The Sign of Flame

by E. Werner

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.