CHAPTER VII
When the tumult of congratulation had somewhat subsided, and Max had walked proudly back to the great surgeon (happiest perhaps of all those present), the Emperor rose, and silence fell upon the room. His voice trembled a little, from excitement and relief, but the fresh color had come back to his kind face.
“Good friends and mine own people,” he said, “of that which the Herr Doctor has done for the Prince—for me—for you—for the empire—I can not speak. There are no words for that which is within my heart. Only my life henceforth can prove its gratitude.” Then beckoning to Fritzl, who mounted the steps of the dais fearlessly, and stood beside him, the Emperor continued: “Somewhat over a hundred years ago this Christmas night, a little lad, one Mozart, sat at yonder spinet, and played to our great Empress and her children. To-night, a little lad shall play to you. This little lad, Fritzl, whom I believe God means to become as great a musician, as became that child of long ago. He has known cold and hunger and neglect. But he has been a brave lad, and none of these things shall he ever know again.”
“Now Fritzchen, play to these thy friends,” he commanded kindly, reseating himself upon his golden throne.
Slim and straight, in his suit of black velvet, Fritzl stood beside him, looking about the brilliant room. At first he was timid and the little hand which raised the violin to his shoulder trembled. But looking into the gentle face beside him, and down at the smiling ones of the good Herr Doctor, Max and Betty and Tzandi, he thought of nothing but pleasing them.
So, wholly forgetting himself, he cuddled his violin closely under his chin, and whispering to it lovingly, played.
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 tothem, 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.
“Thou wilt be dancing with them, next Christmas, Liebchen,” said the Emperor, patting his grandson’s curly head.
“Ye-e-s, sir,” assented Max, without enthusiasm; “but oh, Grandpapa Franzchen,” he cried excitedly, “I’d rather run races in the garden with Betty and Fritzl and Tzandi!”
“Well, thou canst do both,” laughed “Unser Franz.”
“Oh dear me,” sighed Betty, as the candles having burnt low in the sconces, and upon the great tree, the last good nights were being said: “Christmas is all over!”
“It will come again next year, little sister, it always does,” consoled Max, “and next year it will be nicer for Fritzl, because he missed the Christmas tree last night, you know, Betty!”
“Itcouldn’tbe nicer,” cried Fritzl, smiling gratefully at the little brother and sister: “it’s the very most beautifullest Christmas that ever was!” And Tzandi, whirling delightedly on his hind legs, barked an ecstatic assent.