Suddenly, the white screen was transformed into a view of a primitive tropical forest—a remarkably picturesque piece: in the foreground, at the right and at the left, two gigantic gnarly trees, whose branches arched upward until they met, forming a kind of triumphal gateway; on the ground and toward the back a luxuriant growth of unknown plants and flowers.
“That reminds me of Ernst Haeckel’s marvelous travel pictures,” remarked Helmer.
It was evidently photographed from nature and in the most brilliant colors. Polychrome photography had, to be sure, been invented some years before, but here, for the first time, perfect fidelity to nature had been attained: not only the succulent green of the foliage, and the velvet brilliancy of the moss, but something like real light, such as prevails in the primeval forest, streaming with emerald tints through the tree-tops and flinging bronze reflections on the brown trunks. Dark and pale lilac blossoms glowed in the maze of vines, resting here and there in dense masses among the branches; here and there hanging down like the sprays of weeping willows; then again, springing from the soil, tall-stemmed, crimson-red flowers, with broad, wonderfully serrated calyxes—a flora quite unknown in our temperate zone.
The prologue had not promised too much: no painter could depict such a scene: it was nature itself. To near-sighted eyes, the picture may have presented a more or less confused maze of colors; but through the opera-glass every leaf and every stalk could be seen in its sharp outlines, and if one looked with a high-powered glass one might have detected the gauzy wings of some brilliant-colored butterfly sitting motionless on some flower.
Franka drew a deep breath and murmured: “It is bewitching.”
“Yes, the world grows richer every day,” said Helmer; “but look, there comes something still more amazing.”
Through the hall swept a subdued murmur of astonishment. Franka pointed her glass to the platform again: she expected to see another, perhaps a still more beautiful picture, but it was the same. And yet different.... Was it not alive? Didn’t the vines sway? Didn’t the light dance on the mossy ground?—Yes—and now a small bird flew from one tree to another—a gayly feathered little bird gleaming in metallic colors. For a minute or two the fixed photograph had appeared in the frame, and now the kinematographic reproduction of the same bit of nature was substituted for it. To be sure, living pictures were no longer a new marvel, but the sudden animation of the apparent painting—that was the surprising effect; and the new victory was that kinematography in colors had been added to the achievements of this art. For long ages men had been seeking to imitate, to preserve the life around them—and now, what a long distance between the first rude attempts at delineating the forms of animals or the bones of animals, to the living picture accurate in color and full of motion!
The tropic landscape was followed by one from the Far North: the luxuriance of warmth by the splendor of the cold: a polar-sea region in the morning light. The picture must have been taken on board of a ship, a ship surrounded by glittering icebergs. Here also there was motion; the spaces of open sea were alive with dancing waves; sea-gulls swept by; the clouds that moved along the horizon changed their form and color. A third picture portrayed a bit of the sea-depths. Had a diver carried his kinematographic apparatus down with him, or was the picture taken from an aquarium? The question could not be decided; what seemed to fill the frame was azure water with coral formations on the bottom, and populated with marvelous creatures. Opaque crustaceans tinier than grains of sand flew this way and that quicker than a flash; gelatinous creatures were seen going about in all directions by means of invisible organs; others proceeded by contracting their feet; diminutive medusæ moved slowly about, carrying their umbrellas; little sagittate animalcules dashed in agitated flight like torpedoes; anemones hung there, like chandeliers; shadow-like, transparent creatures, iridescent, phosphorescent creatures—beauty, beauty everywhere!
After a brief pause, what followed was the actual Color Symphony promised in the prologue—a concert for the eyes. The eyes alone should enjoy it and wholly without accessories of landscape and life. The framework disappeared; the whole platform was swallowed up in darkness for a time, and then suddenly flamed up in a crashing chord of ruby-red, topaz-yellow, and sapphire-blue. Then the colors began to move rhythmically and dispose themselves into figures; they obliterated one another and formed new combinations of ever new nuances; just as a solo voice rising above an orchestral accompaniment, now hovers an emerald-green line in the foreground and depicts—adagio—a vibrant arabesque like a melody, while the accompanying colors diminish to a dull silver-gray.
A second line, of the tenderest rose, now curls round the green, as if it were a second solo voice. Now the duet is swallowed up by a violet glow and again begins a genuine ensemble of all the instruments: violin-tones from the golden yellow, flute-tones from the celestial blue, a trumpet-blast from the red, a drum-tap from the brown. In ever new forms and interchanging tempos the colors stream together and apart. Here they cluster into balls; there they tumble in waterfalls or hover in flakes like soft-falling snow. The most variegated lights and reflections and beams and flame-gleams and mother-of-pearl tints make up the ensemble. The color symphony contained also a scherzo wherein the melodious arabesques are transformed into a whirl of grotesque hopping figures. The finale introduces a prestissimo with the rapidity of a tornado, of a blizzard, which finally dies down again into calm serenity. And ever more and more pallid grow the colors, ever duller the lights, with a decrescendo dying gradually into the most delicate pianissimo, until at last the stage again lies in absolute darkness. And then against the darkness, shining brilliant red, appeared, a hundred fold in size, the crest of the house, the symbol of beauty: a rose in full bloom.