Played as he had played that afternoon, in the quiet chamber to the Emperor and his grandchildren; and all curiosity and indifference died away, and those who listened, held their breath in surprised delight. For he brought to them the cool sweet breath of pine woods, the ripple of April leaves, the sound of voices long unheard but never to be forgotten. And when at last, at the Emperor’s request, he played “the song that mothers sing,” into many eyes which for long had not felt them, crept tears. Then his bow dropped and he looked wistfully into the Emperor’s face. There was a moment of absolute silence, and then the room re-echoed with applause. It came with such a crash that once more Fritzl was frightened, and shrank closer to the Kaiser. Seeing the boy was overwrought, “Unser Franz” said quickly, “Now he shall play for you the noblest hymn our ‘Vater Haydn’ ever wrote. And then, the little ones shall dance!”
Once again, Fritzl lifted his shining bow. The voices of the people joined that of the violin, and “Gott erhalte, Gott beschütze” rang through the room, as it had never before been sung there. For every heart rejoiced that the little Prince could walk, and they knew that to the lad who played to them, God had given the gift of genius. Then the Emperor ordered the salon prepared for the children to dance.
The older members of the imperial family made their obeisances and departed. And at last, only the children of the house of Habsburg and a few of the younger matrons remained with the Emperor.
Once more the great Christmas tree blazed with candles, while about it danced the children hand in hand.
Then Fritzl tuned his violin carefully. “May I play for them to dance?” he said.
“Unser Franz” nodded a smiling consent.
Then, back and forth over the tense strings flew the gleaming bow, and the waltz the elder Strauss wrote for the music and dance loving Viennese, and which they love above all others—“Die Schöne Blaue Donau”—vibrated through the Blue Salon.
Back and forth, like butterflies, danced the children, curls and ribbons blowing, little feet twinkling on the polished floor, while the Emperor beat time on the arms of his throne and smiled happily, greeting them all as they fluttered by.
At the foot of the throne, two boys watched the dancing. The “little lame Prince,” lame no longer. The little “waif,” a waif no longer, and to-day, one of the world’s great violinists.