A chilling north wind whistled through the deserted streets of the
Austrian metropolis, and the snow, towering mountain high, driven by
the gale, whirled blindingly around the muffled, shivering pedestrians,
hastening hurriedly to their respective homes.
The Franzenering, where the Viennese aristocrats are accustomed to meet
in the afternoon hours, to drink tea, consume little cakes and indulge
in gay conversations, today was totally empty. No one, it seemed, had
ventured to brave the storm, in spite of the attractive display in
the show-windows of elegantly designed gowns and hats. And these same
show windows were certainly remarkable, for all adornments dear to the
feminine heart, wonderful achievements of unusual millinery effects,
dazzled the eyes of both young and old.
Christine, holding her violin with stiffened little fingers, stood pale
and trembling before one of the most magnificent windows, speechless
with wonder, gazing as if in a trance at this modern splendor of
feminine attire, the like of which she had never conceived even in her
wildest, most fantastic dreams.
Her heart contracted painfully. She thought of her mother and little
sisters, freezing, half-starved, hopelessly expectant of Christmas,
and her glorious eyes blurred with tears, as she remembered that she,
as the bread-winner of the family, was not able to buy them anything
for Christmas, not even bread enough to satisfy their hunger. For the
first time in her life, she could not think of God and Heaven without
bitterness for it seemed that he had indeed forsaken her and her family.
"O God, I thought I was doing my best," she stammered with burning
tears running down her blanched face. "What have we done, that we of
all others, should die of hunger?" The future stretched before her
inner vision, a weary blank, lit by no ray of hope. Convulsively, she
clutched the old violin, and wandered away, farther and farther into
the raging storm, drifting wherever the wind blew, without aim and
without purpose or hope.
The north wind in its increasing fury, commenced to batter tin roofs,
chimney-tops, blinds, awnings, flag-poles, as if a giant hand were at
work, while odds and ends of debris fell crashing into the streets to
bury themselves in the drifts. Those unfortunates who were compelled to
brave the elements, fought their way onward like wild beasts, cursing,
shouting and screaming aloud.
Half-frozen, nearly blinded by the storm and the hail that cut her
delicate face like a knife, Christine suddenly found herself before
the open portal of a palatial house. Driven by a momentary impulse
for shelter from the cold, penetrating blast, she entered. At once a
ray of hope illumined her desolate face. Now, if she were to try once
more, and sing for these rich people, warm and comfortable behind those
windows!
Quickly she withdrew her violin from its battered case, and began
in quivering tones to sing the Lorelei her father had taught her,
before anyone was aware of her presence. The wonderful tones of her
high soprano rang through the stately mansion, vibrating clear and
penetrating all the rooms.
"Here, here, the impertinence!" cried the irritated porter, jumping
out of his porter's lodge, pale with anger, and pointing to a sign
conspicuously hanging in the entrance of the spacious porte-cochere.
"How dare you, mean little baggage, you! Can't you see that beggers and
organ-grinders are not allowed to enter here? Heh! screaming at the top
of her voice in such weather! Get out! get out! quick! march!" His tone
was sneering, and his lips curled contemptuously as he waved his hand
disdainfully for her to leave the courtyard.
Greatly frightened and trembling in all her frozen little limbs,
Christine was about to obey, and covered her violin, timidly looking at
the porter's ugly red face, when suddenly a window on the first floor
was flung open. The elegant form of a middle-aged man, with gold-rimmed
eye-glasses, leaning out of the window, gave the porter so imperious a
command to withdraw at once, that the startled man, hardly daring to
lift his eyes to this illustrious personage, retired with many a bob
and scrape to his porter's lodge.
Christine, greatly encouraged by this incident, and anxious to use
the opportunity, began to sing anew; for she thought that if she won
the favor of the man at the window, it must surely mean help for her
sorely-tried family. So she sang the Lorelei again--sang overpoweringly
those lovely, mystic notes--"Das hat mit threm singen die Lorelei
gethan."
The superb sound burst forth from the little shivering form, rocked
here and there by the raging storm, and seemed to breathe the longings
and distress of a pure childish soul. This piteous appeal for help
through the medium of Listz's greatest legendary love-song, was not
without effect.
"Superb--a phenomenon--a star!" murmured the man at the window in
amazement. He leaned out into the storm, gazing intently at the young
singer, for he was no less a personage than Duke Hohenlohe, the
greatest musical critic and enthusiast in all Vienna. He withdrew from
the window, closing it with a snap.
Christine was speechless with joy, and her dark, glowing eyes flashed
in excited bewilderment when a richly liveried butler came down the
stairs into the courtyard, handing her five gulden and demanding
her address. She stood there--her face flushed with wonder, and her
childish lips parted as if hearing the magic music of another world.
Cyclones of wind, thundering waves of ice and snow were forgotten. Hope
had entered her heart, and with the five gulden clasped tightly to her
breast, she made her way out of the courtyard, past the porter's lodge
into the street. She hurried along as best she could, her heart singing
a holy song of gratitude, and her lips smiling at the thought of the
happiness she was bringing to those at home. The last part of the way
she ran and burst into the room where the family were huddled over a
few half dead coals, like a childish almoner of plenty, stammering out
her tale.
"It must have been the Lord holy, Jesus Christ, who had mercy on me
and my children," cried the invalid mother, trembling with excitement,
and folding her thin hands devoutly. "O Lord," she continued, "most
mighty and most merciful Saviour of all the widows and orphans, accept
the lowly thanks of a poor invalid." She looked up to Heaven with a
gladdened heart as she saw her children happy, and for once, well-fed.
But Christine sat in a corner of the poorly furnished room as if in a
dream. A vague, confused remembrance of all that had happened in the
courtyard filled her with bewilderment. The only thing she really saw
plainly was the joyous faces around her, the result of her gift--the
five gulden she had received.