Part 6

But poor Peter! He had become so downcast at the loss of his little friend, that he cared nothing for even the merriest of his former pranks, and spent his time in counting the days until he could see her again. He had promised Christine before she had gone to the Conservatory, to help her family in every way he could, and what Peter promised, he kept faithfully. But, oh! how dear Christine had become to him--how necessary to his very existence! He gladly deprived himself of even the barest necessities of life in order to be of service to her and the mother and sisters she loved.

Now--in the few months that she had been living near the Conservatory, how tall and beautiful she had grown, and what depths of expression lay in her dark, speaking eyes! Goodness! the simple-hearted shoemaker's boy felt his heart leap and tremble, when he dared to look into their sparkling wells of light, they followed him whether he waked or slept.

He saw them in his grimy little shop, talked to them when he was sewing on buttons, or knocking vigorously at the hard, unresponsive leather, and smiled happily at the visionary picture always before his mind's eye, to the great astonishment of his observing mistress.

So five years sped by--five years which seemed five eternities to Peter's love-sick heart. But these five years had developed the pretty, sad-eyed girl into a beautiful, graceful woman, with a clever vigorous intellect, and an ambition to reach the highest eminence within the grasp of true womanhood and constant endeavor in the world of song.

So there was but little time to give poor Peter, as her approaching debut was near, and Christine studied night and day, with tireless energy, the important roles which she would be expected to portray.

In the meantime, dark clouds were gathering on the horizon of the Austrian monarchy. Rebellion after rebellion broke out on the southern frontier of its vast dominions, and Peter, now of age, was enlisted as a soldier, and sent away to the centre of the insurgent provinces. He had to march with his regiment in the darkness of the night without even being able to see Christine to utter a few parting words. He was heart-broken, though what he wanted to tell her was not known even to himself. All he knew was that he loved her dearly, and that his tortured, love-sick heart was writhing and bleeding at the thought that months and months would pass before he could again set eyes on her slender, graceful figure, and lovely smiling face.

The ensuing scenes of war and bloodshed sickened him; but Christine's hallowed picture, always with him, gave him strength to withstand all horrors. She appeared as the radiant star of his life, and he was guided in his loneliness by the single hope of seeing her again. Perhaps the ignorant simple lad covered his face and wept--wept tears of despair and joy in anticipating that inexpressible happiness which the future might hold in store.

V.

To the music-loving public of Vienna, first nights and debuts of promising students are great events, especially when the aspirants for musical honors come from the home conservatory, and more especially when a certain student of the conservatory is heralded as a singer with a phenomenal voice, which she will display in the famous role of Lucia di Lammermoor.

So it was that long before the doors of the imposing opera house were opened, eager crowds excitedly discussing the appearance of the new singer, stood at the entrance impatiently awaiting the hour. And before the portals had been thrown open half an hour, the great house was filled to suffocation.

Many of the Austrian nobility sat in their private boxes, and those persons belonging to the aristocracy occupied seats in the parterre and, in fact, every available place. The people, dangerously crowding the galleries, looked in open-eyed wonder at the stage where Christine, in the costume of Lucia stood trembling with shy timidity. A vague terror overshadowed her lovely features. She was endeavoring heroically to enter into her role, but the sight of so many people, whom for the first time she saw assembled, and the countless number of eager eyes riveted on her, made her dizzy. She lost her courage, and stood there helpless and frightened with downcast eyes, unable to commence, in spite of the fact that the nervous stage manager in the wings had already twice given her the cue.

The director of the conservatory stood in the wings at the opposite side of the stage, and nodded encouragingly to her. But as she seemed not to see him, he became livid, and wrathfully commenced to revile himself for having yielded to the temptation of bestowing this difficult role on Duke Hohenlohe's protege, who evidently was not sufficiently trained in self-control to appear as an independent star.

Just at the decisive moment, however, Duke Hohenlohe entered the proscenium box and smiled kindly at her. Christine's fingers closed spasmodically over each other. She perceived at last what was at stake.

With eyes full of tears, she controlled herself by a superb effort, and looked up at him as if saying: "You may trust me. I shall be equal to the situation," and then she began to sing, at first timidly and tremulously, but soon carried away by the grandeur of this passionate role, she surpassed herself; her high notes echoed through every part of the vast opera house with such dazzling magnificence, that an uproarious "Bravo," rang vociferously forth from thousands of voices, and thousands of hands applauded wildly.

And when she had rendered the great bravura aria in the second act, with rare perfection, a continuous storm of applause greeted her. Duke Hohenlohe smiled with gratification. He was indeed proud of his little protege, whom he had discovered in the blinding snow storm.

The director of the Conservatory, still standing in the wings, could not believe his eyes and ears. Christine was not only a great singer, but she had proved herself a great actress. The manner in which she had portrayed the mad Lucia was an immense surprise. Flowers and bouquets of all sizes and colors flew from all directions upon the young debutante. Curtseying timidly, her lovely face flushed and happy beyond description, she looked at the corner in the second gallery where Mrs. Miller sat praying with folded hands, as if in a trance.

"Mother--dear Mother," she murmured to herself, with profound humility, and disappeared.

The Duke Hohenlohe had just entered the imperial box where sat the Emperor. With a reverential bow, and a look of great satisfaction on his noble face, he said smilingly:

"Your Majesty, it was I who discovered the new star."

"Indeed? Tell me how," responded his Majesty, greatly interested.

"I happened to listen to her singing on Christmas Eve. She stood in my courtyard with an old broken violin and shivered with cold; and when she sang the Lorelei, the snow circled around her wretched little form. It was a pity."

"Duke, you have aroused my curiosity. Can I--?"

"See her? Oh, your Majesty--the great honor--she will be overwhelmed," the Duke replied, bowing deeply as he withdrew from the imperial box.

An instant later, Christine, greatly confused and flattered by the request of the Emperor, stood in his presence and received his hearty congratulations. As if in a dream she glanced at the second gallery where her mother still sat, and wept tears of joy. The Emperor cordially extended his royal hand, which she was permitted to kiss before retiring. The following day the success of the new star as Lucia was heralded over the city. The leading journals contained long articles about her magnificent rendering of the difficult role, and the beauty of her voice, at the same time, complimenting the committee of directors of the Imperial Opera House for this opportunity given to native talent, thus making an exception to the general rule that prophets are not recognized in their own country.

VI.

"Your first appearance was a triumph that will live in the memory of Vienna, my dear Christine. In fact, your magnificent rendering of a role which only such singers as Patti, Sembrich and Melba have attempted, has exceeded all expectations. Candidly, I had commenced to blame myself for having yielded to the wishes of Duke Hohenlohe," said the director of the Conservatory with a radiant smile, as he entered Christine's simple four-room apartment, a day later. "And I am most glad to have been commissioned by the Board of Directors to offer you a three years' contract with a suitable salary--but, my dear girl, what is the matter?"

Christine stood before him pale as a ghost. A slight tremor shook her slender frame, her eyes were downcast and red with weeping. She stammered a few words which the director could not understand.

He scrutinized her face sharply, being wholly puzzled, as he endeavored to fathom the true cause of this state of mind.

"Pardon me, my dear girl, if I express my surprise. I hope you are not dissatisfied with your debut. Why, you ought to be singing rhapsodies--be filled with ambition and enthusiasm--after being received by his Majesty and complimented upon your remarkable success."

Without replying, her lips quivering and dumb, Christine slowly and solemnly opened the door of the adjacent room. A mysterious, oppressive something seemed to fill the room like the shadow of death.

In the centre was a catafalque, at the end of which stood two lighted candles, sputtering lightly like the last feeble shrieks of a departing soul. Near the catafalque, on a small pedestal, rested the picture of poor Peter, embedded in a mass of roses.

The autumn sun, shining through the lilac and myrtle boughs that rustled close to the window, glinted over the pure, pale face of the singer. Mournfully, her tearful eyes sought the object of her deep devotion. On a black velvet cushion near Peter's picture, stood a pair of old shoes surrounded by jasmine and white camelias. A ray of sunshine stealing through the myrtle leaves made golden ripples on the shoes.

Christine pressed her hand to her heart, as if beholding that scene in the tavern of her childhood days. "Not yesterday," she said to the director in a trembling voice--"not yesterday, but five years ago I made my debut as a singer, when I earned these shoes in recognition of my singing--from him--" She pointed to Peter's picture, almost overcome by emotion.

"I sympathize most keenly with you, but my dear girl, what are they?"

"They are my only mementoes of my dear friend Peter, who lost his life in the service of the Empire--the first victim of the terrible rebellion at the Southern frontier." She stopped, unable to continue, while her heart contracted painfully, and big tears of sympathy and love for the shoemaker's apprentice trickled down her blanched face.

* * * * *

Christine is now one of the greatest opera stars on the horizon, and her sisters are following in her footsteps. But every year when the sad day of poor Peter's death comes, Christine, clothed all in black, goes out to the cemetery with flowers in hand, and sits for hours under the pure white marble obelisk where, in gilded letters, these words are traced:

_ERECTED IN HONOR OF PETER STARK_,

_By his devoted, sorrowing friend_,

_CHRISTINE_.

CONCETTA

AN ITALIAN NOVELETTE

I.

Many large and small boats were dancing merrily on the Bay of Castellamare, so richly populous with many rare species of fish. The mirrorlike blue surface was only ruffled by the small steamers on their way to and from Sorrento, carrying throngs of pleasure-seeking tourists from all parts of the world.

On the right hand shore, extended on a high promontory receding a little from the shore, stands peacefully dreaming and forgotten, by the outer world, the little village of Vico Ecquenso.

The innumerable small fishing smacks belonging to the villagers ("paesani") dot the bay as far as Castellamare, and every morning they make their way thither, carrying to market their nightly catches of tunny fish, anchovies and other dumb subjects of Neptune.

The valleys, perfumed throughout their length with odorous herbs, palms and gigantic cactus in wild profusion, change their character a little further away, by taking on the indescribable charm of the picturesquely draughted olive trees, which often slope down to the water's edge, while on green hillside terraces most magnificent grapes gleam from afar, like red glittering rubies to the eyes of the delighted tourist.

On the left side, amid palms and chestnut trees, one catches a glimpse of the lifeless unroofed ruins of Pompeii, once a populous city, which was overwhelmed by her mighty neighbor, the terrible Vesuvius on the 22nd of August in the year 79, and remained under ground for about eighteen centuries, until Charles the III ordered its excavation on the 1st of April, 1748. Amid all these buried treasures of art of long perished races, Seneca had spent his youth and Cicero had written his biting rhetorical masterpieces, which earned him a sixteen months' banishment from the court of the Emperor Claudius, whose gigantic statue of Persian marble, in the robe of "Pontifex Maximus" was lately excavated at Pesto.

* * * * *

The high mountains were already casting long shadows through the little village of Vico Ecquenso, and the hot evening sun, now about to sink into the gently splashing waves, gilded with its last beams the weather-beaten, centuries-old convent of Santa Croce, built upon a high summit on green hilltops.

The peaceful sound of the old convent bell, inviting those to pious meditations and evening prayer, was sounding now with wondrous sweetness over land and sea, even as far as the desolate altars of the heathen Gods of Pompeii tumbled down from their gilded pedestals, and the shrunken mummies in the "theatrum tragico," where the people perished without the help of the heathen gods, listened dumb and petrified,--the sightless eyes wide open,--to the sounds of the new religion calling them again and again morning and evening. The vast oppressiveness of the ghostly solitude there, contrasted strangely with the uncommon bustle perceptible that evening among the simple minded inhabitants of the quaint little village, who usually went so quietly about their work.

A joyous excitement sparkled in the eyes of both old and young, who had assembled in front of the only village tavern, "Osteria," to witness the approach of the festal procession of youth and maidens coming home from the vineyards, laden with baskets of grapes and flowers.

The wealthiest man in the place, the farmer Niccolo Gallioti, who had just before devoutly lit six immense wax candles in honor of the Holy Madonna, was today giving a feast to the young people of the place. The ingathered harvest had filled all his granaries to the roofs and so surpassed all his expectations that it had to be celebrated with eating and drinking, music and dancing. An hour before, he had been seen walking up towards the vineyards at the side of his beautiful daughter, Concetta, and as yet there was no sign of their return. The expecting crowd shuffled up and down impatiently, and craned their necks.

"There! There! Corpo di bacco! they're coming now," cried a small bare-footed lazzaroni, greatly excited, running breathlessly to meet them, and vainly trying at the same time to hold up the torn, shapeless breeches, which actually had no right to that name. They were fastened by a cord on the top and reached from the shoulders to his feet.

All the inhabitants of the village seemed to be present, and pressed forward in a confused mass, each one anxious to be the first one to greet the festal train, principally Galiotti the liberal host and dispenser of the best wine.

In the rear, unobserved, stood a man of about twenty-eight years, in an elegant summer suit, apparently belonging to a better class, looking sneeringly at the great excitement of the "Paesani."

His dark, sparkling eyes, encased in blue-shaded rings, had a demoniacal glitter. He was a tall, athletic man, with a constant sneer on his red lips. The fairly chiseled lineaments were blotted by dissipation, and blackened and distorted by the baleful fire of fierce passions. The bushy eyebrows, that nearly met each other, were of the kind to exercise an uncanny attraction upon trusting innocent girls by looking into their depths.

The distant strains of three gaily-clad musicians with fiddles and horns seemed to electrify the crowd. The ragged youth began to dance, the old paesani threw their shabby looking caps, in the air, while the little barefooted lazzaroni, his face black with dirt, ran ahead of the anxiously expected procession, splitting his throat with shrill cries of "Evviva," and gesticulating frantically.

Only the tall gentleman, with a constant sneer on his red lips, stood apparently unmoved in the same place, gazing at the scene enacted before his eyes with great contempt. Observing him at close range one could perceive, in his dark sinister eyes, the consuming fire of a sinful passion, a volcanic fire it seemed, like that which rose and fell on the summit of the neighboring Vesuvius, devastating in its destructiveness.

He had seen the fair Concetta at Castellamare for the first time, and since then he could not forget her lovely face; day and night it haunted him, that merry, mirthful face that spoke of pure maidenliness. The sweetness and childlike pureness of the girl's exterior attracted him. It was something new in his dissipated life, something he had to conquer.

Even at the gaming tables of Nice and Monte Carlo, and at the wild orgies carried on there by the dissipated sons of nobility, he seemed to see her standing before him, smiling sweetly, while her blue innocent-looking eyes shone at him like spotless mirrors.

After a short time he had discovered that she came twice a week to Castellamare, on Mondays in her father's fishing boat, while on Saturdays in the company of a maid carrying stone pitchers to the well, "Stabilimento," where six different healing springs gush out of the mountain side. When the flames on top of the Vesuvius burst forth vehemently illuminating Naples, Castellamare and all other little hamlets far and near the springs are overflowing with boiling water, but the moment the flame diminishes, the water grows cold and gradually disappears.

The young rogue made good use of these days; as if by chance, he always strolled along the same path to the springs. If it rained, he was promptly at hand with an umbrella; if, on the other hand, the sun shone down oppressively on the overheated Concetta, the same rescuer in need was at hand again, gallantly offering his English parasol, and always walking a little further with her. The sunny nature of the young girl shone out of her splendid blue eyes, bright and beaming as a May morning. She trusted every one, and especially this handsome gentleman, who treated her always with such exquisite courtesy, as if she had been one of the daughters of the Lords of Torre del Greco, whom she saw passing on the Corso di Santa Lucia, either on horseback or in a luxurious carriage. Who would be likely to have any evil designs against her? Old and young loved her in the village, and the poor and sick had learned to bless her for three miles round. Having grown up in her village home, and blossomed there like a wild rose, she had only known one great sorrow in her young life, that of losing her beloved mother when she was very young. Her merriment, her happy singing, brightened up the dark, lonely house of the gloomy old man.

However, since she had made the acquaintance of the gentleman with the ensnaring eyes, she had changed greatly. She was often lost in amazement--though not in his company, but when alone in her little bed-chamber, where the observing eyes of her anxious father could not watch her.

There she sat, her large blue eyes staring out of the window, with a feeling of overflowing joy, that filled her heart, a feeling she could not explain to herself, especially at his approach, the violent beating of something within her that threatened at times to take her breath away.

"Mia cara Concetta, I love you madly," had he not long since whispered in her ear. He has said _that_ to her, the common-place daughter of the "Paesano" Niccolo Gallioti. But his dark, passionate-looking eyes made her tremble. She did not know why.

"If he could see me now in my new Sunday dress!" she thought, her glance sweeping over the crowd, as she passed along, surrounded by all the youths and maidens of the village, in her red petticoat and bodice of black silk, with snow white muslin sleeves. "There! Santissima Madonna." "He is waiting for me," she whispered happily, while a blush brighter than the red silk of her dress overspread her lovely face.

But not for all the bunches of red grapes she was so fond of would she have raised her eyes, for fear the youths and maidens might have read in them the delight of her heart at seeing the man she loved and was loved by such a man!--the violent beating within her increased at this thought. "Madonna!" She looked at the soft blue sky and the waving cactus plants in the distance. Tears of joy filled her eyes, while the golden sunshine filled every nook and corner in Nature's great realm.

Arriving at the house, she found the maid busily engaged in preparing the feast. The men were beginning to place large tables in the garden under the orange trees. Then they rolled out large casks of the new wine from the cellar. Concetta had just put on her apron, busily engaged in carrying out a tray full of dishes into the gaily decorated garden, when the door burst open. Her father stood at the entrance, with his cap in his hand, bowing reverentially to a gentleman, begging him to honor his house by entering and participating in the general frolic of the day.

A loud crash was heard. Concetta recognized him at once, the gentleman with the ensnaring eyes, and, delighted as she was, had dropped the large Sunday tray, with all the special dishes which only appeared on the Sunday table for special occasions. She was startled and happy at the same time, and hardly heard the irate father's words of blame. The voice of the little lazzaroni was heard outside singing "Napoli Bella." She looked through the window, and San Francesco, on his pedestal, smiled at her. She turned about, and met his burning glances. Her cheeks crimsoned; she was in a confusion when those dark fascinating eyes actually followed her wherever she went.

He sat by her side at the table, calling her, Concetta Gallioti, endearing names, and squeezing her hand tenderly whenever the father was not looking in their direction. And when she found his eyes constantly fastened upon her face, she felt like crying and laughing at the same time, though it looked as if she were even too shy for that.

Her innocent face was like the clear water of the Spring at Castellamare. He observed her closely, knew the symptoms and smiled maliciously, considering it an auspicious omen in his well-tried loving-making scheme.

The evening breezes rose and sank solemnly through the little green olive trees in the distance. The tables were cleared away, the meal was over and the three grotesque musicians, who had been feasting convivially, were sounding their instruments with special vigor. The dance began. All eyes were turned on Concetta, as she opened the rustic ball with the interesting stranger beneath the orange trees.