Riven Bonds. Vol. II. / A Novel, in Two Volumes

by E. Werner

And now he must hear that another already stretched forth his hand to the prize, and offered everything to gain it. His brother's words unsparingly disclosed the motive, to which alone he owed it, that Ella had not answered his flight with letters of divorce. Only for the child's sake was she still called his wife; not because one trace of liking for him lingered in her heart. And if she were now to take the step once avoided; if on her side she removed the chain, now when a Cesario offered her his hand, who could prevent her; who could blame the woman, who after the lapse of years sought at last in a purer, better love, recompense for the treachery her husband had exercised towards her? The danger did not lie in the fact that Marchese Tortoni, who was handsome, rich, and who, belonging to one of the noblest families, was the aim of so many aspirations, could raise his wife to a brilliant position; that could only come under Erlau's consideration; but Reinhold knew that Cesario, with his noble and thoroughly pure character, with his glowing enthusiasm for everything beautiful and ideal, might indeed win the heart of an Eleonore--yes, must win it--if this heart were still free; and this conviction robbed him of all self-possession. There was once an hour in which the young wife had lain full of despair on her knees by her child's cradle, with the annihilating consciousness that at that moment her husband was forsaking her, his child, and his home for another's sake--that hour now revenged itself on him, who was guilty of it, revenged itself in the words, which stood as if written in letters of flame before his soul--"Therefore you made her free also--perhaps for another."

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.