The next day Stuttgart talked much of the handsome stranger whom Cupid had chosen to dance with the Duke, and conjecture was rife as to who she could be. Then it leaked out that she was to sing in the theatricals that night, and the curious, which means each person in or near a court, were on tiptoe with expectation.
Many looked for her at the stag-hunt in the Red Wood that day, and Madame de Ruth, who had the reputation of knowing everything, was fairly besieged by questioners. She told them so little, though in so many words, that they were all the more anxious to be informed further. But what part was the unknown to take in the theatricals? they asked among themselves. She had not been seen at the rehearsals—strange—but Madame de Ruth assured them that the mysterious one was indeed to sing that night.
The chosen piece was La Fontaine's Coupe Enchantée, a pretty thing, and even decorous enough for the hearing of Johanna Elizabetha; new too in Stuttgart, though Paris had already forgotten it.
You may imagine that the invited guests were in their places at the theatre in good time. Behind the scenes there was much bustle and confusion. His Highness Eberhard Ludwig, to say the least of it, was perturbed; he ran from dressing-room to dressing-room, knocking and inquiring if the players were there. When he came to the dressing-room set apart for Madame de Geyling the door was opened suddenly, almost knocking his Highness on the nose, and an angry face appeared through the door's aperture. One side of this face was painted for the stage, while the other was only adorned with the pigments with which the Geyling was accustomed to hide her ageing features. The Duke smiled: I regret to say he actually laughed, and this laugh provoked a torrent of angry words from the lady. His Highness retired discomfited, and there were whispers behind the scenes of how this must be one of the closing dramas of this lady's reign.
The curtain parted and the comedy began. At first the audience paid but scant attention to the play, but soon a severe glance from the Duchess silenced the whispering crowd.
Madame de Ruth's laughter led the chorus of approval at each subtle speech, and they said 'Ah oui! que c'est fin!' when she said it, for they did not trust their own judgment. The Duke of Zollern leaned his chin on the back of his hands, which he had crossed over the porcelain handle of his stick. He was not amused; he thought it dull, which it was. The Duchess paid no attention to the play; she was watching, in her ponderous way, the marked respect and affection which Eberhard Ludwig succeeded in showing Madame de Geyling even through his acting, and she suffered, this poor, dull woman. Madame de Stafforth sat near her, saying nothing as usual. Friedrich Grävenitz stood leaning against the pillar by the entrance to the parterre, looking handsome and sombre. La Coupe Enchantée went on its gay, subtle way, and was followed by an allegorical dance—a medley of gods and goddesses, of conventional shepherds and shepherdesses; a graceful enough conceit withal, but involved and not very amusing. At the end there came the only scene which appeared to interest her Highness Johanna Elizabetha: the little Erbprinz, her son, came on the stage dressed as Mars the God of War, and was greeted with homage from the other gods. Poor Johanna Elizabetha applauded and kissed her hands to him, while she recounted to Madame de Stafforth a hundred details of the child's health.
The curtain fell, and the audience prepared to depart. Disappointment was rife, for the stranger had failed to appear, and it seemed that the comedy was finished. The Duchess, who had been seated in the foremost row of chairs, was already moving away followed by her suite, when the musicians recommenced to play, and it was whispered through the assemblage that the Envoi had yet to be performed. Very slowly the curtain was drawn aside and a darkened stage disclosed. For a moment the music ceased, then took up a haunting melody as a tall, white figure approached down the almost unlit stage. It was a young woman in flowing, classic draperies—a goddess she looked; and after the mincing shepherdesses and their artificial, conventional mannerisms, this woman came as a breath from Nature's grandeur, young, forceful, untrammelled. She came right down to the half-lit footlights, and stood motionless during a bar or two of the music. And then she sang, and the audience, tittering curiously before, remained spellbound, awe-struck, as the first notes of that matchless voice smote upon their hearing. She sang of the sadness of the ending of comedies, of the regret which lingers in the remembrance of past laughter. In a couplet of passionate melancholy she asked, where are the roses of yesterday? whither vanish the songs of to-day?
Changing verse and melody to a soft récitatif, she begged her hearers to give good favour to the evening's festivities. She reminded them that the merry company would soon disperse for many months; she wished them peace and happiness, and she prayed that another spring would find the company reunited once again. 'Mars, God of War, hold thy hand; touch not this fair country!'
In her singing she had struck that note of regret which never leaves an audience unmoved; she appealed to the sadness which lingers for ever in the heart of man, and, after the vapid brilliancies of La Fontaine's comedy, the strain had all the greater power to stir. Wilhelmine, an unseen spectator at many rehearsals of the theatricals, had calculated this to a nicety, with an artist's instinct for playing upon human nature and emotion.