The box was entirely full with the exception of the place I had taken, which was in the furthest corner, on the side that looked toward the stage, so that I could see but a small portion of the latter, but could look into the depth of one of the wings, and had a view of the opposite proscenium-box, and of so much of the audience as occupied the extreme places in the various tiers.
When I took possession of this enviable place a couple of elegantly-curled heads looked around to see the disturber, and then exchanged remarks of a nature apparently not flattering to me; but as I had not the look of one who could be unceremoniously shown the door they left me unmolested, and I was allowed to give myself up to that delight which a feeling heart can find in the contemplation of an empty proscenium-box, and a side-scene in which a dozen painted ladies and gentlemen in Spanish costume were apparently only waiting the prompter's signal to step upon the stage. The signal was given. The Spanish ladies and gentlemen marched in couples out of the wing, and I observed one or two in the extreme foreground taking their places upon chairs. Then I heard a tumult upon the stage, as if from a throng crowding in, and the chorus broke forth--
"Hail, Preciosa, maiden most fair;
Twine ye fresh flowers to garland her hair!"
During this chorus castanets clicked and tambourines resounded: there was applause upon the stage, all crying "Hail to Preciosa!" and as if the cry had found an echo, the whole house, from pit to gallery, burst into a shout of "Brava! Brava!" and I saw the men applauding like mad, and the ladies straining forward to see better, and it seemed as if their rapture would have no end. At last they were quieted a little, and one of the Spanish gentlemen upon the chairs in the foreground, who was called--I think, Don Fernando--said to another: "By heaven, a lovely girl!" and the other--Don Francisco--answered: "An enchanting little beauty, indeed!" and at this the shouts and the bravas and the applause burst forth again, as if the house were coming down, so that the old gypsy mother could scarcely make herself heard when she asked if it was the gentlemen's pleasure to hear a song from her grand-daughter Preciosa.
Don Fernando asked for "something describing the happiness of a child in the arms of its loving parents." The voice of Don Alonzo, whom I could not see--a voice vibrating as if with passion--pronounced it "a cruel thoughtlessness to ask an orphan to sing of joys which heaven had denied her." Don Fernando expressed his regret that he had hit upon so ill-chosen a theme; but Don Francisco interrupted him with the words: "Hush, she is about to sing; she begins--" Then a momentary pause, and then----
I had followed all these preliminaries with an intense expectation which could have been shared by none in the house. I knew nothing of the piece, had never even heard of it, that I know, but a sort of instinct revealed to me everything that, invisible to me, was going on upon the stage; and I knew that the moment had now come in which she who took the part of Preciosa would speak for the first time. But a few seconds elapsed between the last words of the old Don Francisco and the first words of Preciosa, and yet they seemed to me an age. A wondrous intuition seized me that it was certainly she, and my heart beat wildly at the thought, when the first sound of her voice reached my ear, and my head sank against the side of the box as I involuntarily gasped, "It is she!"
The ear has a faithful memory, more faithful perhaps than that of any other sense; and the ear it was that had drawn me into my passion for Constance von Zehren when in the evening I stood at the open window and listened to catch the sound of her voice when I might no longer see her, though it were but a word to her old servant. And sometimes I caught the notes of those songs which her deep, rich voice poured forth with such matchless melody. Yes; it was herself, Constance von Zehren, the daughter of the proudest of the proud, the kinswoman of Paula, an actress here upon the stage of a suburb-theatre!
How strangely the times had changed! A sadness seized me, and I could have wept; I wished to be away, for it seemed to me a crime against the memory of my unhappy friend that I should listen here to what would have been so horrible to him; but I could not go; I stood as if spellbound, my head leaned against the partition, without motion and almost without breathing; I stood thus during Preciosa's improvisation, and scarcely moved when the curtain fell and the storm of applause broke forth more furious than ever.
There was a movement in my box. A young lady, who found the high temperature of the box more than her nerves could endure, had fainted, or was about to faint, and was conducted out by two elder ladies, followed by several young gentlemen of the party. In this way some half-dozen seats were left vacant, which were at once taken by those who remained. And thus it happened that when the curtain again rose, besides the left wing I could now also see a part of the gypsy camp under the Spanish cork-trees, and one or two members of the respectable gypsy family, who were reclining about the great kettle under which a fire was flickering. The captain and Viarda have determined to go to Valencia. They are only waiting for Preciosa, who is wandering alone in the woods. The gypsies scatter in various directions; for a moment the stage is empty, and then I saw her as I had seen her before.
As I had seen her on that autumn morning under the beeches of Zehrendorf, through whose lightly-waving branches the golden sunlight fell upon her; a slender, deep brunette, in a strangely fantastic dress of green velvet with golden braidings, her beloved guitar by her side. Just as she was then--as if the years that had flown had left no trace upon her, nor been able to steal one of the dark roses from her cheeks, or quench the lustre of her radiant eyes. And just as then my heart palpitated, and I could scarcely breathe as she began to descend the rocks under the lofty trees as she before came down the mossy bank to the tarn where I was standing, and sitting upon a mossy bank at the foot of the rocks, and raising her voice--that soft rich voice of which my heart remembered every tone--she sang: