While the preceding events were taking place in the castle,
preparations were in progress at the opera for the performance of
'Cleophila.'
The splendour with which the operas were put upon the stage, a hundred
horses and camels appearing with numberless artistes in gorgeous
oriental costumes, and the fairy-like effects produced by elaborate
machinery, combined to attract as large an audience as did the charming
voice of Signora Faustina Bordoni.
Faustina, the first singer of those times, famous for her victory over
the equally famous Cuzzoni, was prima donna in the full meaning of the
word, on the stage, behind the scenes, and beyond. Signora Bordoni,
although married to the great composer, Johanet Hasse, could forget
him. The marriage had been broken the next day by command of the King,
who sent the musician to Italy to study there.
As the carriage bringing Bruehl and the sad news of the death of
Augustus the Strong neared the castle Faustina was sitting in the small
drawing-room arranged for her near the stage, and having removed her
furs was about to issue her orders.
The prima donna was not very young, but notwithstanding her Italian
beauty, which blossoms and withers quickly, she preserved her voice,
the charm of her figure, and the beauty of her face, the features of
Juno with which nature had endowed her.
She was not a delicate woman, but strong and majestic, with the form of
a statue, as though made from one block by the energetic chisel of
Michael Angelo.
Her beauty was equal to her voice. Everything was in harmony with her
character; her head of a goddess, bosom of a nymph, hand of a
Bacchante, figure of an Amazon, hands and feet of a princess, abundant
black hair like the mane of an Arabian horse. In her face,
notwithstanding the classical beauty of her features, there was more
strength than womanly sweetness. Not infrequently her black eyebrows
contracted in a frown, her nostrils dilated with anger, and behind her
pink lips her white teeth gleamed angrily.
Her manner was that of a woman accustomed to command, to receive
homage, fearing nought, daring even to hurl her thunderbolts at crowned
heads.
The drawing-room was elegantly furnished with gold, the furniture
upholstered with blue satin, and the dressing-table, covered with lace,
was loaded with silver and china. The wardrobes for her dresses were
ornamented with bronze, and from the ceiling descended a china
chandelier like a basket of flowers.
Three servants stood at the door waiting for orders. One could
recognise that two of them were Italian women, for they had not given
up their national coifure. Faustina glanced at the clock, threw herself
on the sofa, and, half leaning and half sitting, played with the silk
sash of her large, silk _robe de chambre_.
The servants were silent.
There was a knock at the door. Faustina did not move, but glancing
towards a good-looking young man who appeared in the doorway, greeted
him with a smile.
It was the tenor, Angelo Monticelli. It was easy to see that he was
also Italian; but while Faustina was the personification of Italian
energy and liveliness, he was the embodiment of almost womanly charm.
Young, remarkably handsome, with long black hair falling over his
shoulders, he seemed to be born for the roles of _innamorati_, of
lovers and gods. The classical Apollo, playing the lute, could not have
been more charming. Only he lacked the pride and energy of the god.
He bent to salute Faustina, who hardly nodded to him.
'Angelo!' said Faustina, 'you run after those horrid German women--you
will lose your voice. Fie! How you can see a woman in those German
girls! Look at their hands and feet!'
'Signora!' said Angelo, placing one hand on his chest and looking into
a mirror, for he was in love with himself. '_Signora, non e vero!_'
'You would tell me, by way of excuse,' said Faustina laughing, 'that
they run after you.'
'Not that either; I am longing for the Italian sky, Italian faces, and
the heart of an Italian woman--I wither here--'
Faustina glanced at him and made a sign to the servants to leave the
room.
'_Ingrato!_' whispered she. 'We all pet you, and yet you complain.'
Then she turned her gaze to the ceiling taking no notice of
Monticelli's devouring eyes.
'Has Abbuzzi come?' she asked.
'I don't know.'
'You do not wish to know about Abbuzzi!'
'I don't care about her.'
'When you are talking to me! But I am neither jealous of her nor your
Apollo-like beauty; only I hate her, and I can't bear you.'
'Why not?'
'Because you are a doll. Look at the clock and go and dress.'
As she spoke a new face appeared in the doorway; it was the cheerful
Puttini.
'My humblest homage,' said he. 'But perchance I interrupt a duet;
excuse me.'
He glanced at Angelo. Faustina laughed and shrugged her shoulders.
'We sing duets only on the stage,' said she. 'You are all late to-day.
Go and dress.'
She jumped down from the sofa; Angelo moved towards the door; Puttini
laughed and remained where he was.
'My costume is ready, I shall not be late.'
The door opened noisily and in rushed a man dressed in black; his round
face, with small nose and low forehead, expressed fear.
Faustina who was in continual dread of fire, shrieked:
'Holy Virgin, help! Fire! Fire!'
'Where? Where?'
The new-comer, much surprised, stood still. His name was Klein, a
member of the orchestra, Faustina's great admirer, a friend of the
Italians, and an enthusiastic musician.
His Christian name was Johan, Faustina changed it into Giovanni and
called him Piccolo.
'Piccolo! are you mad? What is the matter with you?' she cried.
'The King is dead! King Augustus the Strong died in Warsaw.'
At this, Faustina screamed piercingly, covering her face with her
hands; the rest stood silent. Klein left the door open and the actors
began to crowd in. The great majority of them were already half dressed
for the performance of 'Cleophila.' Abbuzzi rushed in with naked bosom.
Her beauty was striking even when compared with Faustina; only she was
small and still more lively.
Catherine Piluga, with a crowd of Italians and French, half dressed,
with frightened faces, followed Abbuzzi. All pressed round Faustina
exclaiming in all possible voices: '_Il re e morto!_' Their faces
expressed more fear than sorrow. Faustina alone was silent, and did not
seem much afraid of the news. All looked at her hoping that she would
speak, but she would not betray her thoughts.
The bells resounded throughout the whole city.
'There will be no performance to-night, go home!' she cried
imperatively.
But they did not obey her; frightened, they stood as though rivetted to
the spot.
'Go home!' repeated Faustina. 'We have nothing to do here; we shall not
play for some time.'
The crowd began to withdraw, murmuring. As soon as the last had gone,
Abbuzzi also disappeared, and Faustina lay on the sofa not seeming to
notice an elderly gentleman standing quietly apart.
He coughed softly.
'Ah! It's you?'
'Yes,' said the German, indifferently.
It was Hasse, Faustina's husband.
'What are you thinking about? About a new _Requiem_ for the dead King?'
'You have guessed almost right,' answered the composer. 'I was
wondering if the mass: _Sulla morte d'un eroe_, which I composed some
time ago, would be suitable for the funeral service. I am a musician,
and even grief turns with me to music.'
'But what will become of us now?' sighed Faustina.
'_Chi lo sa?_'
They were both silent; Hasse walked to and fro, then stopped in front
of his wife.
'I think we need not fear,' said he, 'for there is hardly anyone who
could be put in my place, not even such a one as Popora, and there is
absolutely no one to rival Faustina.'
'Flatterer,' said the Italian. 'Faustina's voice is like a candle that
burns brightly--it will be extinguished one day.'
'Not very soon,' answered the thoughtful German, 'you know that better
than I do.'
'But that quiet, pious, modest, ruled-by-his-wife new King--'
Hasse laughed.
'_E un fanatico per la musica, e fanatico per la Faustina_.'
'_Chi lo sa?_' whispered the singer thoughtfully, 'Well, if he is not
all that you say, we must make him so.' A bright idea flashed through
her brain, 'Poor old Augustus is dead,' said she in a lowered voice. 'I
should like to make a beautiful speech over his grave, but I can't.'
Hasse shrugged his shoulders.
'There will be plenty of funeral speeches,' he said almost in a
whisper, 'but history will not be indulgent to him. He was a
magnificent tyrant and lived for himself only. Saxony will breathe more
freely.'
'You are unjust,' Faustina exclaimed. 'Could Saxony be more happy, more
brilliant, more favoured? The glory of that hero is reflected in her.'
Hasse smiled painfully.
'He may have looked like a hero, when from his box in the opera,
covered with diamonds, he smiled upon you, but the whole country paid
for those diamonds with tears. Joy and singing resounded through
Dresden, moaning and crying throughout Saxony and Poland. In the
capital there was luxury, in the country misery and woe.'
Faustina sprang to her feet, she was indignant.
'_Tace!_ I will not permit you to say anything against him; your words
betoken horrid jealousy.'
'No,' said Hasse quietly, looking at her. 'My love was absorbed by the
music, I loved the beautiful Faustina for her voice, and was entranced
when I heard it or even thought of it.'
At that moment the door opened a little way, and then closed again
immediately, but Faustina had perceived who was there and called him
in. It was Watzdorf, the same who had called Bruehl to the Prince. His
figure and movements resembled those of the bandit of the fancy dress
ball. For a courtier the expression of his face was unusual, an
ironical smile, merciless and biting, overspread his features, which
were illumined by piercing eyes.
'I thought,' said he, entering and smiling to Faustina, 'that you had
not yet heard what had happened.'
'But it was announced _urbi et orbi_ by the sound of the bells,'
replied the Italian approaching him.
'Yes, but the bells ring all the same for funeral or wedding; you might
even suppose that a princess was born and that they called you to
rejoice.'
'Poor King,' Faustina sighed.
'Yes,' said Watzdorf maliciously, 'he lived long, had at least three
hundred mistresses, scattered millions, drank rivers of wine, wore out
plenty of horses' shoes, and cut off many heads--was it not time after
such labour to lie down to rest?'
None ventured to interrupt the speaker; Hasse eyed him furtively.
'What will happen next?' asked Faustina.
'We had an opera called _Il re Augusto_, we shall now have a new, but
will it be a better one? The daughter of the emperors, Padre Guarini,
Padre Salerno, Padre Toyler and Padre Kopper. Faustina shall sing as
she used to sing before; Hasse shall compose operas as he composed
before. It will be worse for us court composers when the first roles
are taken by foreign pages and foreign lackeys.'
Hasse bowed and said in a low voice:
'Enough! Enough! Suppose someone should be listening at the door. It is
dangerous even to listen to such a speech as yours!'
Watzdorf shrugged his shoulders.
'Where were you in March last year?' asked Faustina carelessly.
'I? In March? Wait--well--I don't remember.'
'I see you were not in New Market Square where the drama entitled
"Major d'Argelles" was played.'
Watzdorf said nothing.
'Don't you remember that d'Argelles who spoke the truth invariably,
sparing no one? I could see him from a window. I pitied the poor man
whom they put in the pillory surrounded by the crowd. The executioner
broke a sword over his head, gave him two slaps on the face, and thrust
into his mouth a bunch of his libellous writings. Then he was
incarcerated in Kaspelhouse in Dantzig till his death.'
'An interesting story,' said Watzdorf ironically, 'but I pity more the
man who acted so cruelly towards Major d'Argelles.'
Watzdorf looked at Faustina triumphantly and continued,
'Signora Faustina, during the morning you will be able to rest and get
strength for your voice so as to be able to charm the new king and rule
over him as you ruled over the deceased. And I can tell you that it
will be an easier task. Augustus the Strong was a great seducer, whilst
his son is fond of smoking the same pipe; when they hand him a new one
he shakes his head, and if he could he would be angry.'
He laughed and continued:--
'Well, I am not needed here, you know all about it, and I must hasten
to get my mourning suit ready for to-morrow. I must show my sorrow
outwardly if I cannot within; no one can see into my heart.'
'I have forgotten,' said he suddenly turning from the door to Faustina,
'to ask you how you stand with Sulkowski? To-morrow he ascends the
throne, and to-morrow also Bruehl will either return to Thuringia or
accept the position of a lackey in order to overthrow him at the
opportune moment. Bruehl and Padre Guarini are the best of friends.'
Hasse called 'hush!' Watzdorf suddenly covered his mouth with his hand.
'Is it not allowed? I am silent then.'
Faustina was confused. '_Signore_,' said she, coming near him, 'you are
incorrigible. Be careful.'
She placed a finger on his lips.
'I fear nothing,' said Watzdorf sighing. 'I have no other ambition than
to remain an honest man, and should they put me in Koenigstein I will
not be tempted to change my opinion, it is worth something.'
'I hope you may not be your own prophet,' said Hasse clasping his hand.
'Think what you please, but say nothing.'
'There would be no merit if I did not try to spread my thoughts among
people,' answered Watzdorf already at the door. 'I wish you a very
good-night.'
And he disappeared.
'There is no doubt that he will end in Koenigstein, or if there should
be no room for him there, then in Sonnenstein or Pleissenburg.'
And Hasse sighed.