Count Bruhl Part 16

Faustina, the first singer of those times, famous for her victory over the equally famous Cuzzoni, was prima donna in the full meaning of the word, on the stage, behind the scenes, and beyond. Signora Bordoni, although married to the great composer, Johanet Ha.s.se, could forget him. The marriage had been broken the next day by command of the King, who sent the musician to Italy to study there.

As the carriage bringing Bruhl and the sad news of the death of Augustus the Strong neared the castle Faustina was sitting in the small drawing-room arranged for her near the stage, and having removed her furs was about to issue her orders.

The prima donna was not very young, but notwithstanding her Italian beauty, which blossoms and withers quickly, she preserved her voice, the charm of her figure, and the beauty of her face, the features of Juno with which nature had endowed her.

She was not a delicate woman, but strong and majestic, with the form of a statue, as though made from one block by the energetic chisel of Michael Angelo.

Her beauty was equal to her voice. Everything was in harmony with her character; her head of a G.o.ddess, bosom of a nymph, hand of a Bacchante, figure of an Amazon, hands and feet of a princess, abundant black hair like the mane of an Arabian horse. In her face, notwithstanding the cla.s.sical beauty of her features, there was more strength than womanly sweetness. Not infrequently her black eyebrows contracted in a frown, her nostrils dilated with anger, and behind her pink lips her white teeth gleamed angrily.

Her manner was that of a woman accustomed to command, to receive homage, fearing nought, daring even to hurl her thunderbolts at crowned heads.

The drawing-room was elegantly furnished with gold, the furniture upholstered with blue satin, and the dressing-table, covered with lace, was loaded with silver and china. The wardrobes for her dresses were ornamented with bronze, and from the ceiling descended a china chandelier like a basket of flowers.

Three servants stood at the door waiting for orders. One could recognise that two of them were Italian women, for they had not given up their national coifure. Faustina glanced at the clock, threw herself on the sofa, and, half leaning and half sitting, played with the silk sash of her large, silk _robe de chambre_.

The servants were silent.

There was a knock at the door. Faustina did not move, but glancing towards a good-looking young man who appeared in the doorway, greeted him with a smile.

It was the tenor, Angelo Monticelli. It was easy to see that he was also Italian; but while Faustina was the personification of Italian energy and liveliness, he was the embodiment of almost womanly charm.

Young, remarkably handsome, with long black hair falling over his shoulders, he seemed to be born for the roles of _innamorati_, of lovers and G.o.ds. The cla.s.sical Apollo, playing the lute, could not have been more charming. Only he lacked the pride and energy of the G.o.d.

He bent to salute Faustina, who hardly nodded to him.

'Angelo!' said Faustina, 'you run after those horrid German women--you will lose your voice. Fie! How you can see a woman in those German girls! Look at their hands and feet!'

'Signora!' said Angelo, placing one hand on his chest and looking into a mirror, for he was in love with himself. '_Signora, non e vero!_'

'You would tell me, by way of excuse,' said Faustina laughing, 'that they run after you.'

'Not that either; I am longing for the Italian sky, Italian faces, and the heart of an Italian woman--I wither here--'

Faustina glanced at him and made a sign to the servants to leave the room.

'_Ingrato!_' whispered she. 'We all pet you, and yet you complain.'

Then she turned her gaze to the ceiling taking no notice of Monticelli's devouring eyes.

'Has Abbuzzi come?' she asked.

'I don't know.'

'You do not wish to know about Abbuzzi!'

'I don't care about her.'

'When you are talking to me! But I am neither jealous of her nor your Apollo-like beauty; only I hate her, and I can't bear you.'

'Why not?'

'Because you are a doll. Look at the clock and go and dress.'

As she spoke a new face appeared in the doorway; it was the cheerful Puttini.

'My humblest homage,' said he. 'But perchance I interrupt a duet; excuse me.'

He glanced at Angelo. Faustina laughed and shrugged her shoulders.

'We sing duets only on the stage,' said she. 'You are all late to-day.

Go and dress.'

She jumped down from the sofa; Angelo moved towards the door; Puttini laughed and remained where he was.

'My costume is ready, I shall not be late.'

The door opened noisily and in rushed a man dressed in black; his round face, with small nose and low forehead, expressed fear.

Faustina who was in continual dread of fire, shrieked:

'Holy Virgin, help! Fire! Fire!'

'Where? Where?'

The new-comer, much surprised, stood still. His name was Klein, a member of the orchestra, Faustina's great admirer, a friend of the Italians, and an enthusiastic musician.

His Christian name was Johan, Faustina changed it into Giovanni and called him Piccolo.

'Piccolo! are you mad? What is the matter with you?' she cried.

'The King is dead! King Augustus the Strong died in Warsaw.'

At this, Faustina screamed piercingly, covering her face with her hands; the rest stood silent. Klein left the door open and the actors began to crowd in. The great majority of them were already half dressed for the performance of 'Cleophila.' Abbuzzi rushed in with naked bosom.

Her beauty was striking even when compared with Faustina; only she was small and still more lively.

Catherine Piluga, with a crowd of Italians and French, half dressed, with frightened faces, followed Abbuzzi. All pressed round Faustina exclaiming in all possible voices: '_Il re e morto!_' Their faces expressed more fear than sorrow. Faustina alone was silent, and did not seem much afraid of the news. All looked at her hoping that she would speak, but she would not betray her thoughts.

The bells resounded throughout the whole city.

'There will be no performance to-night, go home!' she cried imperatively.

But they did not obey her; frightened, they stood as though rivetted to the spot.

'Go home!' repeated Faustina. 'We have nothing to do here; we shall not play for some time.'

The crowd began to withdraw, murmuring. As soon as the last had gone, Abbuzzi also disappeared, and Faustina lay on the sofa not seeming to notice an elderly gentleman standing quietly apart.

He coughed softly.