ORPHEUS AND EURYDICE.
On that night, all Vienna sped to the Imperial Opera-house. Not lords
and ladies alone, but commoners and artisans with their wives, thronged
to hear the wonderful music which for three weeks had divided the
Viennese into two bitter factions. On one side stood Metastasio, the
venerable court-poet, whose laurels dated from the reign of the
empress's father. Linked with his fame was that of Hasse, who for forty
years had been called "Il caro Sassone" Hasse, who had composed so many
operas, was often heard to say, that, when it came upon him unawares, he
did not know his own music.
All Italy had declared for Hasse and Metastasio, and in scornful
security the Italians had predicted the discomfiture of the new school
of music.
On the other hand were Gluck and his friend Calzabigi, whose partisans
disdained the old style, and lauded the new one to the skies. Gluck was
perfectly indifferent to all this strife of party. Not once, since the
first day of rehearsal, had his countenance lost its expression of calm
and lofty security. Resolved to conquer, he receded before no obstacle.
In vain had the prima donna, the renowned Gabrielle, complained of
hoarseness: Gluck blandly excused her, and volunteered to send for her
rival, Tibaldi, to take the role of Eurydice. This threat cured the
hoarseness, and Gabrielle attended the rehearsals punctually. In vain
had Guadagni attempted, by a few fioritures, to give an Italian turn to
the severe simplicity of Orpheus's air. At the least deviation from his
text, Gluck, with a frown, would recall the ambitious tenor, and do away
with his embellishments. In vain had the chorus-singers complained of
the impossibility of learning their parts. Gluck instructed them one by
one. He had trained the orchestra, too, to fullest precision; and
finally, every difficulty overcome, the great opera of "Orpheus and
Eurydice" was ready for representation on the birthday of the
Archduchess Isabella.
Shortly before the hour of performance, Gluck entered his drawing-room
in a rich court-dress, his coat covered with decorations. His wife met
him, elegantly attired, and sparkling with diamonds. She held out her
hand, and smiled a happy smile.
"Look at me, my hero," said she. "I have arrayed myself in my
wedding-jewels. I feel to-night as I did on the day when we plighted our
faith to one another before the altar. Then, dear Christopher, our
hearts were united; to-day--our souls. Is it not so? And are we not one
in spirit?"
"Yes, dearest, yes," replied Gluck, folding her in his arms, "never have
I so prized and loved you as in these later days of strife and struggle.
Well do I feel what a blessing to man is a noble woman! Often during our
rehearsals, when I have encountered the supercilious glances of
performers and orchestra, the thought of your dear self has given me
strength to confront and defy their scorn. And when, weary in mind and
body, I have found my way home, the touch of your hand has refreshed and
cooled the fever in my heart. And often when others have pronounced my
music worthless, I might have despaired, but for the remembrance of your
emotion. I thought of your tears and of your rapture, and hope revived
in my sick heart. Your applause, dear wife, has sustained me to the
end."
"No, dear Christopher," replied Marianne, "not my applause, but the
might of your own inspiration. That which is truly great must sooner or
later prevail over mediocrity."
"The world is not so appreciative as you fancy. Marianne! Else had
Socrates not drunk of the poisoned beaker, nor Christ, our Lord, been
crucified. Mediocrity is popular, because it has the sympathy of the
masses. Not only does it come within their comprehension, but it is
accommodating; it does not wound their littleness. I know, dear wife,
that my opera is a veritable work of art, and therefore do I tremble
that its verdict is in the hands of mediocrity. Poor Marianne! You have
arrayed yourself for a bridal, and it MAY happen that we go to the
funeral of my masterpiece."
"Well, even so," replied the spirited wife, "I shall not have decked
myself in vain; I shall die like the Indian widow, upon the funeral pile
of my dear husband's greatness. I will both live and die with you,
maestro; whether you are apotheosized or stoned, your worth can neither
be magnified nor lessened by the world. My faith in your genius is
independent of public opinion; and whether you conquer or die, your
opera must live."
"How I wish," said Gluck thoughtfully, "that from above, I might look
down a hundred years hence and see whether indeed my works will have
value on earth, or be thrown aside as antiquated trumpery! But it is
useless--an impenetrable cloud covers the future, and we must e'en
content ourselves with the verdict of the day. Let me be strong to meet
it!--Come, Marianne, the carriage is coming to the door, and we must go.
But is all this splendor to be hidden behind the lattice-work of my
little stage-box?"
"Oh, no, Christopher," said his wife gayly; "on such a night as this, I
have taken another box; from whence I can be a happy witness of my
husband's triumph."
"What intrepid confidence the woman possesses!" exclaimed Gluck,
catching his wife's gayety. "But how will my brave champion feel, if she
has to see as well as hear the hisses that may possibly greet us
to-night!"
"I shall feel heartily ashamed of the audience," replied Marianne, "and
shall take no pains to conceal my contempt."
"We shall see," answered Gluck, handing her to the carriage, and
following her with a merry laugh. "Now, forward!"
Within the theatre all was commotion. On one side, the partisans from
the old school, who, from prejudice or custom, adhered to Hasse and
Metastasio, predicted failure. This party was composed of Italians, and
of all those who had "gone out" with old Austria. New Austria, on the
other hand, with all the young dilettante of Vienna, were resolved to
sustain Gluck, and, if possible, secure to his new opera an
unprecedented triumph. The excitement reached even those boxes where sat
the elite of the Viennese nobility. Even THEIR voices were to be heard
discussing the merits or demerits of the musical apple of discord. The
Gluckites related that Guadagni who, at first, had been strongly
prejudiced against the opera, had finally been moved to tears by its
exquisite harmony, and had said to Gluck that he was learning for the
first time to what heights of beauty music might soar. The Hasseites
replied that the opera was none the less tedious for Guadagni's word.
Moreover, if Hasse and Metastasio had not openly condemned Gluck's
musical innovations, it was because they were both satisfied that the
opera would damn itself, and they were present to witness the
discomfiture of its composer. [Footnote: Anton Schmid, "Ritter von
Gluck," page 92.]
Suddenly there was a hush in the theatre. The attention of the
disputants was directed toward a small box, in the first tier, the door
of which had opened to give entrance to two persons. One was an old man
with silver-white hair, which flowed in ringlets on either side of his
pale and delicate face. His thin lips were parted with an affable smile,
and the glance of his small dark eyes was mild, benevolent, and in
keeping with the rest of his countenance. His small, bent figure was
clothed in the cassock of an abbe, but the simplicity of his costume was
heightened by the order of Theresa which, attached to a silk ribbon,
hung around his neck.
The other was a tall, gaunt man, in the dress of court maestro de
capello. His lean face was proud and serious, his large mouth wore an
expression of scorn, and his full-orbed, light-blue eyes had a glance of
power which accorded well with his lofty stature. The two advanced arm
in arm toward the railing, and, at their appearance, a storm of applause
arose from the parterre, while the partisans of the Italian school
cried; "Long live Hasse! Long live Metastasio!"
They bowed and took their seats. While this was transpiring, the wife of
Gluck entered her box. With a quiet smile she listened to the shouts
that greeted her husband's rivals.
"He too" thought she, "will have his greeting and his triumph."
She was not mistaken. No sooner had Gluck appeared in the orchestra,
than, from boxes as well as parterre, a thousand voices pealed forth his
welcome: "Long live Gluck! long live the great maestro!"
Gluck bowed gracefully, while Marianne, happy but tranquil, unfolded her
jewelled fan, and leaned back in supreme satisfaction. Metastasio
whispered something to Hasse, who nodded his head, and then began to run
his fingers through the masses of his bushy, gray hair.
Suddenly were heard these words: "Her majesty the empress, and the
imperial court!"
Hushed now was every sound. Every eye was turned toward the box
surmounted by the double-headed eagle of Austria. The marshal of the
household appeared with his golden wand, the doors of the box flew
asunder, the audience rose, and the empress, leaning on the arm of the
emperor, entered her box. Magnificently dressed, and sparkling with
diamonds, her transcendent beauty seemed still more to dazzle the eyes
of her enraptured subjects. She was followed by the archduke, who, in
conversation with his wife, seemed scarcely to heed the greetings of his
future subjects. Behind them came a bevy of princes and princesses, all
of whom, including little Marie Antoinette and Maximilian, the two
youngest, had been permitted to accompany the imperial party. It was a
family festival, and Maria Theresa chose on this occasion to appear
before her people in the character of a mother.
The empress and her husband came forward and bowed. The former then
glided gracefully into her large gilt arm-chair, while the latter signed
to his children to be seated.
This was the signal of the music to begin. The audience resumed their
seats, Gluck raised the leader's staff, and signed to the musicians.
The overture began. In breathless silence the audience listened to that
short, earnest overture, whose horns, trumpets, and hautboys seemed to
herald the coming of kings and heroes.
The curtain rose, and, in a funeral hall, Orpheus poured forth his grief
for the loss of his Eurydice. With this pathetic complaint mingled the
voices of the chorus of mourners; then a solo from Orpheus, in which he
bewails anew the fate of the noble woman who had died for his sake. The
god of love appears, counselling him to descend himself to the infernal
regions. Orpheus, strengthened and revived by hope, resolves to tempt
the dangerous descent, and calls upon his friends to share his fate.
At the end of the first act the curtain fell amid the profoundest
silence. The Hasseites shrugged their shoulders, and even Gluck's
warmest adherents felt undecided what to say of this severe Doric music,
which disdained all the coquetries of art, and rejected all superfluous
embellishment.
"I am glad that Metastasio is here," said the empress, "for his presence
will prove to Calzabigi that he is not a pensioned dotard. And what
thinks my daughter of the opera?" asked Maria Theresa of the infanta.
But when she saw Isabella's face, her heart grew faint with fear. The
archduchess was pale as death, and her countenance wore an expression of
grief bordering on despair. Her large, dark eyes, distended to their
utmost, were fixed upon the ceiling; and she seemed as if she still
heard the wailings of Orpheus and the plaintive chorus of his friends.
Joseph saw nothing of this. He had taken a seat farther back, and was
chatting gayly with his little brothers and sisters.
"God help me!" murmured the empress; "she looks as if she were dying!
Oh, if she were right with her dismal prophecy of death! What if indeed
she is to leave us? Have mercy, O God! I know that I love her too well.
She will be taken from me; Heaven will claim from me this sacrifice!"
[Footnote: The empress's words. Caraccioli, "Life of Joseph II.," page
87.]
Isabella shuddered, and awakened from her horrid dream. Her eyes fell,
her cheeks flushed, and once more her lips parted with a gentle smile.
With a tender and appealing look, she turned toward the empress and
kissed her hand.
"Pardon me, your majesty," whispered she; "the music has entranced and
bewildered me. I was in another world, and was lost to the present."
"The music pleases you, then?" asked the empress.
"Oh, your majesty," cried Isabella, "this is no music to give pleasure;
it is the sublimest language of truth and love!"
"Then," said the empress tenderly, "if you prize it so highly, dearest,
I will prove to you how dearly I love you, for your verdict and mine
disagree. Our next festive day will be that on which Joseph is to be
crowned King of Rome. And we shall do homage to the taste of the Queen
of Rome by ordering that this opera be repeated on the occasion of her
coronation."
Isabella shook her head. "I shall not live long enough to be crowned
Queen of Rome." [Footnote: Isabella's own words. Wraxall, ii., page 394.]
Maria Theresa was about to murmur a reply, when the curtain rose, and
the second act of the opera opened.
The audience, who had been loudly canvassing the music, were silenced,
and awaited in breathless expectation the unfolding of the plot. Soon
came the wonderful scene between Orpheus and the furies who guard the
gates of Avernus. The beseeching tones of Orpheus, and the inexorable
"No!" of the furies, made every listener tremble. Even Hasse, overcome
by the sublimity of the music, bowed his head with the rest; and
Metastasio, enraptured with the words, murmured, "Ah, che poesia
divina!" Murmurs of applause were heard from every side of the theatre;
they grew with every scene, and at last burst forth in wild shouts. It
seemed as if the audience were gradually rising to the appreciation of
this new and unknown music, until with one accord its matchless beauty
burst upon their hearts and overpowered them.
When the curtain fell a second time, the applause knew no bounds. The
Gluckites, in triumphant silence, hearkened to the voices of the
deeply-moved multitude, who gave full vent to their emotions, and
noisily exchanged the thoughts to which the wonderful opera had given
birth.
Marianne, supremely happy, listened enraptured, while wreaths fell in
showers around the head of her beloved husband. The adherents of Hasse
and Metastasio no longer dared to raise their voices in opposition to
the public verdict. In this state of excitement the third act began.
With increasing delight, the audience listened. When Eurydice, condemned
to return to the infernal regions, sang her plaintive aria, sobs were
heard throughout the theatre, and murmurs of applause were audible
during the whole scene. But when Orpheus concluded his passionate aria
'Che faro senza Eurydice,' the people could contain their enthusiasm no
longer. Exalted, carried away, with beating hearts and tearful eyes,
they cried "Da capo!" and when Guadagni, in compliance with the call,
had repeated his solo, the audience shouted out so often the name of
Gluck, that he could resist his joy no longer. He turned, and they saw
his noble face scarlet with blushes; then arose another storm. Again and
again the "vivas" and the clappings were renewed, each time more frantic
than before.
Hasse, tired of the spectacle of his rival's triumph, had disappeared.
Metastasio, more magnanimous, had remained, and applauded as loudly as
any. Marianne, to conceal her tears, had hidden her face behind her open
fan; and as the applause of the people increased, until it resembled the
shouts of victory, she murmured: "I knew it, I knew it! The true and
beautiful must always prevail."
The fire of enthusiasm had spread to the imperial box. The emperor had
more than once been heard to call out, "Bravo!" and Maria Theresa had
several times felt her eyes grow dim. But she brushed away her tears and
exclaimed: "It is beautiful, certainly; but it is a heathen opera, in
which not God but gods are invoked!"
Isabella said nothing. She had held up before her face the bouquet which
her husband had gathered for her, that her tears might fall unseen among
its flowers. Joseph saw those tears shining like dew-drops upon its
rose-leaves, and, taking it from her hands, he kissed them away. "Do not
weep, my Isabella," whispered he tenderly; "your tears fall like a
weight of sorrow upon my heart. Wipe them away, beloved. The day will
come when you also shall be an empress, and your people will do you
homage as I do now; and then you will have it in your power to heal
their sorrows, and wipe away their tears; and they will love and bless
you as I--"
A final burst of applause drowned the voice of the archduke. The opera
was at an end, and the people were calling again for Gluck, the creator
of the lyric drama.