IN WHICH THE ANDANTES BECOME ALLEGROS, AND THE ALLEGROS VIVACES.

The agitation caused by the Schut and Custos affair had subsided.  The affair led to no serious consequences.  It appeared likely that Quiquendone would return to its habitual apathy, which that unexpected event had for a moment disturbed.

Meanwhile, the laying of the pipes destined to conduct the oxyhydric gas into the principal edifices of the town was proceeding rapidly.  The main pipes and branches gradually crept beneath the pavements.  But the burners were still wanting; for, as it required delicate skill to make them, it was necessary that they should be fabricated abroad.  Doctor Ox was here, there, and everywhere; neither he nor Ygene, his assistant, lost a moment, but they urged on the workmen, completed the delicate mechanism of the gasometer, fed day and night the immense piles which decomposed the water under the influence of a powerful electric current.  Yes, the doctor was already making his gas, though the pipe-laying was not yet done; a fact which, between ourselves, might have seemed a little singular.  But before long, ­at least there was reason to hope so, ­before long Doctor Ox would inaugurate the splendours of his invention in the theatre of the town.

For Quiquendone possessed a theatre ­a really fine edifice, in truth ­the interior and exterior arrangement of which combined every style of architecture.  It was at once Byzantine, Roman, Gothic, Renaissance, with semicircular doors, Pointed windows, Flamboyant rose-windows, fantastic bell-turrets, ­in a word, a specimen of all sorts, half a Parthenon, half a Parisian Grand Cafe.  Nor was this surprising, the theatre having been commenced under the burgomaster Ludwig Van Tricasse, in 1175, and only finished in 1837, under the burgomaster Natalis Van Tricasse.  It had required seven hundred years to build it, and it had, been successively adapted to the architectural style in vogue in each period.  But for all that it was an imposing structure; the Roman pillars and Byzantine arches of which would appear to advantage lit up by the oxyhydric gas.

Pretty well everything was acted at the theatre of Quiquendone; but the opera and the opera comique were especially patronized.  It must, however, be added that the composers would never have recognized their own works, so entirely changed were the “movements” of the music.

In short, as nothing was done in a hurry at Quiquendone, the dramatic pieces had to be performed in harmony with the peculiar temperament of the Quiquendonians.  Though the doors of the theatre were regularly thrown open at four o’clock and closed again at ten, it had never been known that more than two acts were played during the six intervening hours.  “Robert lé Diable,” “Les Huguenots,” or “Guillaume Tell” usually took up three evenings, so slow was the execution of these masterpieces.  The vivaces, at the theatre of Quiquendone, lagged like real adagios.  The allegros were “long-drawn out” indeed.  The demisemiquavers were scarcely equal to the ordinary semibreves of other countries.  The most rapid runs, performed according to Quiquendonian taste, had the solemn march of a chant.  The gayest shakes were languishing and measured, that they might not shock the ears of the dilettanti.  To give an example, the rapid air sung by Figaro, on his entrance in the first act of “Le Barbier de Seville,” lasted fifty-eight minutes ­when the actor was particularly enthusiastic.

Artists from abroad, as might be supposed, were forced to conform themselves to Quiquendonian fashions; but as they were well paid, they did not complain, and willingly obeyed the leader’s baton, which never beat more than eight measures to the minute in the allegros.

But what applause greeted these artists, who enchanted without ever wearying the audiences of Quiquendone!  All hands clapped one after another at tolerably long intervals, which the papers characterized as “frantic applause;” and sometimes nothing but the lavish prodigality with which mortar and stone had been used in the twelfth century saved the roof of the hall from falling in.

Besides, the theatre had only one performance a week, that these enthusiastic Flemish folk might not be too much excited; and this enabled the actors to study their parts more thoroughly, and the spectators to digest more at leisure the beauties of the masterpieces brought out.

Such had long been the drama at Quiquendone.  Foreign artists were in the habit of making engagements with the director of the town, when they wanted to rest after their exertions in other scenes; and it seemed as if nothing could ever change these inveterate customs, when, a fortnight after the Schut-Custos affair, an unlooked-for incident occurred to throw the population into fresh agitation.

It was on a Saturday, an opera day.  It was not yet intended, as may well be supposed, to inaugurate the new illumination.  No; the pipes had reached the hall, but, for reasons indicated above, the burners had not yet been placed, and the wax-candles still shed their soft light upon the numerous spectators who filled the theatre.  The doors had been opened to the public at one o’clock, and by three the hall was half full.  A queue had at one time been formed, which extended as far as the end of the Place Saint Ernuph, in front of the shop of Josse Lietrinck the apothecary.  This eagerness was significant of an unusually attractive performance.

“Are you going to the theatre this evening?” inquired the counsellor the same morning of the burgomaster.

“I shall not fail to do so,” returned Van Tricasse, “and I shall take Madame Van Tricasse, as well as our daughter Suzel and our dear Tatanemance, who all dote on good music.”

“Mademoiselle Suzel is going then?”

“Certainly, Niklausse.”

“Then my son Frantz will be one of the first to arrive,” said Niklausse.

“A spirited boy, Niklausse,” replied the burgomaster sententiously; “but hot-headed!  He will require watching!”

“He loves, Van Tricasse, ­he loves your charming Suzel.”

“Well, Niklausse, he shall marry her.  Now that we have agreed on this marriage, what more can he desire?”

“He desires nothing, Van Tricasse, the dear boy!  But, in short ­ we’ll say no more about it ­he will not be the last to get his ticket at the box-office.”

“Ah, vivacious and ardent youth!” replied the burgomaster, recalling his own past.  “We have also been thus, my worthy counsellor!  We have loved ­we too!  We have danced attendance in our day!  Till to-night, then, till to-night!  By-the-bye, do you know this Fiovaranti is a great artist?  And what a welcome he has received among us!  It will be long before he will forget the applause of Quiquendone!”

The tenor Fiovaranti was, indeed, going to sing; Fiovaranti, who, by his talents as a virtuoso, his perfect method, his melodious voice, provoked a real enthusiasm among the lovers of music in the town.

For three weeks Fiovaranti had been achieving a brilliant success in “Les Huguenots.”  The first act, interpreted according to the taste of the Quiquendonians, had occupied an entire evening of the first week of the month. ­Another evening in the second week, prolonged by infinite andantes, had elicited for the celebrated singer a real ovation.  His success had been still more marked in the third act of Meyerbeer’s masterpiece.  But now Fiovaranti was to appear in the fourth act, which was to be performed on this evening before an impatient public.  Ah, the duet between Raoul and Valentine, that pathetic love-song for two voices, that strain so full of crescendos, stringendos, and piú crescendos ­all this, sung slowly, compendiously, interminably!  Ah, how delightful!

At four o’clock the hall was full.  The boxes, the orchestra, the pit, were overflowing.  In the front stalls sat the Burgomaster Van Tricasse, Mademoiselle Van Tricasse, Madame Van Tricasse, and the amiable Tatanemance in a green bonnet; not far off were the Counsellor Niklausse and his family, not forgetting the amorous Frantz.  The families of Custos the doctor, of Schut the advocate, of Honore Syntax the chief judge, of Norbet Sontman the insurance director, of the banker Collaert, gone mad on German music, and himself somewhat of an amateur, and the teacher Rupp, and the master of the academy, Jerome Resh, and the civil commissary, and so many other notabilities of the town that they could not be enumerated here without wearying the reader’s patience, were visible in different parts of the hall.

It was customary for the Quiquendonians, while awaiting the rise of the curtain, to sit silent, some reading the paper, others whispering low to each other, some making their way to their seats slowly and noiselessly, others casting timid looks towards the bewitching beauties in the galleries.

But on this evening a looker-on might have observed that, even before the curtain rose, there was unusual animation among the audience.  People were restless who were never known to be restless before.  The ladies’ fans fluttered with abnormal rapidity.  All appeared to be inhaling air of exceptional stimulating power.  Every one breathed more freely.  The eyes of some became unwontedly bright, and seemed to give forth a light equal to that of the candles, which themselves certainly threw a more brilliant light over the hall.  It was evident that people saw more clearly, though the number of candles had not been increased.  Ah, if Doctor Ox’s experiment were being tried!  But it was not being tried, as yet.

The musicians of the orchestra at last took their places.  The first violin had gone to the stand to give a modest la to his colleagues.  The stringed instruments, the wind instruments, the drums and cymbals, were in accord.  The conductor only waited the sound of the bell to beat the first bar.

The bell sounds.  The fourth act begins.  The allegro appassionato of the inter-act is played as usual, with a majestic deliberation which would have made Meyerbeer frantic, and all the majesty of which was appreciated by the Quiquendonian dilettanti.

But soon the leader perceived that he was no longer master of his musicians.  He found it difficult to restrain them, though usually so obedient and calm.  The wind instruments betrayed a tendency to hasten the movements, and it was necessary to hold them back with a firm hand, for they would otherwise outstrip the stringed instruments; which, from a musical point of view, would have been disastrous.  The bassoon himself, the son of Josse Lietrinck the apothecary, a well-bred young man, seemed to lose his self-control.

Meanwhile Valentine has begun her recitative, “I am alone,” &c.; but she hurries it.

The leader and all his musicians, perhaps unconsciously, follow her in her cantabile, which should be taken deliberately, like a 12/8 as it is.  When Raoul appears at the door at the bottom of the stage, between the moment when Valentine goes to him and that when she conceals herself in the chamber at the side, a quarter of an hour does not elapse; while formerly, according to the traditions of the Quiquendone theatre, this recitative of thirty-seven bars was wont to last just thirty-seven minutes.

Saint Bris, Nevers, Cavannes, and the Catholic nobles have appeared, somewhat prematurely, perhaps, upon the scene.  The composer has marked allergo pomposo on the score.  The orchestra and the lords proceed allegro indeed, but not at all pomposo, and at the chorus, in the famous scene of the “benediction of the poniards,” they no longer keep to the enjoined allegro.  Singers and musicians broke away impetuously.  The leader does not even attempt to restrain them.  Nor do the public protest; on the contrary, the people find themselves carried away, and see that they are involved in the movement, and that the movement responds to the impulses of their souls.

“Will you, with me, deliver the land,
 From troubles increasing, an impious band?”

They promise, they swear.  Nevers has scarcely time to protest, and to sing that “among his ancestors were many soldiers, but never an assassin.”  He is arrested.  The police and the aldermen rush forward and rapidly swear “to strike all at once.”  Saint Bris shouts the recitative which summons the Catholics to vengeance.  The three monks, with white scarfs, hasten in by the door at the back of Nevers’s room, without making any account of the stage directions, which enjoin on them to advance slowly.  Already all the artists have drawn sword or poniard, which the three monks bless in a trice.  The soprani tenors, bassos, attack the allegro furioso with cries of rage, and of a dramatic 6/8 time they make it 6/8 quadrille time.  Then they rush out, bellowing, ­

“At midnight,
 Noiselessly,
 God wills it,
    Yes,
 At midnight.”

At this moment the audience start to their feet.  Everybody is agitated ­in the boxes, the pit, the galleries.  It seems as if the spectators are about to rush upon the stage, the Burgomaster Van Tricasse at their head, to join with the conspirators and annihilate the Huguenots, whose religious opinions, however, they share.  They applaud, call before the curtain, make loud acclamations!  Tatanemance grasps her bonnet with feverish hand.  The candles throw out a lurid glow of light.

Raoul, instead of slowly raising the curtain, tears it apart with a superb gesture and finds himself confronting Valentine.

At last!  It is the grand duet, and it starts off allegro vivace.  Raoul does not wait for Valentine’s pleading, and Valentine does not wait for Raoul’s responses.

The fine passage beginning, “Danger is passing, time is flying,” becomes one of those rapid airs which have made Offenbach famous, when he composes a dance for conspirators.  The andante amoroso, “Thou hast said it, aye, thou lovest me,” becomes a real vivace furioso, and the violoncello ceases to imitate the inflections of the singer’s voice, as indicated in the composer’s score.  In vain Raoul cries, “Speak on, and prolong the ineffable slumber of my soul.”  Valentine cannot “prolong.”  It is evident that an unaccustomed fire devours her.  Her b’s and her c’s above the stave were dreadfully shrill.  He struggles, he gesticulates, he is all in a glow.

The alarum is heard; the bell resounds; but what a panting bell!  The bell-ringer has evidently lost his self-control.  It is a frightful tocsin, which violently struggles against the fury of the orchestra.

Finally the air which ends this magnificent act, beginning, “No more love, no more intoxication, O the remorse that oppresses me!” which the composer marks allegro con moto, becomes a wild prestissimo.  You would say an express-train was whirling by.  The alarum resounds again.  Valentine falls fainting.  Raoul precipitates himself from the window.

It was high time.  The orchestra, really intoxicated, could not have gone on.  The leader’s baton is no longer anything but a broken stick on the prompter’s box.  The violin strings are broken, and their necks twisted.  In his fury the drummer has burst his drum.  The counter-bassist has perched on the top of his musical monster.  The first clarionet has swallowed the reed of his instrument, and the second hautboy is chewing his reed keys.  The groove of the trombone is strained, and finally the unhappy cornist cannot withdraw his hand from the bell of his horn, into which he had thrust it too far.

And the audience!  The audience, panting, all in a heat, gesticulates and howls.  All the faces are as red as if a fire were burning within their bodies.  They crowd each other, hustle each other to get out ­the men without hats, the women without mantles!  They elbow each other in the corridors, crush between the doors, quarrel, fight!  There are no longer any officials, any burgomaster.  All are equal amid this infernal frenzy!

Some moments after, when all have reached the street, each one resumes his habitual tranquillity, and peaceably enters his house, with a confused remembrance of what he has just experienced.

The fourth act of the “Huguenots,” which formerly lasted six hours, began, on this evening at half-past four, and ended at twelve minutes before five.

It had only lasted eighteen minutes!