CHAPTER XXXI.
The day upon which Arivana was to be presented had arrived. It was the first work of a young author and quite unknown poet, but the circumstances made it a professional event, which was viewed by everybody with intensest interest.
From the earliest hour the Court Theatre was filled to its utmost capacity, and now the ducal couple also appeared with their guests to occupy the large court box. Although not formally announced, the performance had the character of a benefit, to which the brilliantly lighted house and the rich costumes and uniforms bore witness.
Prince Adelsberg, who appeared in the court box, was as excited as if he had written the drama himself. Besides, he found himself in as rare as joyful accord with his most gracious aunt, who had called him to her, and was speaking about the work of the poet.
"Our young friend seems to have caprices like all poets," she remarked. "What a notion to change the name of the heroine at the last moment!"
"It did not happen at exactly the last moment," replied Egon. "The change was made at Rodeck. Hartmut suddenly took a notion that the name 'Ada' was too cold and pure for his fiery heroine, and so her name was changed forthwith."
"But the name Ada stands on the programme," said the Princess.
"Yes, but it has been turned over to an entirely different character of the drama, who appears only in one scene."
"So Rojanow has made changes since his reading at Furstenstein?"
"Only a few; the piece itself has remained quite the same, except the changing of names and that short appearance of Ada; but I assure Your Highness this scene which Hartmut has added to the play is the most beautiful thing he has ever written."
"Yes, of course, you find everything beautiful which comes from the pen of your friend," said the Princess, but the indulgent smile with which she dismissed the Prince showed that she was of the same opinion.
In one of the proscenium boxes were seen the Prussian Ambassador and his wife--returned only a day or two from his vacation. His presence at the theatre to-day was indeed not of his free will, for he would gladly have remained away from this performance, but dared not out of consideration for his position. The Duke himself had disposed of the boxes, and had invited the foreign diplomats and their ladies; there was no possibility of remaining away, particularly as Herr and Frau von Wallmoden had, only a few hours previously, participated in a large dinner at the ducal palace.
Willibald, who had won permission from his uncle to at least get acquainted with the work of his friend, sat in the parquette. Wallmoden was not pleased with his presence here, but could not well forbid him what he was going to do himself. Willy, who with difficulty had found a seat, had not thought that a member of the opera could be employed in the theatre, but when he opened the programme and came suddenly upon the name of "Marietta Volkmar," whom he was to see to-night, he folded the paper with a quick gesture and hid it in his pocket, regretting now sorely having come to the theatre.
The performance now commenced. The curtain rose and the first scene passed quickly. It was a kind of preface, to acquaint the audience with the strange, fantastic world into which they were to be introduced.
Arivana, the ancient, sacred place of sacrifice, appeared in a magnificent and appropriate setting. The most prominent character of the piece, the young priest, who, in the fanaticism of his belief, renounces utterly everything worldly and unholy, enters, and the vow which removes him for time and eternity from the world, and binds him body and soul to his deity, resounds in powerful, soulful verse.
The vow was offered--the sacred fire flamed high, and the curtain fell.
Applause, for which the Duke gave the signal, came from all sides. Although it was assured that a work which was encouraged and favored so by all should have a certain success, at least upon its opening night, there was something else mingled in the applause. The audience already felt that a poet spoke to them; his creation had perhaps needed the approval of the Court, but now, since it was before them, it sustained itself. One was attracted and held by the language--the characters--by the theme of the drama, which already betrayed itself in its principal features, and when the curtain rose afresh, intense, expectant silence rested over the vast audience hall.
And now the drama developed upon a background as rich and glowing in color as were its language and its characters. The magnificent verdure, the fairy-like splendor of its temples and palaces, the people with their wild hatred and wilder love, and the severe, iron laws of their belief--all, all, was fantastic and strange; but the feeling and acting of these people were familiar to every one, for they stood under the power which was the same centuries ago, as to-day, and which takes root the same under the glowing sky of the tropics as in the cold North--the passion and power of the human heart.
This was indeed a "glowing doctrine," and it preached without restraint the right of the passions to storm over law and institutions--over oaths and vows--to reach their aims; a right such as Hartmut Rojanow had understood and practised with his unreined will, who recognized no law or duty, but who was all in all unto himself.
The awakening of the passion--its powerful growth, its final triumph--were all depicted in transporting language, in words and acts which seemed to originate, now from the pure heights of the ideal, and now from the depths of an abyss.
Not in vain had the poet shrouded his characters in the veil of Oriental legend, but under this veil he dared to speak and indorse that which would hardly have been permitted him, and he did it with a boldness which threw igniting sparks into the hearts of the listeners, enchaining them demoniacally.
Arivana's success was assured already at the second act. The work was done by artists who belonged to the best on the stage, and they were doing the best playing ever witnessed. Those taking the principal rôles especially acted with the perfection of abandon which only real enthusiasm can give.
The heroine's name was no longer Ada. Another form now bore this name--one who was strangely foreign to this excited picture of passions; one of those tender, half-fairy-like beings with whom the Indian legends inhabit the snow dwellings upon the icy heights of the Himalayas--cold and pure as the eternal snow which shines upon them.
Only in one single instance, in the parting scene, she floated on spirit's wings through the stormy, excited gathering, remonstrating, entreating, warning; and Egon was right. The words which the poet had put into her lips were, perhaps, the most beautiful of the entire drama. It burst suddenly like pure, heavenly light into the flaming glow of a crater; but the scene was as short as beautiful. Quick as a breath the apparition disappeared again into her snow dwelling, and down yonder at the moonlit bank of the river floated the entrancing song of the Hindoo girl--Marietta Volkmar's soft, swelling voice--under the coaxing charm of which the cry of warning from the heights was dispelled and unheeded.
The last act brought the tragic end; the breaking of the doom over the guilty pair; the death in the flames. This death was no atonement, but a triumph--"a shining, divine death," and with the flames there also flared up to heaven the demoniacal doctrine of the unconditional right of the passions.
The curtain sank for the last time, and the applause, which had increased after every act, now grew to a storm. Usually the applause at the court performances was kept within measured bounds, but to-day it broke over the barriers. The flames of Arivana had kindled the enthusiasm with which the whole house demanded the appearance of the author.
Hartmut finally appeared--without embarrassment or timidity--glowing with pride and joy; he bowed acknowledgment to the audience, which today offered him a drink he had never yet tasted in his wildly tossed life. They were intoxicating, these first sips from the cup of fame, and with this intoxicating knowledge, the celebrated poet now looked up to the proscenium box, whose occupants he had long ago recognized. He did not find, however, what he sought. Adelaide was leaning back in her chair, and her face was hidden by her open fan. He saw only the cold, unmoved face of the man who had insulted him so deeply, and who was now a witness of his triumph.
Wallmoden understood only too well what the flash of those dark eyes told him: "Do you dare yet to despise me?"