INTERNAL STRUGGLES.
Giulia nursed Blanden unweariedly; she let the performance of "Il
Barbiere di Sevilla" be postponed again and again, to the great
annoyance of the _impressario_, and only when Blanden began to recover
did she attend the rehearsals.
Calm as she appeared by the bedside, a mighty struggle was disturbing
her soul.
She often gazed with silent emotion upon his noble gentle features, as
he lay there with closed eyes, when his wounded chest heaved with
convulsive breathing. For her he had gone to meet death. Was he the
victim of a lie? Her passionate love was indeed truth, although all
else might be deception.
She had but one alternative, the fearful alternative of losing him for
ever, or of conquering him by impious defiance of law and custom.
She was an Italian; she possessed fiery blood, and the language which
passion spoke, even if it drove her out into the boundless, was to her
almost irresistible.
Grown up in a stage world, in which adventures are represented before
the footlights and experienced behind the scenes, she had no true
comprehension of the limits of respectable life; she was inclined in it
to perceive a restraint over which the laws of the heart had the right
to triumph. Brigandage lives in the blood of Italians; there is also a
_brigantaggio_ of the heart, which breaks into the sanctuaries of the
law with daring boldness, and deems the power of life higher than that
which only seems to be a lifeless form, a written paragraph. What is
unworthy, let it be authorised by earth or heaven, appears to be a
fetter, to break which, is esteemed an act of heroism, even although it
may be deemed a crime in the eyes of the world.
But she knew that Blanden thought differently; here in the North the
law was a great power; he possessed a knightly mind, which never thinks
of deception. She could only be really his if she took all the daring
upon herself alone, converting a degrading secret into a new heavy load
of guilt.
And had not the worst happened already, and from no fault of hers? Had
he not suffered heavy pain for the sake of the impossible, which could
only become possible by impudent deception, and unbroken silence?
Should she not now, if she confessed all, prepare him a certain painful
disappointment, which hereafter only hostile chance could bring upon
him?
Who guarantees any long endurance to happiness? She would enjoy it,
even if the chasm which yawns behind every bliss were nearer to her and
deeper than it usually is. But she could only obtain and enjoy this
felicity with heart-throbbings and anguish of conscience, condemned to
everlasting anxiety, dependent upon the good-will, the whims of a
despicable man; this roused her heart against fate, robbed her of
sleep, and dreams full of wild pictures of horror drove her terrified
mind hither and thither in alarm.
Ever again her conscience rebelled, and urged her to a confession that
would free her; ever again she repressed it firmly, as the huntsman
restrains the dog that will frighten away the game of which he is
secure.
Beate was calmer, she had given an account of her visit to Baluzzi, she
would decidedly not give up all hope, and thought he would still allow
himself to be persuaded to become a subject of that country; but Giulia
cried in supreme excitement--
"No, no, the disgrace of my life must remain in everlasting obscurity,
how foolish to wish to drag it into court; it was a thought that could
only come to me in utter helplessness. Then, too, Blanden would be lost
to me; would there be anything more degrading for me, than to have to
acknowledge that man before all the world? Only in deepest secrecy can
my welfare lie."
When Blanden became better, he spoke to his nurse of their marriage.
Giulia covered him with kisses, but she shuddered inwardly, both with
joy and fear. Ever nearer drew the fatal moment which she awaited with
equally ardent longing and nameless terror.
More agitated than ever, she returned home. Beate was all the more
cheerful, and hummed an Italian popular air.
"I envy you your good humour, but it appears to me to be almost like
mockery of me and my urgent need."
"When there is a wedding in prospect, one cannot be sad."
"A wedding, oh my God! Happiness which all the world would envy me,
envy me with reason, which I would not reject, even if my soul's
salvation were at stake--and side by side with the most supreme
delight, stand the feelings of a criminal who is led to execution!"
"_Vedremo_--there may still be a means of escape."
"A means of escape--does not danger ever hover over my head, mortal
danger?"
"Perhaps there are means of disarming it."
"Oh, speak! You are clever and cunning, Beate. I hunger for a word of
hope, of comfort, for relief in my unbounded fear."
"It would be a risk--"
"What would I not risk in order to be free from this racking torture of
my heart."
"You could not undertake this risk, only I, and the consequences if it
fail, would fall heavily upon my head."
"I would implore you even to undertake the most daring act, if it can
bring me rescue. And yet how could I plunge you too into destruction,
require a sacrifice of you for which I can grant you no compensation?"
"That be my affair, inseparable friendship in life and death is
compensation for all."
"_Carissima_, good Beate," said Giulia, as she cordially embraced her
friend.
"And then--I like setting out upon adventures, even if I must traverse
break-neck paths. Danger attracts me, and all secrecy, even if it be
not exactly sweet, has a great charm for me. It makes my blood surge,
then I feel that I live! And if such a bold plan have succeeded, ah,
what a triumph! Then people will say, 'what does not lie in such a
pretty little head,' then one imagines oneself like the mouse that, in
the fable, gnawed the lion's bonds. But to play a trick upon such
an overbearing villain and robber, secretly, in the dead of night,
without him perceiving or knowing it; to remove the weapon out of his
hand--that alone is worth risking this neck for; I hope the saints will
not leave so pretty a little creature as Beate Romani quite in the
lurch."
"And what do you think of doing?"
"Give me money, I will travel to Italy."
"To Italy?"
"To the lake of Orta, to the island of San Giulio!"
"You will--"
"I know what I will, but not yet how I will carry it out. That must be
left to the impulse of the moment. The past is a fairy tale, a legend,
if the proofs be wanting. I will destroy the proofs."
"Beate!"
"Where are they, but upon the little rocky island of Berengar? There
they still display the skin of that snake, which Saint Giulo killed;
well, I hope that the little viper into which Beate Romani is to be
transformed, will succeed with the new saints who keep guard there."
"You are contemplating a crime?"
"I am contemplating the destruction of a great lie, which clings to
your life as if with the arms of a polypus. A lie for your heart, but a
truth for the world; a vile, shameful truth if I do not--but what
matter is that to you? Do not question me too much! What I do, I shall
do alone, and because it pleases me. I ask you for the money for my
journey--let the rest be my care."
Giulia sat there with folded hands; should she give her consent to a
deed which, as she suspected, was directed against law and church!
Yet could she hesitate? Her passion drove her still farther upon the
fatal course, and shuddering inwardly, she was obliged to confess to
herself that every act of Beate's was less of a sacrilege than that
which she now so often firmly and steadily contemplated, and the worst
consequences of which her friend sought to avert.
To that first meeting, to that short-lived felicity by which she first
emancipated herself from her stern duty, this lawless deed was now, as
if forcibly, and ever anew united to unholy consequences.
Giulia wrung her hands in despair.
"Let me consider it, weigh it--not too hastily accede to the transient
idea! Too much is at stake for me--for you!"
"A leaf in the wind--and all is done!"
"A leaf in the wind?" said Giulia thoughtfully "is my life not one
already? And if your plan miscarry, if they catch you--?"
"From my childhood I have been used to walk on narrow paths, often have
wandered with my father across the steep boundary roads of the Italian
Tyrol; with him have crouched under rocky boulders, or in concealment
behind the lofty Arves, have slided down glaciers without being afraid
of the yawning _crevasses_ in which death lurked! They shall not catch
me, and if such an incredible thing were to happen, well it would only
befall me! You may be calm and need have no fear."
Giulia still hesitated, and begged for a few more days for reflection.
Meanwhile the _impressario_ could be appeased no longer, and Giulia was
obliged to appear as Rosina!
While she had been nursing Blanden, excluded from the world, her
enemies had been indefatigably active in destroying her character.
Buschmann had kept his word, and in revenge had spoken everywhere with
most ruthless exaggerations of her affair with Blanden. The duel, it is
true, had not come to the official knowledge of the authorities, but it
was spoken of in every circle. People pitied Blanden, but with the pity
soon was mingled the condemning verdict, "he loves adventures!" The
Signora herself, however, appeared as one of those intriguing _prime
donne_, who know how to attract a number of lovers and admirers, and
then set them one against another, so that some fatal scandal may show
the power of their beauty in high relief.
In this troubled domain of public opinion, Spiegeler now cast his evil
seed--notice after notice full of piquant stings, innuendoes,
unmistakable hints. In his paper he had an article, "Behind the
Scenes;" there Giulia was the heroine. In the most absurd paragraphs,
she was not named, but none could fail to guess it was she. Side by
side with them appeared criticising treatises upon the art of song,
containing most violent attacks upon Signora Bollini, who was
invariably held up as an appalling example of bad mannerisms and taste.
Mueller von Stallupoehnen, who with his ivory _baton_ as yet had
conducted none of his own operas, supported the journalist, so void of
musical knowledge, in this labour. Had not the directors of the East
Sea town already rejected four of his operas, and favoured Italian
music in a marked manner by the Signora's long engagement?
And what were these Italian composers compared with him? His music was
full of deep meaning, truly dramatic, besides which every character had
its musical brief, and as Shakespeare's kings were ushered in by a
flourish of trumpets, so were his heroes by a few bars of instrumental
performance. He scorned all that was pleasantly unmeaning, all that was
attractively melodious; when his heroes sang, it was but a musical mode
of speaking, to which the orchestra imparted all sharper accents, and a
few significant inter-punctuations. But when the tempest of his genius
stirred up the depths of the orchestra, so that in almost every bar
some old musical rule suffered shipwreck, and the most outrageous
impossibilities, the most startling dissonances dashed into the air
like spectral water spouts out of the foaming, splashing waves; then
indeed must enthusiasm, ecstasy know no bounds, and even the public be
transformed into a stormy, raging mass, out of which the thunder of
applause should break loose as if with elementary power. This Mueller
had, it is true, never experienced, but he saw and heard it in
imagination. If he could only once touch the conductors desk with that
ebon magic wand, this unbounded exultation of delight must be set free.
But it never came about; the directors were to blame. Instead of it the
coquettish tone-muse of Italy, which is so undramatic that she
represents Lucia di Lammermoor's madness in the most lively dance
music, flaunted upon the stage with all her tinsel of trills and
_fioriture_. In such a frame of mind, Mueller von Stallupoehnen helped
the venomous reporters to lay traps for the directors and for the
wicked representative of Italian monkey-like art.
On the evening of the performance of the "Barbiere" the house was
filled, but a peculiar disquiet prevailed, as if some unusual event
were in the air. Kuhl sat in the stalls beside his Caecilie, who now
appeared to be inseparable from him, and near poet Schoener.
"Something is going on," said the Doctor to his younger friend, "people
are not in a pleasant mood. Nothing can be so little counted upon as
the public. And what is it really? It is only a shadow, a spectre, as
little tangible as the old ocean god Proteus, and, if one would hold it
fast, it assumes all colours and shapes. The public of to-day is no
longer that of yesterday; the crowd which is afterwards dispersed
through the streets, is no longer the same which is assembled here.
Schiller's epigram, 'When it is _in corpore_, a blockhead springs up,'
refers more to the bench, it is true, but such a theatrical audience is
a many-headed monster, and as stupid as an old grass grown dragon of
the early ages. What has not this public already applauded? Goeethe as
much as Aubery's dog, Schiller not less than a fiddler, who plays upon
one string; the greatest poet and the most miserable clown! Often the
rheumatism of idiotcy possesses its joints, which are paralysed, and do
not move before what is sublime; then again it is electrified by the
most foolish joke, and the unwieldy mass moves hands and feet like a
marionette! As the wind rushes through an empty furnace, so does
so-called public opinion rush through these empty heads. Thus it
sometimes causes a mighty disturbance! The crowd has a certain instinct
when it is gathered together, and a species of common feeling; it is
like a huge body revolving upon the same pivot; it tastes with one
tongue and spits flames out of one jaw; it lets itself be moved by one
turn-screw, like a colossal engine. And by what crooked screws has it
not already been moved! Upon the whole it is rude, and if its hat be
not knocked from its head, it does not doff it to genius! Oh, ye poor
geniuses! In what difficulties ye find yourselves! Ye struggle for
fame, and yet fame, in the first instance, can only come from this
crowd which possesses no sense of immortality; and again it is the
pillar of immortality--what sad means by which to gain it! Really, only
the idiotic flatterers of the crowd ought to be famous, and often have
been so in their lifetime. The fame of the best is a marvel, and I am
tired of pondering upon it."
"Well, everything beautiful, and art itself is a marvel," replied
Schoener, "and even if many a genius has been shipwrecked, we rejoice
for those who have gained the victory after a long conflict with the
crowd's want of judgment and changeability."
Behind them the two speakers heard a lively somewhat sharp girl's
voice.
"It is time that an end be put to this Italian opera, it spoils our
taste; this _prima donna_ sits here as firmly as a fly in amber, and
has also made it her especial task to spoil our morals; all varieties
of reports are circulated which even penetrate into our establishment.
There is no quarantine against it, however many proper means of
fumigation may be employed, the infection is in the air. There is only
one means, she must away, and I am delighted at the lynch-law by which
she will be banished."
"You are right, quite right, uncommonly right," said the old governess,
to whom Lori had addressed these words, as she, nodding approval,
vibrated with intense excitement.
It was no secret that Blanden loved this singer; he had fought for her,
he had been wounded for her sake.
She it was then of whom he had thought when he had listened barely,
even absently, to Lori's eloquent words; this theatrical lady of
doubtful origin had borne away undoubted victory from a daughter of the
educated classes; she was the lotus-flower, the goddess who floated
before his eyes, when Lori alluded so futilely to those verses, in
which the handsome tutor had poured out his heart to her?
This demanded revenge!
Soon should her innermost indignation receive the desired satisfaction
for being so shamefully set aside; with delight she imbibed Spiegeler's
ill-nature with her breakfast, yes, she forgot her dignity as mistress
of the school, so far as to initiate her pupils into this delicious
piece of scandal. Her heart was too full, she must speak to Dr. Sperner
also, who listened devoutly to the outpourings of her heart, while a
significant smile played around the corners of his mouth, and he
complacently stroked his splendid moustache.
"But why do you smile, Herr Doctor?" asked she at last, with annoyance.
"You speak of Herr von Blanden in a tone--"
"In a tone such as his conduct merits."
"Then I beg your pardon," said the tutor, as he bowed, "I was mistaken,
I thought you were a friend of that gentleman, for I had the honour of
witnessing a confidential meeting which you vouchsafed to him."
Lori thought of the large newspaper in the confectioner's shop, behind
which the fatal moustache had appeared, and blushed before the
importunate spy, who rejoiced maliciously at his little triumph. But
then he placed himself completely at his principal's disposal, who was
soon in a position to make use of his offer, for public opinion was
supremely excited--the "effects of the reports behind the scenes," of
which Spiegeler had spoken, had not failed in their result; the
singer's next appearance must cause a great sensation and had already
been foretold by Spiegeler, naturally not in the sense of an ovation,
but with evil-minded, crooked, double meaning. Sperner was not the man
to be a laggard on such an occasion; he offered his services to Lori.
"Do not deny it," said he, with wonted impudence, "you bear a grudge in
your heart to this Blanden and the singer. Our French governess, whose
accent may God improve, would term it _depit amoureux_, but I am far
from wishing to employ such outrageous French expressions in honest
German."
Lori blushed again; her lips quivered, but the Doctor's fiery eyes
rested so triumphantly and with such superiority upon her that the word
died upon her lips.
"Good, neither Herr von Blanden nor the singer trouble me, but I will
not allow our establishment, for which I have the warmest affection, to
suffer from its principal's melancholy mood. You are so sad now,
Fraeulein Baute, that the entire first class has lost its smile, as
people say--you make mountains out of mole-hills. The concern suffers
from it, we might lose pupils, the consequences would be serious. There
are sensitive girlish natures which close their calix-like delicate
flowers when the sun ceases to shine. For these your smile, Fraeulein
Baute, is the sunshine of the establishment. We, we who are not so
sensitive, are, at least, angry at the winter of your displeasure! All
the same--if an execution of the Bollini shall take place, I am ready
for any executioner's service; I have friends to whom the Italian
sing-song is objectionable, and who prefer a German drinking song to
any _aria_. We will work for you, Fraeulein Baute; a cavalier who makes
so little of a rendezvous as this Herr von Blanden is rightly served
when his night-light is blown out."
"What you say, dear Herr Doctor," said Lori, "is most objectionable in
tone and manner, and really not calculated for a girl's ears. I will
forget it. As to the rest, you have the right to think a singer as bad
as you choose! You belong to the public, and the public is sovereign."
The result of this conversation was that on the fatal evening Dr.
Sperner, with several young friends, sat in a very determined attitude
in several rows in front of the mistress of the school. Lori's eyes
rested upon him with satisfaction, when he turned round and nodded a
confidential smiling greeting to her.
"There will be a disturbance to-day," Lori whispered to Caecilie,
sitting exactly before her.
"But why in the world?" asked the other.
"The affair with Blanden--"
"But Signora Bollini will not sing falsely on that account."
"Who knows?" said Lori, "those who are out of tune in life, are also
out of tune in art; we must set ourselves against the importation of
the equivocal doings of large towns; I should only approve if our
public raise a decided demonstration."
"She is a splendid florid singer," replied Caecilie. "After all, the
audience in a theatre has only to judge of the singing and not to
distribute the Monthyon prize of virtue; the most celebrated actresses
would not have received it."
Lori shook her curls angrily at such an evasive opinion, and leaned
back in her chair abruptly terminating the conversation.
There was indeed something menacing in the attitude of the audience;
here and there small groups might be observed, sitting together,
prepared for a common task.
The parties measured one another with hostile glances, with defiant
countenances. Lieutenant Buschmann sat in a stage-box and examined his
faithful adherents under the chandelier, gathered there like a dense
dark cloud. Here and there appeared a noncommissioned officer, who
should evidently preserve intact the communications between the
separate troops, although he might not take part personally in the
intended salvo.
The Lieutenant was annoyed to perceive the long, thin figure of
Merchant Boeller in the opposite stage-box, where he had placed a few
large bouquets of flowers upon the balustrade, and with yet greater
displeasure he saw that his former friend and companion appeared in the
pit, and greeted a number of young merchants with a friendly shake of
the hand. Those, then, were the opponents!
It appeared to be a fine corps, well organised; the powerful shake of
the hand promised vigorous work; bright confidence of success was
depicted upon every feature.
"This miserable Brackenburg," muttered Buschmann to himself, "Claerchen
has long since sacrificed him to her Egmont, and he still runs about
the market and mobilises the citizens. Well, the iron tread of my
Spaniards will pass implacably over them."
His confidence in the success of the good cause which he represented
suddenly increased, when a noisy human stream suddenly poured into the
pit, Spiegeler, in front, stamping with his crutches, eager for the
fight.
Ah, that was Bluecher at Waterloo! Now the victory was decided, those
were veteran troops which he led, accustomed to the battle-fire of a
theatre, accustomed to obey the leader's signal, to work together in
irresistible onslaught, obstinate and tough enough to overcome all
resistance. That was the select battalion of the _claque_ which
understood how to raise the flag of fame on high, but also how to tear
it down and trample it in the dust.
Buschmann's features became radiant. What could Boeller's volunteers,
with their undisciplined enthusiasm do against these well trained
troops, which could stand immovably under fire?
In the densely crowded pit, however, Spiegeler at once recognised an
enemy in his immediate vicinity--the singer's friend, the repulsive
Italian, who had given him a palpable proof of this friendship. Despite
all menaces, the critic had not brought the affair into court, because
he did not wish that the episode at the "fleck" boiler's, by means of a
trial and newspapers, should become too generally known; he believed
rightly that his position as a critic might suffer if people learned
what species of anti-criticism had been his portion. But secretly he
brooded upon revenge.
He was delighted to perceive that Baluzzi stood amidst the faithful,
who surrounded him like a lightning-laden cloud, and hoped that at the
coming discharge some unexpected blow would fall upon the intruder's
head.
The curtain rose when the overture ceased, the audience listened in
breathless expectation; Figaro's song was tempestuously applauded.
Giulia's friends aired their enthusiasm; their opponents, on the other
hand, wished to make the contrast all the more conspicuous by
previously helping a mediocre baritone to a brilliant success.
The singer was quite amazed at the unusual storm of approval with which
he was greeted; he bowed his acknowledgments amid the most beautiful
dreams of a future that fluttered through his mind; at last his great
talent had met with merited recognition; in spirit he saw himself
already as the first baritone at the Berlin Court opera house.
Then the street was changed into Bartolo's room. Rosina appeared.
Boeller, always ready for service, hurled his wreaths behind the
footlights, and gave the signal for applause; the young merchant guards
in the pit joined in, also Kuhl and Schoener, and several unconcerned
listeners in the stalls.
But simultaneously Buschmann and Spiegeler discharged their infernal
machines--a hissing arose, as when fire and water are mingled. Others
again commanded silence. Rosina began in a frightened voice; her heart,
indeed, was heavy, but the power of the music soon carried her away
above that dull oppression.
She sang with all her feelings--
"And every power fails,
Love remains victor."
She sang with grace, she knew how to impart such fervour even to these
light winged passages, that, even before a partial judge, she would
surely have gained her cause. But here there was not even a question of
partizanship, her doom was already decided upon and sealed.
Hardly had she ended the triumphant song of the power of love, when an
unrestrained storm broke loose. Her friends' applause was entirely
overpowered by the noise and hissing which issued from pit and gallery;
for a moment she seemed to stand in the pillory. In vain Basilio sought
to waft to the audience a whispered, almost inaudible, _aria_ upon
calumny. For a few bars he gained an attentive silence, the song was as
appropriate as if improvised, but when he continued to sing--
"How it passes from tongue to tongue
Nothing but words to inflate the lung,
First a smile and then a scowl
First a murmur then a howl,"
the storm broke loose afresh; then the people felt staggered, they
discovered an audacious accusation in Rossini's semiquavers and
demi-semiquavers. The hissing and drumming raged through the "aerial
regions." In the pit the hostile parties seemed to have come to actual
battle, they were mixed up in dark wild confusion. Spiegeler stamped
with his crutches like a madman, and, passing it from hand to hand,
something was thrust out of the door; it was a figure striking right
and left with hands and feet. Baluzzi had given too lively expression
to his anger against the singer's enemies, and as he was situated in
the hostile camp, his abusive remarks upon the _maladetti_ were
not without result. Before the police could prevent this act of
self-defence, the Italian, at a signal from Spiegeler, and by united
effort, had been rendered harmless.
But, with a feeling of perfect helplessness and internal indignation,
Giulia stood defenceless before the raging mob. With the rapidity of
lightning the pictures of a whole life-time passed before her mind: she
saw the joyful movement of a crowd of people coming exultantly towards
her, as she had seen it in Florence, Barcelona, London and even here!
What evil demon had metamorphosed the public into a rage-foaming
monster! Yet over her career as an actress writhed one widespread
shadow, as if beneath a scorching blast her laurel wreaths withered,
her future was destroyed. She had but one preserver--him, him alone,
and that preservation she could only purchase if she sacrificed her
soul's salvation.
Calumny had aroused this storm of public opinion, it was a blind,
unjust outbreak; she could defy it with a good conscience. And, yet
shuddering internally, she felt as if a Divine judgment were falling
upon her; "guilty" cried a voice from within, and her knees tottered.
Then resounded a many-voiced shrill whistle; it originated in the
stalls, in which Doctor Sperner and his friends were seated; they had
provided themselves with toy whistles,
"Drums and fifes
Martial sounds--"
thus he courted Lori's favour, remembering Goeethe's lines--
"Maidens and castles
Then must they yield,
Bold is the struggle
For glorious reward."
The shrill whistle was answered by a ringing mocking laugh from every
portion of the house. The humiliation, the disgrace were too great.
Giulia fainted, the curtain fell, the performance could proceed no
farther.
The crowd dispersed noisily, some persons crowded round the ticket box
to demand their entrance money. Lori looked on very triumphantly, her
eyes flashed, and Dr. Sperner was permitted to accompany her home.
Kuhl had hastened on to the stage; Giulia had been taken into the
drawing-room, where she soon recovered consciousness.
Blanden was her first thought; she implored Kuhl not to communicate the
theatrical riot to him, he should beseech all their friends to be
silent about it; she should take care that the newspapers containing
the report should not fall into his hands, it might excite him, and be
injurious to his health, if the news reached him.
Kuhl promised to preserve the secret.
"Really, it is not so bad," added he consolingly, "a little more or
less noise does not matter. The dear public itself is a great scandal,
a thousand-headed crime against good taste, a million-fold want of
sense. What is most wretched pleases it, and yet it is really sincere
when its honest displeasure has been roused, if indeed it is possible
to transform this sleepy mass into fire and flame. To be sure it only
burns like plum-pudding when spirits have been poured over it and
ignited, when the spirits are exhausted then the phlegm remains
behind."
Giulia thanked the Doctor for his friendly intentions, and for the
slight comfort which she could extract from such daring views. Arrived
at home, she sat a long time talking to Beate; she gave her companion
money for the journey, and on the following day Beate prepared for her
departure to the Orta lake.