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
