CHAPTER V.
A storm of applause rolled through the opera house, and the curtain had not even been drawn up as yet. It was for the overture, whose last tones had just resounded. The theatre was filled to overflowing in every place, with the sole exception of one small proscenium box close to the stage; this was occupied by a single elderly gentleman, probably some rich eccentric, whom it pleased to procure by lavish expenditure of money the entire possession of a box, as on such an evening it would otherwise hardly have been obtained. Every where else the dazzlingly lighted spaces and tiers of boxes, with their rich parterres of ladies, offered a brilliant and variegated picture. The world of artists, as well as aristocracy, was fully represented. All which the town possessed in the way of beauties, celebrities and persons of distinction, had appeared to prepare a new triumph for the much admired favourite of society. And was this merely what it was all for? No young composer was offering his work timidly to the approbation or disapprobation of the public: a recognised and undisputed sovereign in the realms of music stepped before the world with a new display of his talent, in order to gain a new conquest by it. This certainly lay written very plainly, although not as if it were agreeable, upon Maestro Gianelli's face, who conducted the orchestra. At the same time he did not venture to fail in zeal or attention. He knew only too well that if he attempted here, where of course a portion of the success depended upon him, to intrigue against the all-powerful Rinaldo, it must cost him his post, perhaps his entire future, as in such a case the disfavour of the public would be ensured to him. Therefore he did his duty to the fullest extent, and the overture was performed with perfect execution.
The curtain rustled, and in anticipation the composer received the homage of eager silence. Before the first act was half concluded there was not one of the audience who had not already forgiven Reinhold the tyranny with which he had disposed of all means in his hands, and insisted mercilessly on having his views carried out. The representation was in every respect perfect, and the scenery a masterwork. All felt that it was a different hand to that of the usual manager which had ruled here, and raised simple theatrical effects everywhere to artistic beauty; but all these external advantages disappeared before the all-attracting power of the work.
It was, perhaps, the most perfect which Rinaldo had ever composed in his own peculiar line, a line by many so much admired, and by so many others deplored. At all events this time he produced the very best in that style to which Beatrice's influence had drawn him; was it the highest which he could produce? This question was absorbed at present in the ringing applause with which the audience greeted this new creation of their favourite. Was it not Rinaldo again with all the fiery spirit of his genius, of which none could tell positively whether it were at home above, in the heights of idealism, or below in the depths of passion, and which roused again in men's hearts all feelings which lay between these two poles.
The storm raged over the northern heaths, and the billows surged against the coast. As mists are driven along the cliffs, so rose and fell the tones in chaotic confusion, until at last a dreamlike, beautiful melody dawned forth. But it only hovered like a fleeting vapoury picture over the whole, never completed, never ringing forth clear and full, and soon it was lost amid other sounds, which not so pure and sweet as it, yet attracted with a singularly strange charm. The mists separated, and out of them appeared the demon-like beautiful form, which was the chief performer and central figure of the whole opera. Loud acclamation greeted Signora Biancona's appearance on the stage. Beatrice showed to-day that she still understood how to be beautiful, as at the commencement of her career. What art may have done towards it was not now brought into consideration, enough that the apparition standing before the public was perfect in every respect. The half fantastic, half classic costume displayed her figure in all its grace, her dark curls flowed loosely over her shoulders, and her eyes gleamed with the old devouring fire. And now that voice was raised, which had been the admiration of almost all Europe, full and powerful, filling the extensive space--the singer still stood at the zenith of her beauty and artistic strength.
The melodies flowed forth, still more glowing, more fiery, and before the audience a picture of sounds was unfolded which seemed to borrow its colours, now from the brightest sunlight, now from the scorching heat of a crater. It pourtrayed the lost wild life of one whose cup was filled to the brim, and who drained it to the very dregs. This rushing forth beyond all bounds and limits, the volcanic glow of feelings, the goblinlike play with tones carried the hearers irresistibly away on the sea of passion, there to cast them adrift between shuddering and enchantment, between heaven and hell. At times, indeed, notes rang out like pæans of joy and triumph, but between were startling, harsh discords, and then again sounds of that first lost melody were wafted back, which ran through the entire opera like a soft, intensely painful yearning plaint. As a dream of love and happiness passes through the soul of man without ever descending to reality, so breathed and died these tones in the distance, while in the foreground stood ever and ever again the one figure, which Rinaldo had endowed with the highest dramatic power, of which he was a master like none other, which he had surrounded with all the magic of his melodies, whose sensual, entrancing charms were laid like a ban upon the listeners' souls.
Beatrice was, if any one, adapted to understand this music exactly in its innermost being and nature and to do it justice; she, whose peculiar element was passion, who, as an actress, had sought and found her triumph in it only. It rang out of every note of her singing, quivered out of every motion in her acting, which raised itself to a greater dramatic height than ever before, while she represented hate and love, devotion and despair, rage and revenge with life-like truth. It was as though this woman poured forth a stream of fire, which imparted itself to the audience, who, half charmed, half alarmed, followed her performance. Never yet had the singer been so entirely part of her task, never yet had she delivered it so perfectly as this time. No one guessed, indeed, for what prize she struggled, what urged her to employ her best powers. Was it not to win back him. whom already she had more than half lost! He had admired the actress before he had learned to love the woman, and the actress now called all the power of her talent to her aid, in order to maintain that of the woman. For the first time the storm of applause was indifferent to her, as it succeeded every scene; for the first time she did not care for the worship of the crowd; she only waited for the one glance of passionate rapture which had so often thanked her on such evenings--but to-day she waited in vain.
"Signora Biancona surpasses herself tonight," said Marchese Tortoni, enthusiastically, to Captain Almbach, who was in his box. "Often as I have admired her, I never saw her like this before."
"Nor I," replied Hugo, monosyllabically.
Cesario looked at him in undisguised astonishment. "That sounds very cool, Signor Capitano. Have you no other expression of admiration for this woman, who stands so close to your brother?"
Hugo's countenance was indeed as cool as his tone, while he replied quietly, "That is just Reinhold's taste. Sometimes our views lie very far apart. However, it would be unjust not to admire Signora Biancona to-night without reserve, and I do it, too--that is to say, from a spectator's point of view. Close to her, such a passion, beyond all reason, which seems to know no limits, would be rather unnatural. I can never quite dismiss the thought that one day Donna Beatrice will carry this truly masterful acting into reality, and could be a sort of Medea there also, who only breathes forth death and ruin. That she can do it, one sees by her eyes and--although I do not otherwise exactly belong to the timid class, I could not love such a woman."
"And yet Reinhold's works require exactly this fiery representation," said the Marchese, reproachfully, "and of that only a Biancona is capable."
"Yes, to be sure, she has always been his doom," murmured Hugo, "and he will never be free so long as this doom reigns over him."
The two gentlemen had long since remarked Consul Erlau in the opposite stage box, and exchanged greetings with him. They never suspected that he was not alone any more than did others of the audience, as the lady who accompanied him sat far behind in the background of the box, entirely concealed by the folds of the half lowered curtain, but yet so that she could quite overlook the stage, and her companion, when he spoke to her, took the precaution of rising and stepping back also. She wished, evidently, to avoid being seen, and also to avoid a visit from the two gentlemen.
Ella had actually obtained the fulfilment of her wish by her indulgent adopted father. So far she knew but few, and only the unimportant compositions of her husband, several songs and fantasias, nothing else. The peculiar field of his labours and its results--the opera--was unknown to her. In consequence of the deadly wound inflicted upon her, she had never been able to conquer herself sufficiently to witness the triumphs which his operas obtained in her native town, those triumphs which were founded on the ruins of her life's happiness; and what she learned from the newspapers, or through strangers to whom her near connection with the admired composer was not known, only plunged the dagger deeper into her soul. Now, for the first time, the tone poet, Rinaldo, appeared before her in the most genial of his works, now she learned to know the power of those notes which so often had conquered friends and foes, and even carried away opponents to admiration, and the effect was overpowering. Half bent forward, listening breathlessly, the young wife followed every note of the music; she was now still capable, amid all the beauties which developed themselves before her, of gazing into the dark depths which were disclosed therein. For the first time she understood her husband's character entirely and wholly, this glowing artist's nature with all its contradictions, with its storms, tempests and struggles; for the first time she comprehended what the deeply injured wife would not comprehend until now, the inner need of nature which compelled Reinhold to tear himself loose from the confined fetters of provincial every-day life and to follow the call of his genius, which made this catastrophe for him a struggle between life and death.
That he also broke those bonds, which under every circumstance ought to have been held sacred by him, that he sacrificed the duties of a father and a husband, who forsook his own for what would have been justifiable independence of a free man, could not be exonerated even by his genius; but in Ella's heart there now dawned, softly suggested, the question--what had she herself been in those days to her husband, that she should have required him to resist temptation, which came before him in the guise of a Beatrice Biancona, and what could she offer against a passion, whose glowing romance had, from the first, ruled the artist more than the man. The wife entrusted to him was then far too much oppressed with the burden of her education and surroundings, to be able to raise herself in any degree to his height; in her place there stood another in all the glory of her beauty and talent, and this other showed the young composer the path of liberty and fame. He had succumbed! Ella felt from the depths of her inmost heart that he would not have done so, could she have been to him then what she was to-day.
For the last time the curtain was drawn up, and until the last note Reinhold showed that he had been true to himself. The finale was as grand as the entire opera, and created a thrilling effect. Yet the work was wanting in one thing, the highest, for which not all the brilliant flashes of genius could atone, namely, harmony with itself. It had no peace, and awoke none in the minds of the audience. The composer appeared to have infected his work with the conflict which lay unappeased in his own breast; it was after all but the despair of life, of happiness, of himself. When the nightlong tempest had raged until exhausted, no fluttering morning's red peeped forth, promising a new and better day; on the wide, dreary waste of waters only the wreck was driven about, and clinging to it the shipwrecked traveller reached his native coast at last--too late to be saved. When wearied and wounded to death he sinks down there; once more is heard completed, as if 'twere ghostly tones from the far off unapproachable distance, that dream-like melody for the first time ringing out full and perfect in death, and the notes fade and die softly, as the life-blood ebbs away.
The reception of this opera by the audience far surpassed any success which Rinaldo had ever gained. Surely this music and performance were certain of approbation from a southern public. There every spark took fire, there each flame ignited and spread from one to another. One would have imagined the applause must have exhausted itself at last, the acclamations must have moderated themselves, but to-day even the most exalted enthusiasm appeared capable of rising still higher. After the close of each act, after every scene, it broke forth anew, and ended at last in a regular uproar with which the whole house demanded the composer's appearance most tumultuously.
Signor Rinaldo let them wait long before he acceded to this demand, he allowed Signora Biancona to come forward alone, again and again, in despite of all the stormy cries which were for him. Only at the end of the opera, when the calls resembled a riot and the enthusiasm could no longer be controlled, only then did he show himself and was greeted in such a manner by the audience as must have satisfied the most immeasurable ambition.
Proudly and calmly Reinhold stepped on to the stage; he stood almost immovable amid the enthusiastic acclamations. He had long since learned to accept all triumphs as something due to him, and great as were to-day's, not for one moment did they deprive him of his self-possession. His dark eyes swept slowly along the rows of boxes, but suddenly remained fascinated at a certain point. It was as though an electric shock had at once passed through his whole being, he started so violently, and his glance flashed--that glance of passionate delight for which Beatrice tonight had in vain laid out all the power of her talent; and if the fair head which had only become visible for one moment did disappear again at the next, yet he knew who was concealed behind the curtains of the box, who was witness of his triumph.
"Eleonore, that was imprudent!" said Erlau, also retreating from the balustrade. "You leaned too far forward. You were seen."
The young wife made no reply; she stood erect, both hands grasping the back of the seat from which she had risen in perfect self-forgetfulness. The large eyes, full of tears, were still directed unabashed to the stage where Reinhold just then came forward again to thank the audience, that cheering excited crowd, for whom he was the sole centre of attraction. All the thousand eyes were fixed upon him alone; all these lips and hands announced his victory, and while wreaths and branches of laurel fell at his feet, his name, as if carried aloft by one surging wave, resounded back in a thousand echoes.
At the ---- Embassy a large soirée took place, the first entertainment of its kind for the season. A numerous assembly of guests moved through the magnificent apartments of the ambassadorial hotel. Trains swept and uniforms flashed in the rooms beaming with light and scented with the perfume of flowers; near charming ladies' faces and distinguished wearers of orders might be seen many grave, noteworthy figures in simple civilian's dress, and amongst all these well-known forms and names, many foreign ones were mixed, who, according to their appearance and title, claimed more or less attention, to lose themselves again in the throng of guests.
Reinhold and Captain Almbach were also amongst those invited; the former was, as usual, the object of flattery and compliments from all sides, although demonstrated rather less noisily than so lately in the theatre. Reinhold had for long been considered one of the greatest celebrities in society. His new opera made him quite the lion of the season, and nowhere could he show himself without being surrounded and congratulated by every one present.
The charming representative of his work, Signora Biancona, shared this universal attention with him. Unfortunately, this time it was impossible to express the admiration of both at the same time, as they seemed rather to avoid than seek each other. Observant lookers-on declared that some slight rupture must have occurred between them, as they had arrived separately and never once drew together. Nevertheless the actress was continually surrounded with admiration, due, probably, in no small degree to her beauty. Beatrice understood perfectly how to "drape" herself for the drawing-room as well as for the stage, and if her toilette generally displayed something fantastic, it harmonised so peculiarly with her style of appearance that she only appeared the more fascinating. The singer preferred black, like many of her country women, and had selected it again to-day, but the dress composed of velvet, satin and lace was still most extravagantly magnificent, and rich jewels glistened on the dark ground. Single crimson flowers, apparently scattered carelessly here and there in her hair, seemed to fasten the black lace veil, and with these the Italian's dark complexion and burning flash of her eyes, formed a whole, which if intended to create an effect, certainly attained this result in the highest degree.
"Ah, Herr Almbach, so I find you here?" asked Lord Elton, who, glad to find any one with whom he could speak English, came up to Captain Almbach. "I wanted to see you for several days. Your brother's new opera----"
"For mercy's sake, my Lord, do not talk about that!" interrupted Hugo, with a gesture of horror, "since the day of its performance I have been nearly plagued to death with my brother's opera; everybody feels in duty bound to congratulate me too. How often have I wished for a revolution, an earthquake, or at least a slight outbreak of Vesuvius, so that at least something else may be talked of in society."
Lord Elton shook his head half-laughingly, half-disapprovingly. "Herr Almbach, you should not speak so recklessly, if a stranger heard you he might misunderstand you."
"Oh, I have amused myself several times by getting rid of some of his worst admirers by such expressions of my sentiments," said Hugo, quite unconcerned. "I do not feel obliged to offer myself upon the altar of my brother's popularity by listening to their speeches. How Reinhold can endure this triumph so long, I cannot conceive. Artist natures must be very peculiarly organised in this respect; my sailor's nerves would have given way long since."
Lord Elton seemed to enjoy the Captain's humour again to-day; he remained steadily at his side, and was a silent, but yet very attentive listener to all the remarks which Hugo as usual poured forth mercilessly upon every known and unknown person.
"If I only knew why Marchese Tortoni suddenly makes such a comet-like course through the room," mocked he; "that door seems to be the magnet which attracts him irresistibly--ah! yes, now indeed I can understand this move."
The last words sounded so unmistakably angry, that Lord Elton also looked attentively at the entrance. There appeared Consul Erlau with Ella on his arm. Marchese Tortoni was immediately at her side, and all three passed through the doorway. The lady wore an apparently simple white costume, but one could see that Erlau liked to display himself as a millionaire, even so far as his adopted daughter was concerned. The white lace dress, which floated so lightly around Ella's delicate figure, far surpassed in costliness most of those heavy velvet and satin robes which rustled through the room, and the row of pearls which adorned her neck was of such enormous value, that many of the sparkling jewels were as nothing beside it. Her fair head merely wore its natural ornament; no diamond, not even a flower, decorated the rich blonde plaits, whose faint golden glimmer harmonised so wondrously well with the delicate pink colour of her complexion. That figure required no studied artifice of the toilet to prove itself beautiful, it was so without any such aid, and if the ladies' glances soon discovered what cost was concealed under this seemingly simple costume, the gentlemen had no less keen eyes for the poetry of the apparition which sailed past them.
The three had arrived in the middle of the room, when, by chance, one of the groups in whose midst Reinhold had been, suddenly broke up, and he himself appeared standing almost immediately opposite to his wife. It was not the first encounter of this kind between the husband and wife, and they must always be prepared for the possibility of meeting on such occasions. And so Ella seemed to be; only for a moment did her arm tremble on that of her companion, and a fleeting colour came and went in her cheeks; then, however, the large eyes swept calmly on, and she turned to the Marchese, who was telling her the names of some of the persons present. Reinhold, on the contrary, stood as powerless as if he had forgotten everything around him. Although his wife's present, appearance was no longer strange to him, yet she looked quite different by the dim lamp-light of the garden room at Villa Fiorina, in the gloomy, rainy light of the verandah on that stormy day, and in the half-dark background of the opera box. He had never seen her as to-night, in the dazzling flood of light in the saloon, in the airy pale dress; and, despite the place and surroundings, it came wafted to him, as a recollection of that dream-like morning hour at Mirando, when the sea broke so deeply blue beneath the castle terrace, and the scent of flowers arose from the gardens, while the white figure leaned against the marble parapet--certainly her face was turned from him then, but now it was turned to another. At the sight of Cesario, who still maintained his place by her side, dream and recollection vanished; before Reinhold rose his brother's words which had robbed him of all peace almost ever since that conversation. "Perhaps for another," resounded in his heart. An ardent, threatening glance fell upon Cesario; returning to the circle he had barely left, he withdrew with a violent movement from the Marchese's greeting and address.
The latter looked at him astounded. He had not the remotest idea of the cause of this sudden avoidance, but he suspected for long already, that more than enmity only, as he had imagined, lay between Reinhold and Erlau. It had not escaped him that some secret connection had taken place between Ella and his friend, and to-day's encounter confirmed this notion only too strongly. Cesario was too proud to take refuge in espionage like Beatrice, and so he endured an uncertainty, whose explanation he had as yet no right to require of Ella or the Consul, and which Reinhold would not explain to him.
The German merchant was almost a stranger in the gathering, yet his companion's appearance soon began to create a sensation. Erlau had, to be sure, knitted his brows at the unexpected sight of Reinhold, but when he perceived that Ella remained apparently quite calm, the meeting rather gave him satisfaction. The Consul was evidently very proud of his adopted daughter, and noted the admiring glances and whispered remarks which followed her everywhere. He told himself that her former husband must see these glances, must hear these remarks, and with a scarcely concealed triumphant expression he walked on past the groups.
The throng of guests moving up and down, and the numerous reception rooms, made it easy for those to avoid each other who did not wish to meet.
About a quarter of an hour after Erlau's arrival, Captain Almbach drew near to greet him.
"Are you here, Herr Captain Almbach?" asked the Consul, astonished.
Hugo made a slightly ironical bow. "I have the honour. Does it displease you so much?"
"Certainly not! You know I am always pleased to see you; but out of our own house one only meets you in your brother's company. It appears impossible to go anywhere in society without running up against Signor Rinaldo."
"He is intimate with the master of the house," explained Hugo.
"Naturally," growled the Consul. "I should like to find one circle that does not adore him, and in which he does not reign. I could not refuse our Ambassador's invitation, and wished, too, to show my poor Eleonore something more than merely a sick-room. Have you spoken to her?"
"Of course," said Captain Almbach, looking across the room where Ella was standing engaged in conversation with the Marchese, Lord Elton, and some ladies; "that is to say as much as Marchese Tortoni made it possible for me to do so. He claims the lion's share of the conversation. I retire modestly."
"Yes, my dear Herr Captain, you must accustom yourself to that," laughed Erlau. "In society Ella is seldom at liberty to converse with one alone. I wish you could see her do the honours of my drawing-room. Here, we are almost entire strangers, otherwise I assure you Marchese Tortoni and Lord Elton would not be the only ones who would annoy you in this way."
Ella in the meanwhile had finished her conversation, and left the group with a slight bow, in order to return to her adopted father. As the Marchese, much to his displeasure, was detained by one of the ladies, Ella was crossing the room quite alone, when suddenly, in the middle of it, a dark velvet dress pushed past her so closely and rudely that it seemed as if done on purpose. Looking up, she perceived close to her the beautiful but, at this moment, alarming countenance of Signora Biancona.
Ella betrayed neither fear nor confusion, she took her lace dress up slowly, and moved slightly aside. There lay on her part a quiet, but very determined protest against any contact in this movement, and Beatrice seemed to understand it only too well, still she came even nearer. Ella felt a hot breath close to her cheek, and heard the whispered words--
"Signora, I beg for a moment's audience!"
Ella answered with a look of astonishment and indignation. "You--of me?" asked she, equally low, but with an unmistakable intonation.
"I beg for a few moments," repeated Beatrice, "you will grant me them, Signora?"
"No!"
"No?" said the Italian's voice, in hardly concealed scorn. "Then you fear me so much that you dare not be alone with me even for a short time?"