“‘Oh, my God, my God! I have lived my life,’ she sobbed, while she buried her burning face in her furs, and the hum of the city’s life rang deafeningly in her ears.”
CHAPTER XXIV
“JOSEPH”
“The curtain fell at the great Opera House, and the audience sprang to its feet to summon the performers. Noble and merchant, prince and peasant, grande dame and grisette, raised their voices together in one resounding note of acclamation, which was sustained and carried to the throngs waiting in the Ring without. Women bejewelled and begowned to the limits of splendour, pretty girls in the galleries, courtesans flaunting in the circles, cast their flowers to the stage. The glitter of the gems, the flash of the countless lights, the clamour of the people, the changing lustre of colour—these, excellency, blinded my eyes and deafened my ears. For two hours had I sat in my little box trembling as one with the palsy for the success of Christine. I had seen her come running in to play the part of the gipsy boy; I had heard the thunder of the welcome accorded to one loved long for her work in the Prater, spoken of as a violinist whose fame should soon spread beyond the city. And now these cheers should tell me what the final verdict was.
“The uproar arose, excellency, and one by one the names were called. God of my life! I listened with bursting ears, and when, strong and clear above other cries I heard the people shout for ‘Joseph,’ then, the saints be my witness, my courage left me and my face was wet with my tears. Was she not my daughter? Had she not run to me for bread when she was still a little child? Nay, her triumph was my triumph; and there was no prouder man in Vienna that night than old Andrea of Sebenico. I saw that success like this assured a future for her and a future for me. She would go on from victory to victory; I should follow humbly in her path. She would be rich beyond my dreams; I should be content with the comforts she would provide for me. As for her husband—the scoundrel who would live upon her earnings—was not the little hussar to deal with him? It was even possible that the word was spoken while the people in the theatre were deafening Christine with their plaudits? Oh, surely I did well to shed tears of joy, to dream that the cloak of sorrow had slipped for ever from my shoulders, that the day of my springtime had come back to me!
“I have told you, excellency, that mingled with all my pride in Christine’s triumph was that anxiety to know what steps the boy lover whom they called ‘Zol’ would take to fulfil his threat of the morning. I had seen him sitting in his stall by the orchestra during the first act of the play; yet the success of my little girl was no good news to him, who foresaw in it nothing but a barrier against his love. Gloomily and silently he watched the bewitching gipsy, while the devil’s music filled her fiddle; but towards the end of the opera he left his seat, and I saw him no more. It was not until the following morning that I heard how curiously he had passed his time, for they told me the whole of the terrible story then. As it was told to me, so will I give it to you.
“‘Zol’ went out of the theatre telling himself that, do what he would, Christine would never speak a word of love to him now. Success is often the key-note of change; it can open the heart to kindness or close it to remembrance. When it is a woman’s success, and its handmaidens are the glare of the limelight and the applause of a city, then it may be the enemy both of friendship and of affection. Zol declared that Christine would have a hundred lovers soon, and would be able to laugh at the cruelties of the man Klun. It was a desperate thought to him to remember that others would seek to share the scanty favours which she had bestowed upon him. He resented the suggestion that she should have any other friend. He told himself that it would be good to carry her away from Vienna, and to hide her in some secure place where he might garner her love and her beauty. And in this spirit of complaint he paced the snow-clad streets, heedless of the cold or of the cutting wind, hot with the fever of his impatience.
“Long he walked, returning to the Opernring twice; twice standing upon the river bridge and telling himself how easy it would be to die for Christine. At the last he found himself in the Wallner Strasse, beneath the windows of the child’s apartments; and there the idea came to him to wait for her return from the theatre, and then to repeat that story he had whispered so often. So pleasing was this suggestion that he was in her house almost with the thought, and when the old maidservant had opened to his knock, he passed through at once to Christine’s boudoir.
“‘I have come to congratulate mademoiselle,’ said he; ‘she will be here in a few minutes.’
“‘Ah,’ said the woman, ‘it has been a great night for her, surely! God send that she will have many like it! You were there, sir?’
“‘Certainly; I have just come away.’