It was a gala night at the Opera House Costanzi, where we attended the masked ball in the carnival season, you remember. The house was crowded, the pit and orchestra jammed, the boxes all taken and a ballet with gay music and dancing was being performed—when suddenly in the molding above the top row of boxes,—I was in one with some colleagues—there was a phit! phiz-z-z, and a blue flame shot out and ran sputtering along the woodwork.
For a moment there was a dead stillness, and only the crackling flame along the electric wire could be heard. Then came a horrible cry which still rings in my ears, and it seemed as if the whole audience rose in a mass and rushed to the exits where it struggled and swayed and choked. The orchestra, instead of being panic-stricken and scrambling away, played the Royal March, which could just be heard above the din of confusion. Actors rushed to the front of the stage and tried to stop the mad stampede. Into the empty boxes, which had cleared in a twinkling, we rushed and hung out over the balustrade, trying to whip out the fire with our coats.
In a few moments, some police and firemen joined us and chopped the burning wood with axes and swords till it fell in sparks about the orchestra. Then it was a fight until it was put out at last, and the curtain dropped. Suddenly, again, this time nearer the proscenium, with its wings, scenes, and flies, there was a sputter, a flash, and the fire broke out again in a different place, evidently from the same dangerous wire. Another moment of intense stillness, and then the firemen rushed along the gallery a second time and whipped and beat out the flames. The curtain rolled slowly up, showing the great stage with the ballet only half-dressed, looking anxiously about. The actors pluckily tried to continue the performance; a few people stayed, but we scarcely felt in the humor for our coats were scorched and our hands black. There were no terrible results, but it might have been so frightful, and the glimpse of the possibility has made me realize the terror of such a catastrophe.
I have been dining with Prince Boris lately; we do not speak of you, he, because he dares not, I, because I will not. I would rather think of you silently.
The heat is becoming intense and I’ve not been feeling very well lately.
A. D. TO POLLY
Rome,
July.