Just then the band began to play a solemn battle march, through which might be heard, like an undercurrent, the clashing of martial instruments, and the angry mutter of war. Then slowly the curtain rose. Expectation grew so intense, that even applause was hushed, and only a murmur went through the assembly, when at last the picture was fully displayed before them. The picture which was copied gave the very spirit of the poet’s dream, as he pictured that ancient chieftain and his princess, and the living picture was an idealisation of the painted one.
They appeared to be seated beneath a mighty spreading oak—a primeval monarch of the forest. The trunk of the tree was at the extreme left. Above, its foliage overhead spread over almost the entire scene. Stretching away to the right from Hermann and Thusnelda, appeared a soft, grassy sward, fallen leaves, and forest flowers. In the background, almost in the centre, burnt a steady, reddish light, while to the right a high-flaming cresset cast fitful gleams upon the centre-point of interest—Hermann, Prince of the Cherusker, and Thusnelda, his wife.
The warrior, in the armour and dress of his tribe, was reclined upon the ground, half raised on one elbow; his short coat of mail, and small-pointed helmet, with the crest a-top, his long yellow hair and moustache, wild and fearless blue eyes; the massive and almost savage grace and power of the whole figure were splendid. A half-smile, at once grim and bitter, curved his lips as he looked up into Thusnelda’s face, and with one great hand lifts up a heavy lock of the waving, golden-brown hair which sweeps over her shoulders, and touches the ground, confined above by a gorgeous diadem of gold and precious stones, the one which she has previously told him ‘thou brought’st me of late from Rome;’ the diadem which Ventidius had arranged for her, with what intent has she not just heard from Hermann?
Sara Ford, as Thusnelda, is also seated upon the ground at the foot of the tree, clad in a loose, flowing white dress of some fine soft web. Leaning a little over towards the warrior, she rests her weight upon her left hand, and appears to question him with amazement and indignation. The music stopped, and behind the scenes some one read a portion of that magnificent scene—a scene such as perhaps no one but Heinrich von Kleist could have written quite in that way.
The unseen readers recited, or read, with dramatic effect.
Thusnelda.
I think thou dream’st, thou rav’st.
Who is’t will shear my head?
Hermann.
Who? Pooh! Quintilius Varus and the Romans,
With whom I just have sealed a firm alliance.
Thusnelda.