The applause, started at once by the duke, resounded on all sides. This work, about which so much had been said, was bound to be a success, in a certain sense, for this one evening at least. But there was something more than idle flattery in this applause. The spectators felt at once that, a true poet had spoken to them; the creation had already had the commendation of the court, but the public were carried away with it now. They were charmed by the diction, by the characters, and by the subject, and when the curtain rose anew, there was a look of silent expectancy on every face.
The drama now moved forward in majestic measure upon a scenic background as full of warmth and color as the language and characters of the piece.
The luxuriant vegetation of India, the fabulous pomp of her temples and her palaces; the men and women with their wild loves and their still wilder hatred; the rigid laws of their faith; all this was strange and fantastic, but the manner in which these men and women felt and acted was familiar to every one. They stood under the influence of a power which is the same to-day that it was a thousand years ago; the same in the tropics and in the colder climes of the north; the power of passion in the heart of man. It was indeed a doctrine of fire, and its burden was the inalienable right of passion to sweep away every obstacle, to break down every barrier of law and custom, of oath and pledge, which stood between it and its aim.
A right which Hartmut Rojanow well understood and illustrated in the exercise of his own unbridled will, which knew no law and no duty, and to which self-gratification was the highest good.
The awakening of this passion, its mighty growth and final triumph, was described in words of ravishing eloquence, and depicted in pictures which seemed drawn, now from the purest heights of ideality, and now from the depths of the pit. The poet had done wisely to drape his characters with the veil of an oriental legend, for under this covering he might express sentiments and present scenes, which otherwise would scarcely have been forgiven, and he did this now with a boldness which threw glowing sparks into the souls of those who heard him, and held them enthralled as if by some infernal spell.
By the close of the second act, the success of Arivana was assured.
The work was presented with a skill and perfection of acting never surpassed on any stage. The actors in the two principal roles played their parts with a fire and perfection which could only have come from genuine enthusiasm. The heroine was no longer called Ada. That name was borne by a being who stood, strange and alone, in this restless world of surging passions; one of those half-fabulous creatures with whom the Indian legends people the icy summits of the Himalayas; cold and pure as the eternal snows which glisten in those lofty regions. She appeared only in one scene, and at the decisive moment of the drama, where she moved through the stormy action as if upon spirits’ pinions, warning and exhorting, and Egon was quite right when he said that the words which the poet put into her mouth were the most beautiful of the whole play.