Part Third
The ‘Residenz-Theater’ sparked and hummedWith lights and people. Gebnitz was to sing,That rare soprano. All the fiddles strummedWith tuning up; the wood-winds made a ringOf reedy bubbling noises, and the stingOf sharp, red brass pierced every ear-drum; pattingFrom muffled tympani made a dark slatting
Across the silver shimmering of flutes;A bassoon grunted, and an oboe wailed;The ‘celli pizzicato-ed like great lutes,And mutterings of double basses trailedAway to silence, while loud harp-strings hailedTheir thin, bright colours down in such a scatterThey lost themselves amid the general clatter.
Frau Altgelt in the gallery, alone,Felt lifted up into another world.Before her eyes a thousand candles shoneIn the great chandeliers. A maze of curledAnd powdered periwigs past her eyes swirled.She smelt the smoke of candles guttering,And caught the glint of jewelled fans fluttering
All round her in the boxes. Red and gold,The house, like rubies set in filigree,Filliped the candlelight about, and boldYoung sparks with eye-glasses, unblushinglyOgled fair beauties in the balcony.An officer went by, his steel spurs jangling.Behind Charlotta an old man was wrangling
About a play-bill he had bought and lost.Three drunken soldiers had to be ejected.Frau Altgelt’s eyes stared at the vacant postOf Concert-Meister, she at once detectedThe stir which brought him. But she felt neglectedWhen with no glance about him or her way,He lifted up his violin to play.
The curtain went up? Perhaps. If so,Charlotta never saw it go.The famous Fraeulein Gebnitz’ singingOnly came to her like the ringingOf bells at a festaWhich swing in the airAnd nobody realizes they are there.They jingle and jangle,And clang, and bang,And never a soul could tell whether they rang,For the plopping of guns and rocketsAnd the chinking of silver to spend, in one’s pockets,And the shuffling and clapping of feet,And the loud flappingOf flags, with the drums,As the military comes.It’s a famous tune to walk to,And I wonder where they’re off to.Step-step-stepping to the beating of the drums.But the rhythm changes as though a mistWere curling and twistingOver the landscape.For a moment a rhythmless, tuneless fogEncompasses her. Then her senses jogTo the breath of a stately minuet.Herr Altgelt’s violin is setIn tune to the slow, sweeping bows, and retreats and advances,To curtsies brushing the waxen floor as the Court dances.Long and peaceful like warm Summer nightsWhen stars shine in the quiet river. And against the lightsBlundering insects knock,And the ‘Rathaus’ clockBooms twice, through the shrill soundsOf flutes and horns in the lamplit grounds.Pressed against him in the mazy waveringOf a country dance, with her short breath quaveringShe leans upon the beating, throbbingMusic. Laughing, sobbing,Feet gliding after sliding feet;His—hers—The ballroom blurs—She feels the airLifting her hair,And the lapping of water on the stone stair.He is there! He is there!Twang harps, and squeal, you thin violins,That the dancers may dance, and never discoverThe old stone stair leading down to the riverWith the chestnut-tree branches hanging overHer and her lover.Theodore, still her lover!
The evening passed like this, in a half faint,Delirium with waking intervalsWhich were the entr’acts. Under the restraintOf a large company, the constant callsFor oranges or syrops from the stallsOutside, the talk, the passing to and fro,Lotta sat ill at ease, incognito.
She heard the Gebnitz praised, the tenor lauded,The music vaunted as most excellent.The scenery and the costumes were applauded,The latter it was whispered had been sentFrom Italy. The Herr Direktor spentA fortune on them, so the gossips said.Charlotta felt a lightness in her head.
When the next act began, her eyes were swimming,Her prodded ears were aching and confused.The first notes from the orchestra sent skimmingHer outward consciousness. Her brain was fusedInto the music, Theodore’s music! UsedTo hear him play, she caught his single tone.For all she noticed they two were alone.