Cord and Creese

by James De Mille

  CHAPTER XXXVII

  THE "PROMETHEUS."

  It took some time for Langhetti to make his preparations in London.September came before he had completed them. To his surprise thesearrangements were much easier than he had supposed. People came to himof their own accord before he thought it possible that they couldhave heard of his project. What most surprised him was a call from themanager of Covent Garden Theatre, who offered to put it into his handsfor a price so low as to surprise Langhetti more than any thing elsethat had occurred. Of course he accepted the offer gratefully andeagerly. The manager said that the building was on his hands, and he didnot wish to use it for the present, for which reason he would be glad toturn it over to him. He remarked also that there was very much stock inthe theatre that could be made use of, for which he would chargenothing whatever. Langhetti went to see it, and found a large numberof magnificently painted scenes, which could be used in his piece. Onasking the manager how scenes of this sort came to be there, he learnedthat some one had been representing the "Midsummer Night's Dream," orsomething of that sort.

  Langhetti's means were very limited, and as he had risked every thingon this experiment he was rejoiced to find events so very greatly in hisfavor.

  Another circumstance which was equally in his favor, if not more so,was the kind consideration of the London papers. They announced hisforthcoming work over and over again. Some of their writers came tosee him so as to get the particulars, and what little he told them theydescribed in the most attractive and effective manner.

  A large number of people presented themselves to form his company, andhe also received applications by letter from many whose eminence andfortunes placed them above the need of any such thing. It was simplyincomprehensible to Langhetti, who thoroughly understood the ways of themusical world; yet since they offered he was only too happy to accept.On having interviews with these persons he was amazed to find that theywere one and all totally indifferent about terms; they all assured himthat they were ready to take any part whatever, and merely wished toassist in the representation of a piece so new and so original as hiswas said to be. They all named a price which was excessively low, andassured him that they did so only for form's sake; positively refusingto accept any thing more, and leaving it to Langhetti either to takethem on their own terms or to reject them. He, of course, could notreject aid so powerful and so unexpected.

  At length, he had his rehearsal. After various trials he invitedrepresentatives of the London Press to be present at the last. Theyall came, and all without exception wrote the most glowing accounts fortheir respective journals.

  "I don't know how it is," said he to Beatrice. "Every thing has comeinto my hands. I don't understand it. It seems to me exactly as if therewas some powerful, unseen hand assisting me; some one who secretly putevery thing in my way, who paid these artists first and then sent themto me, and influenced all the journals in my favor. I should be sureof this if it were not a more incredible thing than the actual resultitself. As it is I am simply perplexed and bewildered. It is a thingthat is without parallel. I have a company such as no one has everbefore gathered together on one stage. I have eminent prima donnas whoare quite willing to sing second and third parts without caring what Ipay them, or whether I pay them or not. I know the musical world. All Ican say is that the thing is unexampled, and I can not comprehend it.I have tried to find out from some of them what it all means, but theygive me no satisfaction. At any rate, my Bicina, you will make your_debut_ under the most favorable circumstances. You saw how they admiredyour voice at the rehearsal. The world shall admire it still more atyour first performance."

  Langhetti was puzzled, and, as he said, bewildered, but he did notslacken a single effort to make his opera successful. His exertions wereas unremitting as though he were still struggling against difficulties.After all that had been done for him he knew very well that he was sureof a good house, yet he worked as hard as though his audience was veryuncertain.

  At length the appointed evening came. Langhetti had certainly expecteda good house from those happy accidents which had given him theco-operation of the entire musical world and of the press. Yet when helooked out and saw the house that waited for the rising of the curtainhe was overwhelmed.

  When he thus looked out it was long before the time. A great murmur hadattracted his attention. He saw the house crammed in every part. All theboxes were filled. In the pit was a vast congregation of gentlemen andladies, the very galleries were thronged.

  The wonder that had all along filled him was now greater than ever.He well knew under what circumstances even an ordinarily good house iscollected together. There must either be undoubted fame in the primadonna, or else the most wide-spread and comprehensive efforts on thepart of a skillful impresario. His efforts had been great, but not suchas to insure any thing like this. To account for the prodigious crowdwhich filled every part of the large edifice was simply impossible.

  He did not attempt to account for it. He accepted the situation, andprepared for the performance.

  What sort of an idea that audience may have had of the "Prometheus" ofLanghetti need hardly be conjectured. They had heard of it as a novelty.They had heard that the company was the best ever collected at one time,and that the prima donna was a prodigy of genius. That was enough forthem. They waited in a state of expectation which was so high-pitchedthat it would have proved disastrous in the extreme to any piece, or anysinger who should have proved to be in the slightest degree inferior.Consummate excellence alone in every part could now save the piece fromruin. This Langhetti felt; but he was calm, for he had confidence in hiswork and in his company. Most of all, he had confidence in Beatrice.

  At last the curtain rose.

  The scene was such a one as had never before been represented. A blazeof dazzling light filled the stage, and before it stood seven forms,representing the seven archangels. They began one of the sublimeststrains ever heard. Each of these singers had in some way won eminence.They had thrown themselves into this work. The music which had beengiven to them had produced an exalted effect upon their own hearts, andnow they rendered forth that grand "Chorus of Angels" which those whoheard the "Prometheus" have never forgotten. The words resembled, insome measure, the opening song in Goethe's "Faust," but the music wasLanghetti's.

  The effect of this magnificent opening was wonderful. The audience satspell-bound--hushed into stillness by those transcendent harmonies whichseemed like the very song of the angels themselves; like that "new song"which is spoken of in Revelation. The grandeur of Handel's stupendouschords was renewed, and every one present felt its power.

  Then came the second scene. Prometheus lay suffering. The ocean nymphswere around him, sympathizing with his woes. The sufferer lay chained toa bleak rock in the summit of frosty Caucasus. Far and wide extendedan expanse of ice. In the distance arose a vast world of snow-covetedpeaks. In front was a _mer de glace_, which extended all along thestage.

  Prometheus addressed all nature--"the divine ether, the swift-wingedwinds, Earth the All-mother, and the infinite laughter of the oceanwaves." The thoughts were those of Aeschylus, expressed by the music ofLanghetti.

  The ocean nymphs bewailed him in a song of mournful sweetness, whoseindescribable pathos touched every heart. It was the intensity ofsympathy--sympathy so profound that it became anguish, for the heartthat felt it had identified itself with the heart of the sufferer.

  Then followed an extraordinary strain. It was the Voice of UniversalNature, animate and inanimate, mourning over the agony of the God ofLove. In that strain was heard the voice of man, the sighing of thewinds, the moaning of the sea, the murmur of the trees, the wail of birdand beast, all blending in extraordinary unison, and all speaking ofwoe.

  And now a third scene opened. It was Athene. Athene represented Wisdomor Human Understanding, by which the God of Vengeance is dethroned, andgives place to the eternal rule of the God of Love. To but few of thosepresent could this idea of Langhetti's be intelligible. Th
e most of themmerely regarded the fable and its music, without looking for any meaningbeneath the surface.

  To these, and to all, the appearance of Beatrice was like a newrevelation. She came forward and stood in the costume which theGreek has given to Athene, but in her hand she held the olive--heremblem--instead of the spear. From beneath her helmet her dark locksflowed down and were wreathed in thick waves that clustered heavilyabout her head.

  Here, as Athene, the pure classical contour of Beatrice's featuresappeared in marvelous beauty--faultless in their perfect Grecian mould.Her large, dark eyes looked with a certain solemn meaning out upon thevast audience. Her whole face was refined and sublimed by the thoughtthat was within her. In her artistic nature she had appropriated thischaracter to herself so thoroughly, that, as she stood there, she feltherself to be in reality all that she represented. The spectatorscaught the same feeling from her. Yet so marvelous was her beauty, soastonishing was the perfection of her form and feature, so accuratewas the living representation of the ideal goddess that the wholevast audience after one glance burst forth into pealing thunders ofspontaneous and irresistible applause.

  Beatrice had opened her mouth to begin, but as that thunder ofadmiration arose she fell back a pace. Was it the applause that hadoverawed her?

  Her eyes were fixed on one spot at the extreme right of the pit. A facewas there which enchained her. A face, pale, sad, mournful, with darkeyes fixed on hers in steadfast despair.

  Beatrice faltered and fell back, but it was not at the roar of applause.It was that face--the one face among three thousand before her, theone, the only one that she saw. Ah, how in that moment all the past camerushing before her--the Indian Ocean, the Malay pirate, where that facefirst appeared, the Atlantic, the shipwreck, the long sail over the seasin the boat, the African isle!

  She stood so long in silence that the spectators wondered.

  Suddenly the face which had so transfixed her sank down. He was gone, orhe had hid himself. Was it because he knew that he was the cause of hersilence?

  The face disappeared, and the spell was broken. Langhetti stood at theside-scenes, watching with deep agitation the silence of Beatrice. Hewas on the point of taking the desperate step of going forward when hesaw that she had regained her composure.

  She regained it, and moved a step forward with such calm serenity thatno one could have suspected her of having lost it. She began to sing. Inan opera words are nothing--music is all in all. It is sufficient if thewords express, even in a feeble and general way, the ideas which breatheand burn in the music. Thus it was with the words in the opening song ofBeatrice.

  But the music! What language can describe it?

  Upon this all the richest stores of Langhetti's genius had beenlavished. Into this all the soul of Beatrice was thrown with sublimeself-forgetfulness. She ceased to be herself. Before the audience shewas Athene.

  Her voice, always marvelously rich and full, was now grander and morecapacious than ever. It poured forth a full stream of matchless harmonythat carried all the audience captive. Strong, soaring, penetrating, itrose easily to the highest notes, and flung them forth with a lavish,and at the same time far-reaching power that penetrated every heart, andthrilled all who heard it. Roused to the highest enthusiasm by the sightof that vast assemblage, Beatrice gave herself up to the intoxication ofthe hour. She threw herself into the spirit of the piece; she took deepinto her heart the thought of Langhetti, and uttered it forth to thelisteners with harmonies that were almost divine--such harmonies as theyhad never before heard.

  There was the silence of death as she sang. Her voice stilled all othersounds. Each listener seemed almost afraid to breathe. Some looked atone another in amazement, but most of them sat motionless, with theirheads stretched forward, unconscious of any thing except that one voice.

  "THE APPEARANCE OF BEATRICE WAS LIKE A NEW REVELATION."]

  At last it ceased. For a moment there was a pause. Then there arose adeep, low thunder of applause that deepened and intensified itself everymoment till at last it rose on high in one sublime outburst, a frenzyof acclamation, such as is heard not seldom, but, once heard, is neverforgotten.

  Beatrice was called out. She came, and retired. Again and again shewas called. Flowers were showered down in heaps at her feet. Theacclamations went on, and only ceased through the consciousness thatmore was yet to come. The piece went on. It was one long triumph. Atlast it ended. Beatrice had been loaded with honors. Langhetti wascalled out and welcomed with almost equal enthusiasm. His eyes filledwith tears of joy as he received this well-merited tribute to hisgenius. He and Beatrice stood on the stage at the same time. Flowerswere flung at him. He took them and laid them at the feet of Beatrice.

  At this a louder roar of acclamation arose. It increased and deepened,and the two who stood there felt overwhelmed by the tremendous applause.

  So ended the first representation of the "Prometheus!"