Berlin and Sans-Souci Part 11

She leaned back upon the pillows and breathed audibly, exhausted by her wild pa.s.sion. The king looked at her with wonder. She was to him a rare and precious work of art, something to be studied and wors.h.i.+pped. Her alluring beauty, her impetuous, uncontrolled pa.s.sions, her bold sincerity, were all attractions, and he felt himself under the spell of her enchantments. Let her rail and swear to be revenged on the barbarian. The king heard her not; a simple gentleman stood before her; a man who felt that Barbarina was right, and who confessed to himself that the king had forgotten, in her rude seizure, that this Barbarina was a woman--forgotten that he, in all his relations with women, should be only a cavalier.

"Yes, yes," said Barbarina, and an expression of triumph was painted on her lips--"yes, my little feet will be my avengers. The king will never more see them dance--never more; they have cost him thousands of gold; because of them he is at variance with the n.o.ble Republic of Venice. Well, he has seen them for the last time. Ah! it is a light thing to subdue a province, but impossible to conquer a woman and an artiste who is resolved not to surrender."

Frederick smiled at these proud words.

"So you will not dance before the king, and yet you have danced for him this evening?"

"Yes," said she, raising her head proudly. "I have proved to him that I am an artiste; only when he feels that, will it pain him never again to see me exercise my art."

"That is, indeed, refined reasoning," said the king. "You danced, then, in order to make the king thirst anew for this intoxicating draught, and then deny him? Truly, one must be an Italian to conceive this plan."

"I am an Italian, and woe to me that I am!" A storm of tears gushed from her eyes, but in a moment, as if scorning her own weakness, she drove them back into her heart. "Poor Italian," she said, in a soft, low tone--"poor child of the South, what are you doing in this cold North, amongst these frosty hearts whose icy smiles petrify art and beauty? Ah! to think that even the Barbarina could not melt the ice- rind from their pitiful souls; to think that she displayed before them all the power and grace of her art, and they looked on with motionless hands and silent lips! Ah! this humiliation would have killed me in Italy, because I love my people, and they understand and appreciate all that is rare and beautiful. My heart burns with scorn and contempt for these torpid Berliners."

"I understand you now," said the king; "you heard no bravos, you were not applauded; therefore you are angry?"

"I laugh at it!" said she, looking fiercely at the king. "Do you not know, sir, that this applause, these bravos, are to the artiste as the sound of a trumpet to the gallant war-horse, they invigorate and inspire, and swell the heart with strength and courage? When the artiste stands upon the stage, the saloon before him is his heaven, and there his judges sit, to bestow eternal happiness or eternal condemnation; to crown him with immortal fame, or cover him with shame and confusion. Now, sir, that I have explained to you that the stage saloon is our heaven, and the spectators are our judges, you will understand that these bravos are to us as the music of the spheres."

"Yes, I comprehend," said the king, smiling; "but you must be indulgent; in this theatre etiquette forbids applause. You have danced to-day before an invited audience, who pay nothing, and therefore have not the right to blame or praise; no one dare applaud--no one but the king."

"Ha! and this rude man did not applaud!" cried she, showing her small teeth, and raising her hand threateningly toward heaven.

"Perhaps he was motionless and drunk from rapture," said the king, bowing gracefully; "when he sees you dance again, he will have more control over himself, and will, perhaps, applaud you heartily."

"Perhaps?" cried she. "I shall not expose myself to this 'perhaps.'

I will dance no more. My foot is sore, and your king cannot force me to dance."

"No, he cannot force you, but you will do it willingly; you will dance for him again this evening, of your own free will."

Barbarina answered by one burst of wild, demoniac laughter, expressive of her scorn and her resentment.

"You will dance again this evening," repeated Frederick, and his keen eye gazed steadily into that of Barbarina, who, though weeping bitterly, shook her lovely head, and gave him back bravely glance for glance. "You will dance, Barbarina, because, if you do not, you are lost. I do not mean by this that you are lost because the king will punish you for your obstinacy. The king is no Bluebeard; he neither murders women nor confines them in underground prisons; he has no torture chambers ready for you; for the King of Prussia, whom you hate so fiercely, has abolished the torture throughout his kingdom--the torture, which still flourishes luxuriantly by the side of oranges and myrtles in your beautiful Italy. No, signora, the king will not punish you if you persist in your obstinacy; he will only send you away, that is all."

"And that is my only wish, all that I ask of Fate."

"You do not know yourself. You, who are an artiste, who are a lovely woman, who are ambitious, and look upon fame as worth striving for, you would not lose your power, trample under foot your ambition, see your rare beauty slighted, and your enchanting grace despised?"

"I cannot see why all these terrible things will come to pa.s.s if I refuse to dance again before your king?"

"I will explain to you, signora--listen. The king (however contemptuously you may think and speak of him) is still a man, upon whom the eyes of all Europe are turned--that is to say," he added, with a gay smile and a graceful bow, "when his bold eye is not exactly fixed upon them, signora. The voice of this king has some weight in your world, though, as yet, he has only stolen provinces and women. It is well known that the king has so irresistible a desire to see you and to admire you, that he forgot his knightly gallantry, or set it aside, and, relying only upon his right, he exacted the fulfilment of the contract signed by your own lovely hand. That was, perhaps, not worthy of a cavalier, but it was not unjust. You were forced to obey. You came to Berlin unwillingly, that I confess; but you have this evening danced before the king of your own free will. This, from your stand-point, was a great mistake. You can no longer say, 'I will not dance before the king, because I wish to revenge myself.' You have already danced, and no matter with what refinement of reason you may explain this false step, no one will believe you if the king raises his voice against you; and he will do this, believe me. He will say: 'I brought this Barbarina to Berlin. I wished to see if the world had gone mad or become childish, or if Barbarina really deserved the enthusiasm and adoration which followed her steps. Well, I have seen her dance, and I find the world is mad in folly. I give them back their G.o.ddess-- she does not suit me. She is a wooden image in my eyes. I wished to capture Terpsich.o.r.e herself, and lo, I found I had stolen her chambermaid! I have seen your G.o.ddess dance once, and I am weary of her pirouettes and minauderies. Lo, there, thou hast that is thine.'"

"Sir, sir!" cried Barbarina menacingly, and springing up with flaming eyes and panting breath.

"That is what the king will say," said Frederick quietly. "You know that the voice of the king is full and strong; it will resound throughout Europe. No one will believe that you refused to dance. It will be said that you did not please the king; this will be proved by the fact that he did not applaud, did not utter a single bravo.

In a word, it will be said you have made a fiasco."

Barbarina sprang from her seat and laid her hand upon the arm of the king with indescribable, inimitable grace and pa.s.sion.

"Lead me upon the stage--I will dance now. Ah, this king shall not conquer me, shall not cast me down. No, no! I will compel him to applaud; he shall confess that I am indeed an artiste. Tell the director to prepare--I will come immediately upon the stage."

Barbarina was right when she compared the artiste to a war-horse. At this moment she did indeed resemble one: she seemed to hear the sound of the trumpet calling to battle and to fame. Her cheeks glowed, her nostrils dilated, a quick and violent breathing agitated her breast, and a nervous and convulsive trembling for action was seen in every movement. The king observed and comprehended her. He understood her tremor and her haste; he appreciated this soul- thirsting for fame, this fervor of ambition, excited by the possibility of failure; her boldness enraptured him. The sincerity and power with which she expressed her emotions, commanded his respect; and while the king paid this tribute to her intellectual qualities, the man at the same time confessed to himself that her personal attractions merited the wors.h.i.+p she received. She was beautiful, endowed with the alluring, gentle, soft, luxurious, and at the same time modest beauty of the Venus Anadyomene, the G.o.ddess rising from the sea.

"Come," said Frederick, "give me your hand. I will conduct you, and I promise you that this time the king will applaud."

Barbarina did not reply. In the fire of her impatience, she pressed the king onward toward the door. Suddenly she paused, and giving him an enchanting smile, she said, "I am, without doubt, much indebted to you; you have warned me of a danger, and in fact guarded me from an abyss. Truly I think this was not done for my sake, but because your king had commanded that I should dance. Your reasons were well grounded, and I thank you sincerely. I pray you, sir, give me your name, that I may guard it in my memory as the only pleasant a.s.sociation with Berlin."

"From this day, signora, you will confess that you owe me a small service. You have told ine it was a light task to win provinces, but to capture and subdue a woman was impossible, I hope now I shall be a hero in your eyes: I have not only conquered provinces, I have captured a woman and subdued her."

Barbarina was neither astonished nor alarmed at these words. She had seen so many kings and princes at her feet to be blinded by the glitter of royalty. She let go the arm of the king, and said calmly and coolly: "Sire, I do not ask for pardon or grace. The possessor of a crown must wear it, if he demands that it should be acknowledged and respected, and the pomp and glare of royalty is, it seems, easily veiled. Besides, I would not have acted otherwise, had I known who it was that dared intrude upon me."

"I am convinced of that," said Frederick, smiling. "You are a queen who has but small consideration for the little King of Prussia, because he requires so many agents to impress the gold from the pockets of his unwilling subjects. You are right--my agents cost me much money, and bring small tribute, while yours cost nothing and yield a rich harvest. Come, signora, your a.s.sessors must enter upon their duties."

He nodded to Baron Swartz, who stood in the corridor, and said in German, "The signora will dance; she must be received with respect and treated with consideration." He gave a light greeting to Barbarina and returned to the saloon, where he found the last act of the drama just concluded.

Every eye was fixed upon the king as he entered. He had left the room in anger, and the courtiers almost trembled at the thought of his fierce displeasure; but Frederick's brow was clear, and an expression of peace and quiet was written on his features. He took his place between the two queens, muttered a few words of explanation to his mother, and bowed smilingly to his wife. Poor queen! poor Elizabeth Christine! she had the sharp eye of a loving and jealous woman, and she saw in the king's face what no one, not even Frederick himself, knew. While every eye was turned upon the stage; while all with breathless rapture gazed upon the marvellous beauty and grace of Barbarina, the queen alone fixed a stolen and trembling glance upon the countenance of her husband. She saw not that Barbarina, inspired by ambition and pa.s.sion, was more lovely, more enchanting than before. Her eyes were fixed upon the face of her husband, now luminous with admiration and delight; she saw his soft smile, and the iron entered her soul.

The dance was at an end. Barbarina came forward and bowed low; and now something happened so unheard of, so contrary to court etiquette, that the master of ceremonies was filled with surprise and disapprobation. The king applauded, not as gracious kings applaud generally, by laying his hands lightly together, but like a wild enthusiast who wishes to confess to the world that he is bewildered, enraptured. He then rose from his chair, and turning to the princesses and generals behind him, he said, "Gentlemen, why do you not applaud?" and as if these magical words had released the hands from bondage and given life to the wild rapture of applause which had before but trembled on the lip, the wide hall rang with the plaudits and enthusiastic bravos of the spectators. Barbarina bowed low and still lower, an expression of happy triumph playing upon her glowing face.

"I have never seen a more beautiful woman," said the king, as he sank back, seemingly exhausted, in his chair.

Queen Elizabeth pressed her lips together, to suppress a cry of pain. She had heard the king's words; for her they had a deeper meaning. "He will love her, I know it, I feel it!" she said to herself as she returned after this eventful evening to Schonhausen.

"Oh, why has G.o.d laid upon me this new trial, this new humiliation?

Until now, no one thought the less of me because I was not loved by the king. The world said, 'The king loves no woman, he has no heart for love.' From this day I shall be despised and pitied. The king has found a heart. He knows now that he has not outlived his youth; he feels that he is young--that he is young in heart, young in love!

Oh, my G.o.d! and I too am young, and love; and I must shroud my heart in resignation and gloom."

While the queen was pouring out her complaints and prayers to G.o.d, the Swedish amba.s.sador was confiding his wrath to his king. He wrote to his sovereign, and repeated to him the angry and abusive words of the little Princess Amelia, who was known at the court as the little April Fee. She was more changeable than April, and more stormy and imperious than Frederick himself. He painted skilfully the gentle and attractive bearing of the Princess Ulrica, and asked for permission to demand the hand of this gracious and n.o.ble princess for Adolph Frederick. After the amba.s.sador had written his dispatches, and sent them by a courier to the Swedish s.h.i.+p lying in the sound, he said to himself, with a triumphant smile: "Ah, my little Princess Amelia, this is a royal punishment for royal impertinence. You were pleased to treat me with contempt, but you did not know that I could avenge myself by depriving you of a kingdom. Ah, if you had guessed my mission, how smilingly you would have greeted the Count Tessin!"

The gentlemen diplomatists are sometimes outwitted.

CHAPTER X.

ECKHOF.

The reader has learned, from the foregoing chapters, what a splendid role the French theatre and ballet were now playing at the court of Berlin. A superb house had been built for the Italian opera and the ballet, a stage had been prepared in the king's palace for the French comedies, and every representation was honored by the presence of the king, the royal family, and the court circle. The most celebrated singers of Italy, the most graceful Parisian dancers were now to be heard and seen in Berlin. These things a.s.sumed such vast importance, that the king himself appeared as a critic in the daily journals, and his articles were published in the foreign papers. While the king favored the strange actors with his presence and his grace, the German theatre, like a despised step-child, was given over to misery and contempt. Compelled to seek an asylum in low dark saloons, its actors had to be thankful for even the permission to exist, and to plead with Apollo and the Muses for aid and applause. The king and the so-called good society despised them altogether. But this step-child carried under her ashes and ragged garments the golden robes of her future greatness; her cunning step- sisters had cast her down into obscurity and want, but she was not extinguished; she could not be robbed of her future! Only a few propitious circ.u.mstances were necessary to enable her to shake the dust from her head, and bring her kingly crown to light.

The king had given Schonemein permission to bring his company to Berlin; and by a happy chance, Schonemein had engaged the young and talented actor Eckhof for the season. Eckhof was destined to give renown to the German theatre; he was justly called the first and greatest actor in Germany. Alas, how much of misery, how much of humiliation, how many choking tears, how much suffering and care, how much hunger and thirst were then comprised in that one word, a "German actor!" None but a lost or despairing man, or an enthusiast, would enroll himself as a German actor; only when he had nothing more to lose, and was willing to burn his s.h.i.+ps behind him, could he enter upon that th.o.r.n.y path. Religion and art have always had their martyrs, and truly the German actors were martyrs in the time of Frederick the Great. Blessings upon those who did not despair, and took up their cross patiently!

The French comedy and the Italian opera flourished like the green bay-tree. The German actors took refuge in the saloon of the Council-house. The lighting up of the Royal Opera-house cost two hundred and seventy-seven florins every night. The misty light of sweltering oil lamps illuminated the poor saloon of the Council- house.

The audience of the German theatre was composed of burghers, philosophers, poets, bankers, and clerks--the people of the middle cla.s.ses, who wore no white plumes in their hats; they were indeed allowed to enter the opera-house, but through a side pa.s.sage, and their boxes were entirely separated from those of the court circle.

These people of the middle cla.s.ses seemed obscure and unimportant, but they were educated and intelligent; even then they were a power; proud and independent, they could not be bribed by flattery, nor blinded by glitter and pomp. They judged the king as they judged the beggar, the philosopher as they did the artist, and they judged boldly and well.

This public voice had declared that Eckhof was a great tragedian, who rivalled successfully the great French actor, Monsieur Dennis.

This public voice, though but the voice of the people, found entrance everywhere, even in the saloons of the n.o.bles and cabinets of princes. Berlin resounded with the name of Eckhof, who dared to rival the French actor, and with the name of Schonemein, who dared, every time a drama of Corneille or Racine, of Moliere or Voltaire, was given in the palace theatre, to represent the same in the Council-house on the following evening. This was a good idea. Those who had been so fortunate as to witness the performance at the palace, wished to compare the glittering spectacle with the poor caricature, as they were pleased to call it, in the Council-house.

Those whose obscure position prevented them from entering the French theatre, wished at least to see the play which had enraptured the king and court; they must be content with a copy, somewhat like the hungry beggar who stands before the kitchen door, and refreshes himself by smelling the roast beef he cannot hope to taste. But there was still a third cla.s.s who visited the German theatre, not in derision, not from curiosity, not from a desire to imitate the n.o.bles in their amus.e.m.e.nts, but with the seemingly Utopian hope of building up the German drama. Amongst these were the scholars, who p.r.o.nounced the dramas of Gottsched far superior to those of Corneille and Racine; there were the German patriots, who would not grant a smile to the best representation of "Le Malade Imaginaire,"