ROBERTO IL DIAVOLO. (Meyerbeer.) ROBERT THE DEVIL.
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THE PROLOGUE.
Richard II., Duke of Normandy, who lived some forty years before the conquest of Great Britain by William, was without an heir to his dukedom. He prayed wearily for an heir—but never a child had he. At last he made a vow, in the presence of his courtiers, that if the demon’s power could grant him a son, he would dedicate that son to the demon himself—sell him and his soul to the fallen angel!
The courtiers were breathless with astonishment.
Soon they remarked a change in the king, of which he himself was not aware. His face altered—his brow grew dark and heavy—his step slow, firm, and yet light. All color left his cheeks, and his lips grew pale and thin. The veins of his forehead could be traced—a deep blue color wandering beneath the skin; and his eyes grew mournful in their light. His hair fell about his head in deep waving folds—and he seemed the victim of utter despair. Yet he was known by all as the duke—the same as ever, and yet wholly changed. Nobody who had known him before this change came on but bowed to him as the duke; yet all who had so known him whispered that he was changed as never man changed who was not possessed of a devil.
Then great wonders began to be marked in Normandy. Storms would rise without warning and sweep over the land as though heaven was wrath. And while the storms lasted, moans were heard in the air—low, wailing, gentle moans—like the sighs of angels. Then, too, from the deep caverns came loud clattering laughs—peal on peal—like mocking thunder.
Soon it became known that an heir would be born to the duke. Then might be seen stretching across the heavens a great flaming sword of fire, its edge ever trembling and surrounded by vaporous clouds.
At last, in a louder strain than any of that year—in the midst of shrieking winds such as had never before been heard by all who lived—the heir was born. Duke Richard was no longer childless!
Very beautiful was the child. But those who saw him, noticed that his features were like his father’s, that his skin was colorless, and that his eyes lacked the sparkling brightness of infancy.
The attention of the courtiers being fully roused, they began to observe that the father regained his old looks and ways. His color came back; his eyes again flashed brightly, the sound of his foot was again heard, and once more he laughed. And they said among themselves that the change they had marked was caused by anxiety, and that now his son was born to him, he was himself again.
Yet a few years, and there was more strange court news. The child was as no other child; he would tear birds to pieces, screaming with joy the while; and waking in the night,—he would creep from his bed, open the shutters of his windows to the wind, and remain there with these same winds tearing about his head till the day came—when he would slink away to his bed. He did not love the light, and when night time came, then only was it that his eyes sparkled.
Yet a little—and then it was known that he only was gentle when both his mother, and his foster-sister, Alice, were with him. Then he was as child-like as any other child, and would lisp his prayers quite readily. But Alice away, and his mother distant, again he became the strange weird creature he was whispered to be.
Then came the rumor a few years later, of an old white-haired man being found dead, a child’s jewelled dagger remaining in his breast.
Yet a few more years, and the whispers running through the court trickled out amongst the people, that the duke’s son was a demon!
Sad grew the father, sadder and sadder. But it was remarked that though his face grew grave and thoughtful, it was quite unlike the face he wore in that awful year before his son was born. And then it was whispered that if that time were referred to, the duke seemed lost, confused, and that then, and only then, something of that terrible look could be seen upon his countenance.
At last the heir was really grown a man; as handsome as any other in Normandy, as brave as any knight at court. But it was observed by many, that, handsome as he was, there was still a threat of the features which his father wore the year before he, Robert, was born.
Soon the people grew to detest the heir to the throne; for he swept through the land like a destroying angel. They abhorred him, and then it was they called him Robert the Devil!
Then, broken-hearted, utterly cast down, but never wearing the old terrible look, the father, greyhaired and weary of the world, exiled his only son from Normandy, forbade him the land of his birth, and drove him from it.
Henceforth, till the old duke died, the people never felt the hand of “Robert the Devil.” They heard of him, brave, fearless, terrible—ever conquering, never conquered, never even wounded. They heard of him, a monster—firing, destroying, waking up war wherever he placed his foot; and they trembled as they thought of the time when he should come to reign over them.
Meanwhile the old duke and the sorrowing lady prayed, hourly for their lost son; and joined in their prayers the lost son’s foster-sister, Alice.