Violetta Kutufa had come to Pescara in the month of January, at the
time of the Carnival, with a company of singers. She spoke of being
a Greek from the Archipelago, of having sung in a theatre at Corfu
in the presence of the Greek king, and of having made mad with love
an English admiral. She was a woman of plump figure and very white
skin. Her arms were unusually round and full of small dimples that
became pink with every change of motion; and these little dimples,
together with her rings and all of those other graces suitable for a
youthful person, helped to make her fleshiness singularly pleasing,
fresh and tantalising. The features of her face were slightly vulgar,
the eyes tan colour, full of slothfulness; her lips large and flat
as if crushed. Her nose did not suggest Greek origin; it was short,
rather straight, and with large inflated nostrils; her black hair
was luxuriant. She spoke with a soft accent, hesitating at each word,
smiling almost constantly. Her voice often became unexpectedly harsh.
When her company arrived, the Pescaresi were frantic with expectation.
The foreign singers were lauded everywhere, for their gestures,
their gravity of movement, their costumes, and for every other
accomplishment. But the person upon whom all attention centred was
Violetta Kutufa.
She wore a kind of dark bolero bordered with fur and held together
in front with gilt aiglettes; on her head was a species of toque, all
fur, and worn a little to one side. She walked about alone, stepping
briskly, entered the shops, treated the shop-keepers with a certain
disdain, complained of the mediocrity of their wares, left without
making a purchase, hummed with indifference.
Everywhere, in the squares, on all of the walls large hand-bills
announced the performance of “The Countess of Amalfi.” The name of
Violetta Kutufa was resplendent in vermilion letters. The souls of the
Pescaresi kindled. At length the long looked-for evening arrived.
The theatre was in a room of the old military hospital, at the edge
of the town near the sea. The room was low, narrow, and as long as
a corridor; the stage, of wood with painted scenery, arose a few
hands’ breadths above the floor; along the side walls was the gallery,
consisting of boards over saw-horses covered with tricoloured flags and
decorated with festoons. The curtain, a masterpiece of Cucuzzitó, son
of Cucuzzitó, depicted tragedy, comedy and music, interwoven, like the
three Graces, and flitting over a bridge under which passed the blue
stream of Pescara. The chairs for the theatre, taken from the churches,
occupied half of the pit. The benches, taken from the schools, occupied
the remaining space.
Toward seven in the evening, the village band started its music on the
square, played until it had made the circuit of the town and at length
stopped in front of the theatre. The resounding march inspired the
souls of passers-by. The women curbed their impatience within the folds
of their beautiful silk garments. The room filled up rapidly.
The gallery was radiant with a sparkling aureole of married and
unmarried women. Teodolinda Pomarici, a sentimental, lymphatic
elocutionist, sat near Fermina Memura, called “The Masculine.” The
Fusilli girls, arrived from Castellamare, tall maidens with very
black eyes, all clothed in a uniform, pink material, with hair braided
down their backs, laughed loudly and gesticulated. Emilia d’Annunzio
used her beautiful lion-like eyes, with an air of infinite fatigue.
Marianina Cortese made signs with her fan to Donna Rachele Profeta
who sat in front of her. Donna Rachele Bucci argued with Donna
Rachele Carabba on the subjects of speaking tables and spiritualism.
The school-mistresses Del Gado, both clothed in changeable silk
with mantillas of most antique fashion, and with diverse coiffures
glittering with brass spangles, remained silent, compunctious, almost
stunned by the novelty of this experience, almost repentant for having
come to so profane a spectacle. Costanza Lesbu coughed continuously,
shivering under her red shawl, very pale, very blond and very thin.
In the foremost chairs of the pit sat the wealthiest citizens. Don
Giovanni Ussorio was most prominent because of his well-groomed
appearance, his splendid black and white checkered trousers, his
coat of shining wool, his quantity of false jewelry on fingers and
shirt-front. Don Antonio Brattella, a member of the Areopagus of
Marseilles, a man exhaling importance from every pore and especially
from the lobe of his left ear, which was as thick as a green apricot,
recited in a loud voice the lyric drama of Giovanni Peruzzini, and
his words as they fell from his lips acquired a certain Ciceronian
resonance. The auditors, lolling in their chairs, stirred with more or
less impatience. Dr. Panzoni wrestled all to no purpose with the wiles
of sleep, and from time to time made a noise that blended with the “la”
of the tuning instruments.
“Pss! psss! pssss!”
The silence in the theatre grew profound. At the lifting of the curtain
the stage was empty. The sound of a Violoncello came from the wings.
Tilde appeared and sang. Afterwards Sertorio came out and sang. After
him, a crowd of supernumeraries and friends, entered and intoned a
song. After them, Tilde drew toward a window and sang:
“Oh how tedious the hours
To the desirous one...!”
In the audience a slight movement was perceptible, since all felt a
love duet to be imminent. Tilde, in truth, was a first soprano, none
too young; she wore a blue costume, had a blond wig that insufficiently
covered her head, and her face, whitened with powder, resembled a raw
cutlet besprinkled with flour and partially hidden behind a hempen wig.
Egidio came on. He was the young tenor. As he had a chest singularly
hollow and legs slightly curved, he resembled a double-handed spoon
upon which hung a calf’s head, scraped and polished like those which
one sees at times over the butcher-shops. He began:
“Tilde! thy lips are mute,
Thy lowered glances dismay me,
Tell me, why you delay me?
Why do I see thy hand now
A-tremble? Why should that be?”
And Tilde, with great force of sentiment, replied:
“At such a solemn moment, how
Can you ask why of me?”
The duet increased in tenderness. The melody of the cavalier Petrella
delighted the ears of the audience. All of the women leaned intently
over the rails of the gallery and their faces, throbbing in the green
reflection of the flags, were pallid.
“Like a journey from paradise
Death will appear to us.”
Tilde appeared; and now entered, singing, the Duke Carnioli, who was a
man fat, fierce, and long haired enough, to be suited to the part of
baritone. He sang with many flourishes, running over the syllables,
sometimes moreover boldly suppressing.
“Dost thou not know the conjugal chain
Is like lead on the feet?”
But, when in the song, he mentioned at length the Countess of Amalfi,
a long applause broke from the audience. The Countess was desired,
demanded.
Don Giovanni Ussorio asked of Don Antonio Brattella:
“When is she coming?”
Don Antonio, in a lofty tone, replied:
“Oh! Dio mio, Don Giovà! Don’t you know? In the second act! In the
second act!”
The speech of Sertorio was listened to with half-impatience. The
curtain fell in the midst of weak applause. Thus began the triumphs
of Violetta Kutufa. A prolonged murmur ran through the pit, through
the gallery, and increased when the audience heard the blows of the
scene-shifters’ hammers behind the curtain. That invisible hustling
increased their expectation.
When the curtain went up a kind of spell held the audience in its grip.
The scenic effect was marvellous. Three illuminated arches stretched
themselves in perspective, and the middle one bordered a fantastic
garden.
Several pages were dispersed here and there, and were bowing. The
Countess of Amalfi, clothed in red velvet, with her regal train, her
arms and shoulders bare, her face ruddy, entered with agitated step and
sang:
“It was an evening of ravishment, which still
Fills my soul....”
Her voice was uneven, sometimes twanging, but always powerful and
penetrating. It produced on the audience a singular effect after the
whine of Tilde. Immediately the audience was divided into two factions;
the women were for Tilde, the men for Leonora.
“He who resists my charms
Has not easy matter...!”
Leonora possessed in her personality, in her gestures, her movements,
a sauciness that intoxicated and kindled those unmarried men who were
accustomed to the flabby Venuses of the lanes of Sant’ Agostino, and to
those husbands who were wearied with conjugal monotony.
All gazed at the singer’s every motion, at her large white shoulders,
where, with the movements of her round arms, two dimples tried to
smile.
At the end of her solo, applause broke forth with a crash. Later, the
swooning of the Countess, her dissimulation before the Duke Carnioli
(the leader of the duet), the whole scene aroused applause. The heat
in the room had become intense; in the galleries fans fluttered
confusedly, and among the fans the women’s faces appeared and
disappeared.
When the Countess leaned against a column in an attitude of sentimental
contemplation, illuminated by the calcium light, and Egidio sang his
gentle love song, Don Antonio Brattella called loudly, “She is great!”
Don Giovanni Ussorio, with a sudden impulse, fell to clapping his hands
alone. The others shouted at him to be silent, as they wished to hear.
Don Giovanni became confused.
“All is for love, everything speaks:
The moon, the zephyrs, the stars, the sea....”
The heads of the listeners swayed with the rhythm of this melody of
the Petrella style, even though the voice of Egidio was indifferent;
and even though the light was glaring and yellowish their eyes drank in
the scene. But when, after this last contrast of passion and seduction,
the Countess of Amalfi, walking toward the garden, took up the melody
alone, the melody that still vibrated in the minds of all, the delight
of the audience had risen to such a height that many raised their heads
and inclined them slightly backward as if to trill together with the
siren, who was now concealed among the flowers. She sang:
“The bark is now ready ... ah, come beloved!
Is not Love calling ... to live is to love?”
At this climax, Violetta Kutufa made a complete conquest of Don
Giovanni Ussorio, who beside himself, seized with a species of
passionate, musical madness, clamoured continuously:
“Brava! Brava! Brava!”
Don Paolo Seccia called loudly:
“Oh, see here! see here! Ussorio has gone mad for her!”
All the women gazed at Ussorio, amazed and confused. The
school-mistresses Del Gado shook their rosaries under their mantillas.
Teodolinda Pomarici remained ecstatic. Only the Fasilli girls, in
their red paint, preserved their vivacity, and chattered, shaking their
serpentine braids with every movement.
In the third act, neither the dying sighs of Tilde, whom the women
defended, nor the rebuffs of Sertorio and Carnioli, nor the songs
of the chorus, nor the monologue of the melancholy Egidio, nor the
joyfulness of the dames and cavaliers, held any power to distract the
public from the preceding voluptuousness.
“Leonora! Leonora! Leonora!” they cried.
Leonora reappeared on the arm of the Count of Lara and descended from a
pavilion. Thus she reached the very culmination of her triumph.
She wore now a violet gown, trimmed with silver ribbons and enormous
clasps. She turned to the pit, while with her foot she gave a quick,
backward stroke to her train, and exposed in the act her instep.
Then, mingling with her words, a thousand charms and a thousand
affectations, she sang half-jestingly,
“I am the butterfly that sports within the flowers....”
The public grew almost delirious at this well-known song.
The Countess of Amalfi, on feeling mount up to her the ardent
admiration of the men, became intoxicated, multiplied her seductive
gestures, and raised her voice to the highest altitude of which she
was capable. Her fleshly throat, uncovered, marked with the necklace of
Venus, shook with trills.
“I, the bee, who alone on the honey is nourished,
Am inebriate under the blue of the sky....”
Don Giovanni Ussorio stared with so much intensity, that his eyes
seemed to start from their sockets. The Baron Cappa was equally
enchanted. Don Antonio Brattella, a member of the Areopagus of
Marseilles, swelled and swelled, until at length burst from him the
exclamation:
“Colossal!”