‘As I once did?’ replies Orso with frown terrific, like a black crest.  He turns broadly and receives the chorus of countrymen in paternal fashion—­an admirably acted bit of grave burlesque.

By this time the German portion of the audience had, by one or other of the senses, dimly divined that the opera was a shadow of something concealed—­thanks to the buffo-basso Lebruno.  Doubtless they would have seen this before, but that the Austrian censorship had seemed so absolute a safeguard.

‘My children! all are my children in this my gladsome realm!’ Count Orso says, and marches forth, after receiving the compliment of a choric song in honour of his paternal government.  Michiella follows him.

Then came the deep suspension of breath.  For, as upon the midnight you count bell-note after bell-note of the toiling hour, and know not in the darkness whether there shall be one beyond it, so that you hang over an abysm until Twelve is sounded, audience and actors gazed with equal expectation at the path winding round from the castle, waiting for the voice of the new prima donna.

‘Mia madre!’ It issued tremblingly faint.  None could say who was to appear.

Rocco Ricci struck twice with his baton, flung a radiant glance across his shoulders for all friends, and there was joy in the house.  Vittoria stood before them.

CHAPTER XX

THE OPERA OF CAMILLA

She was dressed like a noble damsel from the hands of Titian.  An Italian audience cannot but be critical in their first glance at a prima donna, for they are asked to do homage to a queen who is to be taken on her merits:  all that they have heard and have been taught to expect of her is compared swiftly with the observation of her appearance and her manner.  She is crucially examined to discover defects.  There is no boisterous loyalty at the outset.  And as it was now evident that Vittoria had chosen to impersonate a significant character, her indications of method were jealously watched for a sign of inequality, either in her, motion, or the force of her eyes.  So silent a reception might have seemed cruel in any other case; though in all cases the candidate for laurels must, in common with the criminal, go through the ordeal of justification.  Men do not heartily bow their heads until they have subjected the aspirant to some personal contest, and find themselves overmatched.  The senses, ready to become so slavish in adulation and delight, are at the beginning more exacting than the judgement, more imperious than the will.  A figure in amber and pale blue silk was seen, such as the great Venetian might have sketched from his windows on a day when the Doge went forth to wed the Adriatic a superb Italian head, with dark banded hair-braid, and dark strong eyes under unabashed soft eyelids!  She moved as, after long gazing at a painting of a fair woman, we may have the vision of her moving from the frame.  It was an animated picture of ideal Italia.  The sea of heads right up to the highest walls fronted her glistening, and she was mute as moonrise.  A virgin who loosens a dove from her bosom does it with no greater effort than Vittoria gave out her voice.  The white bird flutters rapidly; it circles and takes its flight.  The voice seemed to be as little the singer’s own.