"NORMA."
The theatre bills, announced "Norma;" the character bearing that name
was to be performed by an Italian singer. What was more probable than
that on this evening the _Principessa_ of Lago Maggiore should visit
the theatre?
At the hour of opening the doors, Blanden appeared in the vestibule of
the playhouse, which turns its melancholy monotonous-looking side to
the _Koenigsgarten_, and resembles a military store building or
laboratory for a Chief of the Ordnance, rather than a temple of art.
Blanden watched all comers with painful anxiety; he greeted Professor
Reising with his sisters-in-law, who appeared in most striking toilets,
in ball costume, which was useless extravagance in the dark apartments
of this temple of the muses, grudgingly illuminated by the chandelier.
The gigantic lieutenant appeared also; behind him was borne a not less
colossal bouquet.
Both Fraeulein von Dornau entered, without an escort. Caecilie looked
paler than she had done at the sea-side; but Olga was as blooming as
though she had just risen from the sacred ocean tide.
There, Regierungsrath Kalzow with his wife! How old and decrepit he had
become! How his face, with its worn features, was lost in the stiff
white neckcloth! But Miranda walked sturdily, although she seemed to be
still thinner, more skeleton-like; she towed her husband behind her, as
does a tug-steamer an unwieldy sailing ship.
"Why, there you are, also!" said Dr. Kuhl, greeting Blanden with a
powerful shake of the hand. "Signora Bollini must exercise a marvellous
power of attraction, indeed! Only look how the crowds pour in."
"So far as I am concerned," replied Blanden, "I am indifferent to
theatres, which formerly I never visited. Our dramatic art has outlived
itself! Signora Bollini, too, is totally innocent of my becoming
faithless to my principles to-day."
"But she deserves that you should do so," said Dr. Schoener, who had
come with Kuhl. "She is worthy of a sacrifice: she is not merely an
admired singer who in Barcelona and Florence, as well as in St.
Petersburg and Moscow, has celebrated great triumphs; she is above all
a beauty, and her movements in acting are marvellously plastic. I do
not share your views of the decadence of the drama, but whatever you
may think upon the subject, you will not be able to release yourself
from the influence of that beauty which is intensified by the
stage-setting."
"And what did, then, really lead you into this temple of art, if it is
not 'Norma' nor Signora Bollini?"
"A personal meeting that I wish for! Today I only came to the theatre
for the sake of its spectators, like hundreds of others, who are not
candid enough to confess it."
"Indeed, you are very absent-minded; you have the air of a policeman
who, with a warrant of apprehension in his head, musters the throng. We
will not disturb you, but wish you every success!"
Blanden remained behind alone, but only when a few late members of the
audience arrived, and the overture had already commenced, did he enter
one of the stage boxes, where he had engaged a seat, so as to be able
to overlook the whole house. He took up his opera-glasses to commence a
survey, which extended over boxes, stalls and balcony; he hurried from
head to head as one turns over the pages of an album. Even the
prettiest little faces did not attract his interest, and, just as
little as the buds did the full-blown roses of which there are such an
abundance in East Prussia. Every fresh face was a fresh disappointment
for him. Meanwhile the curtain had been drawn up; Blanden had not yet
completed his survey, and cared little for the Druids upon the stage,
who peered at the moonlight through the dark branches, or vowed
vengeance upon the Roman legions. Even the two singing Romans inspired
him with no interest. Only when suddenly thunders of applause
reverberated through the house did he turn his glances towards the
stage.
There stood Norma, the vervain's jagged leaves and red shimmering
flowers in her hair, the sickle in her hand, the symbol of the
changeful moon. There she foretold the decline of Rome, and with
elevated sickle she cut the mistletoe off the oak tree; then her arms
extended, her countenance turned to the full moon, she greeted that
silvery chaste goddess in melting fervent notes, which were followed by
tempestuous applause.
Blanden took no part in these expressions of approbation. Since the
appearance of the priestess he stood motionless, the incredible robbed
him of his self-possession; only yesterday he had seen that harmonious
profile when the beautiful woman in the boat looked up at the stars, as
Norma did now at the chaste goddess; he had seen it last in the shades
of the cedars of the Isola Bella. Signora Bollini was the fairy of
those Italian days, the mysterious beauty of the enchanted lake.
He had found that which he had sought, and yet his first sensation was
one of disappointment. His _principessa_ was a singer, only a singer!
How he had flattered himself in his dreams that a Signora from the
upper circles of the Italian nobility had loved him, even though with
evanescent, carefully concealed love, and had she been a Lucrezia
Borgia, a Bianca Capelli, it was an adventure such as Boccaccio loved
to describe. It was a fairy-tale out of the thousand and one nights,
into which now the sober illumination of the footlights fell.
A singer who is practised in the art of deception, perhaps accustomed
to get up an adventure! All the down seemed to be suddenly swept from
the richly coloured wings of these recollections, which had so often
fluttered through his dreams! With the charm and enchantment of the
mystery the silent food for his vanity had also vanished away. He felt
himself to be like Sancho Panza, who, after having been Governor of the
island for a long time, found himself transformed into the sentry once
more.
"Life," said he, "consists of one course of delusions, but as each
delusion is unfolded, life becomes poorer in happiness. But was it only
a deplorable deception?"
Blanden did not require much time before he condemned his first feeling
to be a hasty emotion. Whether _principessa_ or _cantatrice_, this
Italian woman still remained the splendid creature of his dreams. And
she had not deceived him, only he himself!
What feeling, what passion in her singing! What grandiose tragic style
in that Norma! How his inmost soul vibrated at that imploring entreaty
of love which he believed to be directed to himself--
"Behold my tears, behold mine anguish,
Oh twine once more love's wreath for me."
How he was moved by the few bars with which Norma interrupts Adalgisa's
confessions, bars devoted to recollections of other days, to the magic
which had once enthralled her also! And to what passion was she urged
by the Roman's discovered faithlessness! With grandeur of mind she
walked to the self-sacrifice!
An actress who could personate a life so full of soul must possess it
herself. If the composer's music nowhere gives the dramatic power of
the story with equally overwhelming force, if it soon, as if alarmed at
such daring, only wreathed the power with arabesques in which the
self-conceited play of notes rocks itself to and fro, the vivacity of
the representation in this case perfected the want of creative power on
the composer's part, and held all intellects bound in the spell of the
tragic grandeur!
She was a _principessa_ in the kingdom of art, and was that not
something much loftier than if her ancestors had stood proudly in the
golden book of Venice?
Filled with such feelings and thoughts, Blanden joined vigorously in
the outbursts of applause with which the _finale_ of the performance
was distinguished; yes, in the _entr'acte_ he had bought the last
bouquet of the flower-girl, and thrown it to the triumphant actress.
She took it up indifferently amongst the others; she did not know from
whom it came.
Had she yesterday cast the flowers into the water so as to bury all
recollections? Here they returned again as the first greeting of a
newly awakening love! Yet she in that bouquet perceived but one of
those evidences of homage which were lavished so numerously upon her
art!
Not long afterwards Blanden was sitting with Professor Reising, Dr.
Kuhl and Schoener in the comfortable cellar of the Court of Criminal
Justice.
Reising was in a good temper; he had shaken off his female retinue; the
four sisters had been invited to a tea-party after the theatre.
"Italian music," said Reising, "that is true music! How much Hegel was
delighted with the starring tours of those Italian voices in Vienna!
Music, like every art, must be the one object; the kingdom of notes has
its own action and splendour; the opera singers must sing like
nightingales and rejoice in the presumptuousness of song in those
ascending and descending runs, in those stirring trills, in those
sharp, foaming pearls of self-sufficing capriccios. Who would enquire
whether that music is always adapted to the _libretto_? The story is a
necessary evil; it is the perch in the cage, because the bird must sit
somewhere.
"Intellectual music, that is the subtlety of the mind. People have
compared music with arithmetic only because it rests upon unknown
numbers. Good Heavens! then may the musicians at least remain at the
four elementary rules, and not lose themselves in the differential and
integral calculus! It is a cruel mistake wishing to express every
possible thing by music; music can express nothing but the mind's
emotions. In all else it acts with divine freedom; I acknowledge that I
am an utter Italian in music, and love to revel with it in its own
riches!"
"As we, however, possess an opera," replied Blanden, "and as music is
bound to dramatic situations, it must also give a suitable expression
to them; yet it does not exist merely on account of that expression,
else it would move in constant servitude. It is a free art and its own
ruler in its dominion!"
"An enchanting Norma such as ours, renders all artistic theories
superfluous," cried Schoener with enthusiasm.
"But to-day," replied Kuhl, "we missed the poems wafted down from the
chandelier; on other occasions our friend has a new sonnet for each
character. The liberty of nations must wait when Signora Bollini is
extolled."
"She is worthy of all laudation," said Schoener: "but it would be
desecration to praise her in inferior verses. My muse is not always
solvent, now and then I prefer to be silent."
"I am such a novice in theatrical affairs," said Blanden, "that the
fame of actors and actresses is a legend for me! I might drink a glass
of wine with a Roscius and know nothing of the honour that was my
portion. Who is this Signora Bollini? Is she a genuine or only a
theatrical Italian? Since when has she belonged to the stage
celebrities? Where has she gained her laurels?"
"These questions," began Schoener, "I can reply to accurately after the
study of theatres, newspapers and the personal information of the
culprit herself, for as such she appears to be in your eyes, as you
seem to bring a formal impeachment against the actress. She is a true
daughter of Hesperia, although she has passed her childhood in Germany,
and therefore is as perfect a mistress of our language as she is of her
mother tongue. She went upon the stage when very young, she gained her
first successes in Milan in _la Scala_, and in _la Pergola_ in
Florence. Italy was the cradle of her renown. Then she sang in Madrid,
in London, but always returned again to her own home. Two years ago she
made a professional tour in Russia, and it was a special distinction
for our Koenigsberg that she gave a somewhat lengthy series of visitor's
performances there; she also then travelled along the coast and through
the Province. I do not know wherein lies the power of attraction which
our Northern Venice exercises upon the daughter of the South!"
"Perhaps in Dr. Schoener's verses," suggested Kuhl. "It is a reward to
be sung by an East Prussian Leopardi."
"Enough," continued Schoener, "that Signora Bollini is here once again,
probably on her way to Russia for a second time. According to what they
say, she proposes very easy conditions to the managers, and is
therefore welcomed as a bird of good fortune, like the albatross in
Coleridge's poem of the 'Ancient Mariner.'"
"I cannot imagine," replied Kuhl, "that our sober town of pure reason,
or our stage fascinate her; some additional secret charm must exist,
some secret affection."
"I do not think it," replied Schoener. "I know all her adorers; there
are several amongst them who have serious intentions. The rich young
merchant Boeller is even said to have asked her hand in marriage; it is
a matter of course that she should have rejected that long-legged
stork; Lieutenant Buschmann cherishes a passion for her that is
colossal as the figure of that ancient Teuton, a passion which
threatened to burst the officer's tight uniform, but that passion, too,
is unreciprocated."
"Our friend Schoener," interposed Kuhl, "is too modest to include
himself amongst the number of the beautiful singer's adorers, yet I
must exclaim with Spiegelberg, 'Moor, your register has one gap, you
have forgotten yourself.'"
"Of course I adore her," replied Schoener. "I admire the harmony of her
being, her talent, her beauty, but I possess too perfect knowledge of
the country to open a campaign without any prospect of success; she is
most amiable towards us all, but she distinguishes none, and any one
who would venture too far to the front would most assuredly sustain
discomfiture. What did that brave Boeller gain when he even travelled to
Moscow after her? He met with his Beresina in Russia, and returned as
disconsolately as once the _grande armee_. One might think that she
hopes to conquer an Italian _principe_ or a Russian prince, and until
then does not care to rule over any other souls or slaves; yet it is
equally possible that she may already possess some silent love,
perhaps, in her own home, and may cherish it with invincible
faithfulness."
"Those are very kind suppositions," said Professor Reising. "Such a
singer, free to go where she will, is a coquette from the cradle. She
requires plenty of admirers, because she requires success; she favours
none especially, so as not to repel the others. Wheresoever she goes
she forms a little ministry for herself, and does the same here; the
portfolio of her finances is in her friend von der Klapperwiese's
hands; Lieutenant Buschmann is Minister at War, who inspires all
enemies with the necessary terror; the chief of the Press-bureau is Dr.
Schoener, and that officer works in prose and verse, writes the official
external correspondence, looks after the portraits and biographies in
the newspapers and the laudatory and eulogistic poems. If she depart
from here, a great Cabinet crisis takes place, the ministry is
dismissed, and a new one is formed in each new town."
"According to my views," replied Kuhl, "Signora Bollini would do well
to think of a retreat, to marry a Russian prince and to enjoy the
comfort which would make it possible for her without _arias_, without
trills and _fioriture_ to rule over thousands of souls."
"Why then?" asked Blanden, who until now had listened silently, but
with strained attention to the conversation.
"Because her voice is already ruined."
Dr. Kohl's daring suggestion met with most animated opposition.
"Or--it will soon be so. I possess a sharp ear for such things, I need
no stethescope; I can already detect, in her voice a slight autumnal
rustle; soon its mellowness will be gone. Believe me--I am an
experienced prophet therein, and one of those privileged doctors who
proclaim the inevitable evil with greatest certainty. Did I not predict
to Fraeulein Burg that her organ was on the wane while she still seemed
able to sing down the walls of Jericho with a flourish of trumpets? And
how quickly it set in! It crackles and breaks suddenly even if it do
still rustle like heavy satin! And there is no remedy for it--I could
at most prescribe the Russian prince to the Signora."
"You make our souls shudder with foreboding at this prophecy," cried
the Professor, while he looked anxiously at the clock, for he did not
wish to reach home later than Euphrasia, because Lori had lately
expressed an opinion that being out late was ruinous to his health.
"This medical wisdom," cried Schoener angrily, "might be capable of
spoiling all our enjoyment of life. The gentlemen can no longer cure,
but they recognise the least disturbance in the mechanism of life; they
carry our verdict of death upon their lips, and know about the period
when it will be executed; but to obtain a full pardon from implacable
Nature lies quite beyond their capabilities. There I extol the poets;
they glorify the beautiful present, the blessed today, and leave
to-morrow to the black-visioned prophet and to the uncertain whim of
destiny."
The party broke up, Blanden made enquiries of the poet as to the
singer's abode, and while he walked alone with Kuhl across the moonlit
castle yard, said to him--
"With what a trembling heart I passed through that door when I went to
the Frau Graefin's court, that beautiful witness of the Apocalypse!
Another time has come and wafted away all the spectre, but also has
demanded a tardy victim! For me it was a crushing blow, I did not dare
to live any longer. From to-day I dare it again, all the spirits of my
life are stirred, because that Signora Bollini is my _principessa_ of
Lago Maggiore."