by Dino Buzzati
It was a huge success. It is doubtful whether a single person in the whole of the Scala genuinely liked the music of the Strage. But nearly everybody wanted to look as if he understood it, and to figure in the avant-garde. So a kind of tacit competition began. When everyone makes a determined effort to discover all the potential beauty in a musical work, its originality and hidden significance, then autosuggestion knows no bounds. In any case, have modern operas ever been amusing? One assumes from the outset that leading modern composers dislike providing amusement. It would be an unpardonable blunder to expect it. People in search of it could go to revues or the fairground on the ramparts. After all, there were some impressive things in the opera: the nervous tension of Grossgemuth’s orchestration, for instance, the singers always at full tilt at the tops of their voices, and above all the insistent hammering of the chorus. Albeit in brutal fashion, the public had certainly been stirred, that was beyond question. Surely the accumulated tension which had driven the audience to applaud and shout excited “bravos” at the first moment of silence was a most satisfying reward for a composer?
But they were roused to their greatest pitch of enthusiasm by the cumulative effect of the long last scene of the “oratorio,” which reached its climax as Herod’s soldiery burst into Bethlehem in search of the children, and the mothers fought for them on the thresholds till they were overpowered; at that instant the sky went dark, and a high trumpet call from the back of the stage announced that the Lord was safe. One should add that the stage and costume designer, and in particular the choreographer Johan Monclar (who was the genius behind the entire production), had managed to avoid any ambiguous interpretations: the near scandal in Paris had put them on their guard. So Herod was not a close copy of Hitler, but he had a Nordic look about him, and was more like Siegfried than the Tetrarch of Galilee. And the soldiers, and especially the shape of the helmets, allowed no room for doubt. “Wait a moment,” said Cottes, “that’s not Herod’s palace. They ought to write Oberkommandantur over the door!”
The sets made a splendid impression. As has been described, the last tragic dance between the slayers and the mothers was quite overpowering, with the wild cries of the chorus from their cliff. The style of makeup used by Monclar was very effective, even though it was not a new technique. The soldiers were all black, even their faces; the mothers, all white: and the children were represented by bright red dolls carved in wood (according to the program, they were designed by the sculptor Ballarin), and their shiny brightness was most moving. The kaleidoscopic effects of white, black and red against the purplish background of the town became more and more lively, and several times the public broke in with applause. “Look how Grossgemuth’s smiling!” exclaimed a lady behind Cottes when the composer took his bow. “For sure,” he answered, “he’s so bald he’s like a mirror!” The famous composer was in fact bald (or close shaven?), like an egg.
The Morzi box in the third row was already empty.
In this atmosphere of general satisfaction, the elite swept rapidly into the foyer for the reception, while most of the public went home. Magnificent vases of pink-and-white hydrangeas had been put in the corners of the brightly lit room, although they had not been there during the intermissions. On one side of the double doors, waiting to receive the guests, stood Maestro Rossi-Dani, the Artistic Director, and on the other Dr. Hirsch, the Sovrintendente, with his ugly but pleasant wife. A little way behind them was Signora Passalacqua, more frequently known as Donna Clara, talking to the veteran elder statesman Maestro Corallo. She stood in the background, because she liked to make her presence felt but did not want to lay claim to an official position she did not rightly possess. Many years earlier she had been the secretary and indispensable assistant of Maestro Tarra, who was then Artistic Director; a widow for at least thirty years, owner of a fine house and related to the best industrial families in Milan, she had been able to make herself indispensable even after Tarra’s death. Naturally she had enemies, who thought her an intriguer; but they treated her with great respect if they met her. She was feared, probably without reason. Subsequent Artistic Directors and Sovrintendentes had at once realized the value of having her on their side. They asked her advice when they made their annual program, consulted her on the choice of performers, and if there was trouble either with the authorities or with artists, they invariably summoned her to intervene: which she did with great skill. For the sake of appearances, Donna Clara had been a Councilor on the Governing Board of the Opera House for an untold number of years: it was virtually a life appointment, and nobody had ever dreamed of ousting her. Only one Sovrintendente had ever tried, a certain Commendatore Mancuso, who had been put in power by the Fascists. He was an accommodating kind of man, but a bungler. Three months later he was unobtrusively replaced.
Donna Clara was a thin little woman, on the ugly side, insignificant in appearance and carelessly dressed. A fractured femur caused by a fall from a horse in her youth had left her a little lame (hence her nickname of “hobbling she-devil” in the hostile clan). But after the first moments, it was wonderful to see how intelligence lit up her whole face. Strange as it may seem, several men had fallen in love with her. Now she was over sixty and more powerful than ever, with the additional prestige which age brings in its train. In reality the Sovrintendente and Artistic Director were little more than her officials; but she knew how to guide them with such skill that they were not aware of it, and were firmly convinced that their power in the opera house was little less than absolute.
The guests came streaming into the room: eminent, well-known figures, rivers of blue blood, the latest creations from Paris, celebrated jewels; mouths, shoulders and breasts open to the gaze of even the most chaste. But with them came something which up to then had only flickered desultorily among the crowd in a remote and not very credible way, leaving them unscathed: it was fear. The various rumors had ended up by meeting, and had gained a foothold by being reciprocally confirmed. There were confidential whispers here and there, cynical smiles and incredulous exclamations from those who treated it all as a joke. Grossgemuth made his appearance, followed by the cast. The introductions were laboriously made in French. Then with the customary formality, the composer was led toward the buffet. Donna Clara was at his side.
As happens on these occasions, knowledge of foreign languages was put to a severe test.
“Un chef-d’oeuvre, véritablement, un vrai chef-d’oeuvre!” said Dr. Hirsch over and over again. Despite his name, the Sovrintendente was Neapolitan, and it seemed he could say nothing else. Grossgemuth too, although he had lived in French territory for years, was not greatly at his ease, and his guttural pronunciation made understanding still more difficult. The conductor, Maestro Nieberl, was German too, and knew little French. It needed some time for the conversation to get going. But there was consolation for the susceptible in the discovery that Martha Witt, the dancer from Bremen, spoke quite good Italian, and even had a curious Bolognese accent.
As the waiters glided through the crowd with trays of Spumante and sweetmeats, the guests began to form themselves into small groups.
Grossgemuth was talking in a low voice to Donna Clara about things which seemed to be very important.
“I think I saw Lenotre,” he was saying to her, “Are you quite sure he wasn’t there?” Lenotre was the music critic of Le Monde, and had given him a panning at the Paris premiere; if he had come this evening it would have meant a formidable victory for Grossgemuth. But Monsieur Lenotre was not there.
“When is it possible to read the Corriere della Sera?” asked the leading composer of Donna Clara again, with the shamelessness of a great man. “It’s the most authoritative newspaper in Italy, isn’t it, madame?”
“They say so anyway,” Donna Clara smilingly replied, “But till tomorrow morning . . .”
“They print it during the night, don’t they, madame?”
“Yes, it comes out in the morning. But I think I can assure you that it will car
ry a sort of panegyric. They tell me that the critic, Maestro Frati, looked considerably shaken.”
“Oh, that’s exaggerating, I think.” He tried to think out a compliment. “Madame, this is an evening with the grandeur and happiness that belong to some kinds of dream. . . . Ah, that reminds me, there’s another paper . . . the Messaro, if I am not mistaken . . .”
“The Messaro?” Donna Clara did not understand.
“The Mesaggero, perhaps?” Dr. Hirsch suggested.
“Yes, yes, I mean the Messaggero!”
“But the Messaggero is a Roman paper!”
“But it has sent its critic, just the same,” announced somebody whom nobody knew, in a triumphant tone of voice; and brought out a French sentence which made history. Grossgemuth was the only one who did not seem to realize what a pearl it was. “Maintenant il est derrière a téléphoner son reportage!”
“Ah, thank you. I shall look forward to seeing the Messaggero tomorrow,” said Grossgemuth, leaning toward Donna Clara, to explain: “You see, it’s a Roman newspaper, after all.”
At this point the Artistic Director intervened to offer Grossgemuth, in the name of the Governors of the Scala, a gold medal in a blue satin case, on which was inscribed the date and title of the opera. There followed the usual protestations and thanks of the guest of honor, and for a few moments the massive composer seemed really moved. Then the case was handed to Donna Clara. She opened it in admiration, smiled ecstatically and whispered to the maestro: “Beautiful! But that’s silver gilt, unless I’m much mistaken!”
The attention of most of the guests was directed elsewhere. They were concerned about a massacre which had nothing to do with the Innocents. That the Morzi were expected to attack was no longer the secret of a few well-informed souls. By now the rumors had circulated sufficiently to reach people with their heads in the clouds, such as Maestro Claudio Cottes. But deep down very few people believed it. “The police have been reinforced again this month. There are more than twenty thousand policemen in the city alone. And then there are the carabinieri . . . and the army . . .” they were saying.
“The army! But who can be sure what the troops will do at the vital moment? Would they fire if they were given the order?”
“I talked to General De Matteis only the other day. He said he could answer for the morale of his troops . . . of course the weapons are not suitable . . .”
“Suitable for what?”
“For operations of public safety . . . they need more tear gas . . . and then he said that there was nothing better than cavalry for this sort of thing. . . . But what’s the use of cavalry nowadays? . . . it’s quite harmless, just makes a great din . . .”
“Listen, dear, wouldn’t it be better to go home?”
“Home? Why go home? Do you think we’d be any safer at home?”
“For Heaven’s sake, signora, don’t let’s exaggerate. We must first wait and see if it happens, and if it does, it’ll happen tomorrow, or the day after . . . a revolution never breaks out at night . . . with the houses locked . . . and the streets deserted . . . why, it would be a gift for the police . . .”
“Revolution! Mercy on us, did you hear, Beppe? . . . That gentleman said that there’s a revolution . . . Beppe, tell me what we ought to do! But wake up, Beppe, you’re standing there like a mummy!”
“Did you notice? By the third act there wasn’t a soul in the Morzi’s box.”
“There wasn’t anyone in the Chief Constable’s or the Prefect’s either, old man, and the army’s box was empty too . . . even their womenfolk had gone . . . a general exodus . . . seems to have been an order.”
“Ah, the Prefecture’s wide awake . . . they’re in the know . . . there are Government informers even in the Morzi rank and file.”
And so on. In their heart of hearts all of them would have preferred to be home. But they dared not leave. They were afraid of feeling alone, of the silence, of the lack of news as they lay smoking in bed, waiting for the first outbreak of shouting. As long as they were with so many well-known and official people, and in a nonpolitical environment, they felt almost protected, on inviolable territory, as if the Scala were a diplomatic building. How could all this gay old world, noble and civilized and still so solid, be swept away at a single stroke, with so many outstanding men, so many lovely, cultivated women?
A little later, with a worldly cynicism which he found in very good taste, Teodoro Clissi gave a delightful description of what everybody was afraid would happen. Not without reason, some thirty years earlier, had he been nicknamed “the Italian Anatole France.” He was still in good health, with the rosy face of a withered cherub, and had two gray moustaches modeled on an old-fashioned idea of an intellectual.
“First phase,” he said, assuming the pompous tone of authority, and holding his left thumb with the fingers of the right hand, as if he were teaching numbers to children: “First phase: occupation of the so-called nerve center of the city . . . and let us hope it is not already far advanced,” laughingly consulting his wristwatch. “Second phase, dear friends: the elimination of hostile elements . . .”
“My God,” gasped Mariú Gabrielli, the financier’s wife. “My children, alone, at home!”
“No children, dear lady, have no fear,” said Clissi. “They are after big game; no children, only adults, and well-developed ones at that!”
He laughed at the jest.
“And isn’t the nurse with them anyway?” exclaimed the beautiful Ketti Introzzi, in her usual stupid way.
The conversation was interrupted by a voice both fresh and petulant.
“Excuse me, Clissi, but do you think these stories are really amusing?”
It was Liselore Bini, perhaps the most distinguished of the younger Milanese set, attractive both for her lively face and for her boundless sincerity, which can only spring from greatness of spirit or undisputed social superiority.
“Excuse me, won’t you, Clissi, but tell me whether you’d talk like this tonight if you didn’t feel safe?”
“How do you mean?”
“Come, Clissi, don’t force me to say what everybody knows. But anyway, why should I reprove you for having good friends even—how shall I say?—amongst the revolutionaries? . . . You’ve been sensible, very sensible. . . . Perhaps we shall realize it very soon. . . . You know very well you can count on exemption . . .”
“What exemption? What exemption?” said he, growing pale.
“Dear God! Exemption from the firing squad!” And she turned her back on him amid the smothered laughter of those standing by.
The group broke up. Clissi was left almost alone. The others gathered around Liselore, a little farther on. As though it were a sort of bivouac, the last desperate resting place of her world, Liselore Bini squatted down on the floor, crumpling among cigarette stubs and champagne stains a dress from Balmain which without exaggeration had cost no less than £145. Then she began arguing fiercely with an imaginary accuser in defense of her class. As there was nobody to contradict her, she thought she had not been properly understood, and grew as angry as a child, raising her head to the friends who were still on their feet. “Don’t they know what sacrifices we’ve made? Don’t they realize we haven’t got another penny in the bank? . . . The jewels! All right, here come the jewels!” And she started undoing a gold bracelet with a heavy topaz, weighing nearly eight ounces. “A fine business! Even if we gave them all our finery, what would it settle? . . . No, that isn’t the point,” and her voice was close to tears, “it’s because they hate our faces. They can’t bear there to be civilized people . . . they can’t bear us not to smell like they do . . . that’s the ‘new justice’ those pigs are trying to get! . . .”
“Be careful, Liselore,” said one young man. “You never know who may be listening.”
“A fig for carefulness! Do you think they don’t know that my husband and I are top of the list? Have we got to be careful as well? We’ve been too careful, that’s the trouble. And now perhaps . .
.” she broke off. “All right, it’s better I keep quiet.”
The only person to lose his head straightaway was Maestro Claudio Cottes, who was terror-struck at the thought that the Morzi were going into action. To make an old-fashioned comparison, he was like an explorer who had managed to coast clear of the plague of cannibals, and enjoy several days of undisturbed travel in safe territory, so that he had forgotten all about it, when from the bushes behind his tent he could see hundreds of javelins emerging and the glint of the natives’ hungry eyes between the branches. Everything had landed on him within the space of a few hours: the first hint of trouble through the telephone call, Bombassei’s enigmatic talk, the warning of the unknown man, and now the imminent catastrophe. What an idiot Arduino was! If there was trouble the Morzi would finish him off straightaway. And now it was too late to do anything about it. Then he comforted himself by thinking, But isn’t it a good sign if that man thought to warn me? Doesn’t it mean that they only suspect Arduino? . . . What an idea. Another part of him replied, “As if there’s time for such subtle distinctions during revolutions! And what’s to prevent their having warned me this evening out of pure devilment, now that there’s no more time for Arduino to save himself?” Upset and tense, he went anxiously from one group to another in the hope of hearing some reassuring piece of news. But there was no good news. His friends wondered why he was so agitated, as they were used to seeing him in a constant good humor and full of gay repartee. But they were too worried about themselves to think overmuch about a harmless old man, who most certainly had nothing to fear.
He wandered aimlessly about, in search of anything that would give him relief, and distractedly swallowed glass after glass of the Spumante the waiters were constantly offering. And the confusion in his head grew worse.