IN WHICH THE ANDANTES BECOME ALLEGROS, AND THE ALLEGROS VIVACES.
The agitation caused by the Schut and Custos affair had subsided. The
affair led to no serious consequences. It appeared likely that
Quiquendone would return to its habitual apathy, which that unexpected
event had for a moment disturbed.
Meanwhile, the laying of the pipes destined to conduct the oxyhydric
gas into the principal edifices of the town was proceeding rapidly. The
main pipes and branches gradually crept beneath the pavements. But the
burners were still wanting; for, as it required delicate skill to make
them, it was necessary that they should be fabricated abroad. Doctor Ox
was here, there, and everywhere; neither he nor Ygène, his assistant,
lost a moment, but they urged on the workmen, completed the delicate
mechanism of the gasometer, fed day and night the immense piles which
decomposed the water under the influence of a powerful electric
current. Yes, the doctor was already making his gas, though the
pipe-laying was not yet done; a fact which, between ourselves, might
have seemed a little singular. But before long,—at least there was
reason to hope so,—before long Doctor Ox would inaugurate the
splendours of his invention in the theatre of the town.
For Quiquendone possessed a theatre—a really fine edifice, in truth—the
interior and exterior arrangement of which combined every style of
architecture. It was at once Byzantine, Roman, Gothic, Renaissance,
with semicircular doors, Pointed windows, Flamboyant rose-windows,
fantastic bell-turrets,—in a word, a specimen of all sorts, half a
Parthenon, half a Parisian Grand Café. Nor was this surprising, the
theatre having been commenced under the burgomaster Ludwig Van
Tricasse, in 1175, and only finished in 1837, under the burgomaster
Natalis Van Tricasse. It had required seven hundred years to build it,
and it had, been successively adapted to the architectural style in
vogue in each period. But for all that it was an imposing structure;
the Roman pillars and Byzantine arches of which would appear to
advantage lit up by the oxyhydric gas.
Pretty well everything was acted at the theatre of Quiquendone; but the
opera and the opera comique were especially patronized. It must,
however, be added that the composers would never have recognized their
own works, so entirely changed were the “movements” of the music.
In short, as nothing was done in a hurry at Quiquendone, the dramatic
pieces had to be performed in harmony with the peculiar temperament of
the Quiquendonians. Though the doors of the theatre were regularly
thrown open at four o’clock and closed again at ten, it had never been
known that more than two acts were played during the six intervening
hours. “Robert le Diable,” “Les Huguenots,” or “Guillaume Tell” usually
took up three evenings, so slow was the execution of these
masterpieces. The _vivaces_, at the theatre of Quiquendone, lagged like
real _adagios_. The _allegros_ were “long-drawn out” indeed. The
demisemiquavers were scarcely equal to the ordinary semibreves of other
countries. The most rapid runs, performed according to Quiquendonian
taste, had the solemn march of a chant. The gayest shakes were
languishing and measured, that they might not shock the ears of the
_dilettanti_. To give an example, the rapid air sung by Figaro, on his
entrance in the first act of “Le Barbiér de Séville,” lasted
fifty-eight minutes—when the actor was particularly enthusiastic.
Artists from abroad, as might be supposed, were forced to conform
themselves to Quiquendonian fashions; but as they were well paid, they
did not complain, and willingly obeyed the leader’s baton, which never
beat more than eight measures to the minute in the _allegros_.
But what applause greeted these artists, who enchanted without ever
wearying the audiences of Quiquendone! All hands clapped one after
another at tolerably long intervals, which the papers characterized as
“frantic applause;” and sometimes nothing but the lavish prodigality
with which mortar and stone had been used in the twelfth century saved
the roof of the hall from falling in.
Besides, the theatre had only one performance a week, that these
enthusiastic Flemish folk might not be too much excited; and this
enabled the actors to study their parts more thoroughly, and the
spectators to digest more at leisure the beauties of the masterpieces
brought out.
Such had long been the drama at Quiquendone. Foreign artists were in
the habit of making engagements with the director of the town, when
they wanted to rest after their exertions in other scenes; and it
seemed as if nothing could ever change these inveterate customs, when,
a fortnight after the Schut-Custos affair, an unlooked-for incident
occurred to throw the population into fresh agitation.
It was on a Saturday, an opera day. It was not yet intended, as may
well be supposed, to inaugurate the new illumination. No; the pipes had
reached the hall, but, for reasons indicated above, the burners had not
yet been placed, and the wax-candles still shed their soft light upon
the numerous spectators who filled the theatre. The doors had been
opened to the public at one o’clock, and by three the hall was half
full. A queue had at one time been formed, which extended as far as the
end of the Place Saint Ernuph, in front of the shop of Josse Lietrinck
the apothecary. This eagerness was significant of an unusually
attractive performance.
“Are you going to the theatre this evening?” inquired the counsellor
the same morning of the burgomaster.
“I shall not fail to do so,” returned Van Tricasse, “and I shall take
Madame Van Tricasse, as well as our daughter Suzel and our dear
Tatanémance, who all dote on good music.”
“Mademoiselle Suzel is going then?”
“Certainly, Niklausse.”
“Then my son Frantz will be one of the first to arrive,” said
Niklausse.
“A spirited boy, Niklausse,” replied the burgomaster sententiously;
“but hot-headed! He will require watching!”
“He loves, Van Tricasse,—he loves your charming Suzel.”
“Well, Niklausse, he shall marry her. Now that we have agreed on this
marriage, what more can he desire?”
“He desires nothing, Van Tricasse, the dear boy! But, in short— we’ll
say no more about it—he will not be the last to get his ticket at the
box-office.”
“Ah, vivacious and ardent youth!” replied the burgomaster, recalling
his own past. “We have also been thus, my worthy counsellor! We have
loved—we too! We have danced attendance in our day! Till to-night,
then, till to-night! By-the-bye, do you know this Fiovaranti is a great
artist? And what a welcome he has received among us! It will be long
before he will forget the applause of Quiquendone!”
The tenor Fiovaranti was, indeed, going to sing; Fiovaranti, who, by
his talents as a virtuoso, his perfect method, his melodious voice,
provoked a real enthusiasm among the lovers of music in the town.
For three weeks Fiovaranti had been achieving a brilliant success in
“Les Huguenots.” The first act, interpreted according to the taste of
the Quiquendonians, had occupied an entire evening of the first week of
the month.—Another evening in the second week, prolonged by infinite
_andantes_, had elicited for the celebrated singer a real ovation. His
success had been still more marked in the third act of Meyerbeer’s
masterpiece. But now Fiovaranti was to appear in the fourth act, which
was to be performed on this evening before an impatient public. Ah, the
duet between Raoul and Valentine, that pathetic love-song for two
voices, that strain so full of _crescendos_, _stringendos_, and _piu
crescendos_—all this, sung slowly, compendiously, interminably! Ah, how
delightful!
[Illustration: Fiovaranti had been achieving a brilliant success in
“Les Huguenots.”]
At four o’clock the hall was full. The boxes, the orchestra, the pit,
were overflowing. In the front stalls sat the Burgomaster Van Tricasse,
Mademoiselle Van Tricasse, Madame Van Tricasse, and the amiable
Tatanémance in a green bonnet; not far off were the Counsellor
Niklausse and his family, not forgetting the amorous Frantz. The
families of Custos the doctor, of Schut the advocate, of Honoré Syntax
the chief judge, of Norbet Sontman the insurance director, of the
banker Collaert, gone mad on German music, and himself somewhat of an
amateur, and the teacher Rupp, and the master of the academy, Jerome
Resh, and the civil commissary, and so many other notabilities of the
town that they could not be enumerated here without wearying the
reader’s patience, were visible in different parts of the hall.
It was customary for the Quiquendonians, while awaiting the rise of the
curtain, to sit silent, some reading the paper, others whispering low
to each other, some making their way to their seats slowly and
noiselessly, others casting timid looks towards the bewitching beauties
in the galleries.
But on this evening a looker-on might have observed that, even before
the curtain rose, there was unusual animation among the audience.
People were restless who were never known to be restless before. The
ladies’ fans fluttered with abnormal rapidity. All appeared to be
inhaling air of exceptional stimulating power. Every one breathed more
freely. The eyes of some became unwontedly bright, and seemed to give
forth a light equal to that of the candles, which themselves certainly
threw a more brilliant light over the hall. It was evident that people
saw more clearly, though the number of candles had not been increased.
Ah, if Doctor Ox’s experiment were being tried! But it was not being
tried, as yet.
The musicians of the orchestra at last took their places. The first
violin had gone to the stand to give a modest la to his colleagues. The
stringed instruments, the wind instruments, the drums and cymbals, were
in accord. The conductor only waited the sound of the bell to beat the
first bar.
The bell sounds. The fourth act begins. The _allegro appassionato_ of
the inter-act is played as usual, with a majestic deliberation which
would have made Meyerbeer frantic, and all the majesty of which was
appreciated by the Quiquendonian dilettanti.
But soon the leader perceived that he was no longer master of his
musicians. He found it difficult to restrain them, though usually so
obedient and calm. The wind instruments betrayed a tendency to hasten
the movements, and it was necessary to hold them back with a firm hand,
for they would otherwise outstrip the stringed instruments; which, from
a musical point of view, would have been disastrous. The bassoon
himself, the son of Josse Lietrinck the apothecary, a well-bred young
man, seemed to lose his self-control.
Meanwhile Valentine has begun her recitative, “I am alone,” etc.; but
she hurries it.
The leader and all his musicians, perhaps unconsciously, follow her in
her _cantabile_, which should be taken deliberately, like a 12/8 as it
is. When Raoul appears at the door at the bottom of the stage, between
the moment when Valentine goes to him and that when she conceals
herself in the chamber at the side, a quarter of an hour does not
elapse; while formerly, according to the traditions of the Quiquendone
theatre, this recitative of thirty-seven bars was wont to last just
thirty-seven minutes.
Saint Bris, Nevers, Cavannes, and the Catholic nobles have appeared,
somewhat prematurely, perhaps, upon the scene. The composer has marked
_allergo pomposo_ on the score. The orchestra and the lords proceed
_allegro_ indeed, but not at all _pomposo_, and at the chorus, in the
famous scene of the “benediction of the poniards,” they no longer keep
to the enjoined _allegro_. Singers and musicians broke away
impetuously. The leader does not even attempt to restrain them. Nor do
the public protest; on the contrary, the people find themselves carried
away, and see that they are involved in the movement, and that the
movement responds to the impulses of their souls.
“Will you, with me, deliver the land,
From troubles increasing, an impious band?”
They promise, they swear. Nevers has scarcely time to protest, and to
sing that “among his ancestors were many soldiers, but never an
assassin.” He is arrested. The police and the aldermen rush forward and
rapidly swear “to strike all at once.” Saint Bris shouts the recitative
which summons the Catholics to vengeance. The three monks, with white
scarfs, hasten in by the door at the back of Nevers’s room, without
making any account of the stage directions, which enjoin on them to
advance slowly. Already all the artists have drawn sword or poniard,
which the three monks bless in a trice. The soprani tenors, bassos,
attack the _allegro furioso_ with cries of rage, and of a dramatic 6/8
time they make it 6/8 quadrille time. Then they rush out, bellowing,—
“At midnight,
Noiselessly,
God wills it,
Yes,
At midnight.”
At this moment the audience start to their feet. Everybody is
agitated—in the boxes, the pit, the galleries. It seems as if the
spectators are about to rush upon the stage, the Burgomaster Van
Tricasse at their head, to join with the conspirators and annihilate
the Huguenots, whose religious opinions, however, they share. They
applaud, call before the curtain, make loud acclamations! Tatanémance
grasps her bonnet with feverish hand. The candles throw out a lurid
glow of light.
Raoul, instead of slowly raising the curtain, tears it apart with a
superb gesture and finds himself confronting Valentine.
At last! It is the grand duet, and it starts off _allegro vivace_.
Raoul does not wait for Valentine’s pleading, and Valentine does not
wait for Raoul’s responses.
The fine passage beginning, “Danger is passing, time is flying,”
becomes one of those rapid airs which have made Offenbach famous, when
he composes a dance for conspirators. The _andante amoroso_, “Thou hast
said it, aye, thou lovest me,” becomes a real _vivace furioso_, and the
violoncello ceases to imitate the inflections of the singer’s voice, as
indicated in the composer’s score. In vain Raoul cries, “Speak on, and
prolong the ineffable slumber of my soul.” Valentine cannot “prolong.”
It is evident that an unaccustomed fire devours her. Her _b’s_ and her
_c’s_ above the stave were dreadfully shrill. He struggles, he
gesticulates, he is all in a glow.
The alarum is heard; the bell resounds; but what a panting bell! The
bell-ringer has evidently lost his self-control. It is a frightful
tocsin, which violently struggles against the fury of the orchestra.
Finally the air which ends this magnificent act, beginning, “No more
love, no more intoxication, O the remorse that oppresses me!” which the
composer marks _allegro con moto_, becomes a wild _prestissimo_. You
would say an express-train was whirling by. The alarum resounds again.
Valentine falls fainting. Raoul precipitates himself from the window.
It was high time. The orchestra, really intoxicated, could not have
gone on. The leader’s baton is no longer anything but a broken stick on
the prompter’s box. The violin strings are broken, and their necks
twisted. In his fury the drummer has burst his drum. The
counter-bassist has perched on the top of his musical monster. The
first clarionet has swallowed the reed of his instrument, and the
second hautboy is chewing his reed keys. The groove of the trombone is
strained, and finally the unhappy cornist cannot withdraw his hand from
the bell of his horn, into which he had thrust it too far.
And the audience! The audience, panting, all in a heat, gesticulates
and howls. All the faces are as red as if a fire were burning within
their bodies. They crowd each other, hustle each other to get out—the
men without hats, the women without mantles! They elbow each other in
the corridors, crush between the doors, quarrel, fight! There are no
longer any officials, any burgomaster. All are equal amid this infernal
frenzy!
[Illustration: They hustle each other to get out]
Some moments after, when all have reached the street, each one resumes
his habitual tranquillity, and peaceably enters his house, with a
confused remembrance of what he has just experienced.
The fourth act of the “Huguenots,” which formerly lasted six hours,
began, on this evening at half-past four, and ended at twelve minutes
before five.
It had only lasted eighteen minutes!