish--her impatience to execute it was almost uncontrollable.
They say in the theatre that never was a stranger thing seen than the
varying tempers she displayed during the course of that long rehearsal.
Now seeming to forget her part, now acting like a little fury, there
were moments when she rose to such supreme heights of talent that the
hearts of those listening were almost stilled in their beating; other
moments when the conductor threw down his _bâton_, and the musicians of
the band tittered audibly.
“‘Good God, mademoiselle,’ the director said, ‘are you ill--are
you forgetting--do you not know that the opera is played to-night?
_Donnerwetter_, they will hiss you off the stage if you sing like
that!--they will.--Thousand devils! cannot you strike the key?’
“Sharply rebuked thus, she would remember herself, and play as only
Christine of Zlarin could play. Then the conductor would beam upon her
again.
“‘Equal that,’ he would say, ‘and you shall have all Vienna at your
feet. Take courage, mademoiselle; fear nothing; you have the gift
which conquers. When you come upon the stage to-night, do not think
of yourself at all. Think only of your victory. Say to yourself: “I
am alone, and I will triumph.” Do you know what success is? _Himmel_,
it is to be in all the newspapers, to be the angel of the critics,
my dear. That should be the dream of your life. When you take your
violin in your hand to-night you will say: “To-morrow I shall be in the
newspapers--that is fame--that is the end of all my work.”’
“Christine heard him and yet did not hear. She was saying to herself:
‘I shall see my lover in an hour; in an hour I shall touch his hands.’
She was wondering how he would greet her--whether he would take her
into his arms as he used to do, or stop to chide her because she had
left him. When at last the weary _prova_ came to an end, and she found
herself out in the Opernring, she was quivering with excitement. The
warning word she meant to speak was almost forgotten as she drove
rapidly towards the Hôtel Métropole. There, the paper said, the
Count would stay while he was in Vienna. There she would seek him and
confess: ‘I have come to you because my husband has promised this and
that. Beware of him--he will kill you.’
“It was full dark when she arrived at the hotel, and the great hall
hummed with life. There had been at the Palace a _levée_ for the
officers in the Bosnian service, and many of these now clattered up and
down the stairs, or chatted over the tables, or served tea to pretty
women. A group of Americans standing in the porch were discussing all
things nasally; and one of their number, recognising Christine, pointed
her out to his fellows. Many a head turned when at length she entered
the hall and waited while a page ran up to the Count’s room. In all
Vienna there was no face more fair, no figure more supple and sinuous,
no eyes more eloquent, than those of the child. Even the women cried:
‘Is she not beautiful?’ And the tribute of the woman is the ultimate
possibility of a woman’s victory.”