The day upon which Arivana was to be presented had arrived. It was the
first work of a young author and quite unknown poet, but the
circumstances made it a professional event, which was viewed by
everybody with intensest interest.
From the earliest hour the Court Theatre was filled to its utmost
capacity, and now the ducal couple also appeared with their guests to
occupy the large court box. Although not formally announced, the
performance had the character of a benefit, to which the brilliantly
lighted house and the rich costumes and uniforms bore witness.
Prince Adelsberg, who appeared in the court box, was as excited as if
he had written the drama himself. Besides, he found himself in as rare
as joyful accord with his most gracious aunt, who had called him to
her, and was speaking about the work of the poet.
"Our young friend seems to have caprices like all poets," she remarked.
"What a notion to change the name of the heroine at the last moment!"
"It did not happen at exactly the last moment," replied Egon. "The
change was made at Rodeck. Hartmut suddenly took a notion that the name
'Ada' was too cold and pure for his fiery heroine, and so her name was
changed forthwith."
"But the name Ada stands on the programme," said the Princess.
"Yes, but it has been turned over to an entirely different character of
the drama, who appears only in one scene."
"So Rojanow has made changes since his reading at Furstenstein?"
"Only a few; the piece itself has remained quite the same, except the
changing of names and that short appearance of Ada; but I assure Your
Highness this scene which Hartmut has added to the play is the most
beautiful thing he has ever written."
"Yes, of course, you find everything beautiful which comes from the pen
of your friend," said the Princess, but the indulgent smile with which
she dismissed the Prince showed that she was of the same opinion.
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.
Arivana's success was assured already at the second act. The work was
done by artists who belonged to the best on the stage, and they were
doing the best playing ever witnessed. Those taking the principal roles
especially acted with the perfection of abandon which only real
enthusiasm can give.
The heroine's name was no longer Ada. Another form now bore this
name--one who was strangely foreign to this excited picture of
passions; one of those tender, half-fairy-like beings with whom the
Indian legends inhabit the snow dwellings upon the icy heights of the
Himalayas--cold and pure as the eternal snow which shines upon them.
Only in one single instance, in the parting scene, she floated on
spirit's wings through the stormy, excited gathering, remonstrating,
entreating, warning; and Egon was right. The words which the poet had
put into her lips were, perhaps, the most beautiful of the entire
drama. It burst suddenly like pure, heavenly light into the flaming
glow of a crater; but the scene was as short as beautiful. Quick as a
breath the apparition disappeared again into her snow dwelling, and
down yonder at the moonlit bank of the river floated the entrancing
song of the Hindoo girl--Marietta Volkmar's soft, swelling voice--under
the coaxing charm of which the cry of warning from the heights was
dispelled and unheeded.
The last act brought the tragic end; the breaking of the doom over the
guilty pair; the death in the flames. This death was no atonement, but
a triumph--"a shining, divine death," and with the flames there also
flared up to heaven the demoniacal doctrine of the unconditional right
of the passions.
The curtain sank for the last time, and the applause, which had
increased after every act, now grew to a storm. Usually the applause at
the court performances was kept within measured bounds, but to-day it
broke over the barriers. The flames of Arivana had kindled the
enthusiasm with which the whole house demanded the appearance of the
author.
Hartmut finally appeared--without embarrassment or timidity--glowing
with pride and joy; he bowed acknowledgment to the audience, which
today offered him a drink he had never yet tasted in his wildly tossed
life. They were intoxicating, these first sips from the cup of fame,
and with this intoxicating knowledge, the celebrated poet now looked up
to the proscenium box, whose occupants he had long ago recognized. He
did not find, however, what he sought. Adelaide was leaning back in her
chair, and her face was hidden by her open fan. He saw only the cold,
unmoved face of the man who had insulted him so deeply, and who was now
a witness of his triumph.
Wallmoden understood only too well what the flash of those dark eyes
told him: "Do you dare yet to despise me?"