Cæsar's Column: A Story of the Twentieth Century

MAX'S STORY-THE SONGSTRESS

  When Max came home the next evening I observed that his face wore avery joyous expression--it was indeed radiant. He smiled withoutcause; he moved as if on air. At the supper table his mother noticedthese significant appearances also, and remarked upon them, smiling.Max laughed and said:

  "Yes, I am very happy; I will tell you something surprising aftersupper."

  When the evening meal was finished we adjourned to the library. Maxclosed the doors carefully, and we all sat. down in a group together,Max holding the withered hand of the gentle old lady in his own, andEstella and I being near together.

  "Now," said Max, "I am about to tell you a long story. It may not beas interesting to you as it is to me; but you are not to interruptme. And, dear mother," he said, turning to her with a loving look,"you must not feel hurt that I did not make you my confidante, longere this, of the events I am about to detail; I did not really knowmyself how they were going to end--I never knew until to-day.

  "You must understand," he continued, "that, while I have been livingunder my own name elsewhere, but in disguise, as I have told you; andconscious that my actions were the subject of daily espionage, it wasmy habit to frequent all the resorts where men congregate in greatnumbers, from the highest even to the lowest. I did this uponprinciple: not only to throw my enemies off the track as to my realcharacter, but also because it was necessary to me, in the great workI had undertaken, that I should sound the whole register of humanity,down to its bass notes.

  "There is, in one of the poorer portions of the city, a great musichall, or 'variety theater,' as they call it, frequented by multitudesof the middle and lower orders. It is arranged, indeed, like a hugetheater, but the audience are furnished with beer and pipes, andlittle tables, all for an insignificant charge; and there they sit,amid clouds of smoke, and enjoy the singing, dancing and acting uponthe stage. There are many of these places in the city, and I amfamiliar with them all. They are the poor man's club and opera. Ofcourse, the performers are not of a high order of talent, andgenerally not of a high order of morals; but occasionally singers oractors of real merit and good character begin on these humble boards,and afterwards rise to great heights in their professions.

  "One night I wandered into the place I speak of, took a seat andcalled for my clay pipe and pot of beer. I was paying littleattention to the performance on the stage, for it was worn threadbarewith me; but was studying the faces of the crowd around me, whensuddenly I was attracted by the sound of the sweetest voice I everheard. I turned to the stage, and there stood a young girl, butlittle more than a child, holding her piece of music in her hand, andsinging, to the thrumming accompaniment of a wheezy piano, a sweetold ballad. The girl was slight of frame and small, not more thanabout five feet high. She was timid, for that was her firstappearance, as the play-bills stated; and the hand trembled that heldthe music. I did not infer that she had had much training as amusician; but the voice was the perfection of nature's workmanship;and the singing was like the airy warbling of children in the happyunconsciousness of the household, or the gushing music of birdswelcoming the red light of the dawning day while yet the dew and thesilence lie over all nature. A dead quiet had crept over theastonished house; but at the close of the first stanza a thunderousburst of applause broke forth that shook the whole building. It waspleasant to see how the singer brightened into confidence, as a childmight, at the sound; the look of anxiety left the sweet face; theeyes danced; the yellow curls shook with half-suppressed merriment;and when the applause had subsided, and the thrumming of the oldpiano began again, there was an abandon in the rush of lovely melodywhich she poured forth, with delicate instinctive touches, finecadences and joyous, bird-like warblings, never dreamed of by thecomposer of the old tune. The vast audience was completely carriedaway. The voice entered into their slumbering hearts like arevelation, and walked about in them like a singing spirit in hallsof light. They rose to their feet; hats were flung in the air; ashower of silver pieces, and even some of gold--a veritable Danaeshower--fell all around the singer, while the shouting and clappingof hands were deafening. The _debutante_ was a success. The singerhad passed the ordeal. She had entered into the promised land of fameand wealth. I looked at the programme, as did hundreds of others; itread simply: _'A Solo by Miss Christina Carlson--first appearance.'_The name was Scandinavian, and the appearance of the girl confirmedthat supposition. She evidently belonged to the great race of Nilssonand Lind. Her hair, a mass of rebellious, short curls, was of thepeculiar shade of light yellow common among that people; it looked asif the xanthous locks of the old Gauls, as described by Caesar, hadbeen faded out, in the long nights and the ice and snow of theNorthland, to this paler hue. But what struck me most, in the midstof those contaminated surroundings, was the air of innocence andpurity and lightheartedness which shone over every part of herperson, down to her little feet, and out to her very finger tips.There was not the slightest suggestion of art, or craft, ordouble-dealing, or thought within a thought, or even vanity. She wasdelighted to think she had passed the dreadful ambuscade of a firstappearance successfully, and that employment--and _bread_--wereassured for the future. That seemed to be the only triumph thatdanced in her bright eyes.

  "'Who is she?' 'Where did she come from?' were the questions I heard,in whispers, all around me; for many of the audience were Germans,Frenchmen and Jews, all passionate lovers of music, and to them theushering in of a new star in the artistic firmament is equal to a newworld born before the eyes of an astronomer.

  "When she left the stage there was a rush of the privileged artistsfor the green-room. I followed them. There I found the little singerstanding by the side of a middle-aged, careworn woman, evidently hermother, for she was carefully adjusting a poor, thin cloak over thegirl's shoulders, while a swarm of devotees, including many debauchedold gallants, crowded around, pouring forth streams of compliments,which Christina heard with pleased face and downcast eyes.

  "I kept in the background, watching the scene. There was somethingabout this child that moved me strangely. True, I tried to pooh-poohaway the sentiment, and said to myself: 'Why bother your head abouther? She is one of the "refuse;" she will go down into the dark ditchwith the rest, baseness to baseness linked.' But when I looked at themodest, happy face, the whole poise of the body--for every fiber ofthe frame of man or woman partakes of the characteristics of thesoul--I could not hold these thoughts steadily in my mind. And I saidto myself: 'If she is as pure as she looks I will watch over her. Shewill need a friend in these scenes. Here success is more dangerousthan misery.'

  "And so, when Christina and her mother left the theater, I followedthem, but at a respectful distance. They called no carriage, andthere were no cars going their way; but they trudged along, and Ifollowed them; a weary distance it was--through narrow and dirtystreets and back alleys--until at last they stopped at the door of amiserable tenement-house. They entered, and like a shadow I creptnoiselessly behind them. Up, up they went; floor after floor, untilthe topmost garret was reached. Christina gave a glad shout; a doorflew open; she entered a room that seemed to be bursting withchildren; and I could hear the broader voice of a man, mingled withejaculations of childish delight, as Christina threw down her giftsof gold and silver on the table, and told in tones of girlish ecstasyof her great triumph, calling ever and anon upon her mother to vouchfor the truth of her wonderful story. And then I had but time toshrink back into a corner, when a stout, broad-shouldered man,dressed like a workingman, rushed headlong down the stairs, with alarge basket in his hand, to the nearest eating-house; and he soonreturned bearing cooked meats and bread and butter, and bottles ofbeer, and pastry, the whole heaped up and running over the sides ofthe basket. And oh, what a tumult of joy there was in that room! Istood close to the closed door and listened. There was thehurry-scurry of many feet, little and big, as they set the table; thequick commands; the clatter of plates and knives and forks; theconstant chatter; the sounds of helping each other and of eating; andthen Christin
a, her mouth, it seemed to me, partly filled with breadand butter, began to give her father some specimens of the cadenzasthat had brought down the house; and the little folks clapped theirhands with delight, and the mother thanked God fervently that theirpoverty and their sufferings were at an end.

  "I felt like a guilty thing, standing there, sharing in the happinessto which I had not been invited; and at last I stole down the stairs,and into the street. I need not say that all this had vastlyincreased my interest in the pretty singer. This picture of povertyassociated with genius, and abundant love shining over all, was verytouching.

  "The next day I set a detective agency to work to find out all theycould about the girl and her family. One of their men called upon methat evening, with a report. He had visited the place and madeinquiries of the