The Madness At The Opera

"There was never a genius without a tincture of madness.”—Aristotle

Undoubtedly, there is a clear and vivid manifestation within the opera that fascinates and enthrals many people, with its inexplicable incantation. It is, indeed, a superb display of a pristine art form, in which librettos and musical scores are combined seamlessly within a theatrical setting that includes the varied elements of spoken theatre, acting, scenery, costumes, and dance—united within an ensemble of performers.

There is a human element, invisible yet inherent in the inception of opera, that binds the mind so drastically to its consequential effects: the powerful element of madness. This madness confines the mind to an unparalleled Pandora’s box. It manifests in the most abhorrent manner imaginable to mankind when the mind is at its most susceptible state of comprehension and awareness. At such moments, the mind can fail to distinguish reality from fantasy, and it may be so easily manipulated into believing that fantasy, becoming forever trapped within the echoing sounds of the incessant opera and its relentless vengeance.

The Theater an der Wien in Vienna, Austria, has always been a captivating attraction for the European aristocracy, its façade steeped in immemorial history since its distinguished inception. Situated on the Left Wienzeile in the Mariahilf district of the city, it was within this haunting theatre, years ago, that a mysterious composer once performed—a composer whose tale you are about to read.

His name was Dietrich Weiner, a gifted Austrian prodigy, whom the world has never truly recognised on a global scale. History remembers only the illustrious names: Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, Ludwig van Beethoven, George Frideric Handel, Johann Sebastian Bach, and Domenico Scarlatti. Yet, I had the honour of being educated by Weiner in the fine arts, and I revered his superb operatic compositions, which transcended the mélange of the Baroque and Classical periods. I admired his spirited panache, especially amid the conviviality his admirers so marvellously expressed following his unforgettable performances and operas.

The tale I now recount began in the year 1843 in Vienna, during a cold and wintry night in January. My name is Heinrich von Schuster, an Austrian composer of opera, and I was at my residence when I received a cordial invitation to the Theater an der Wien from a certain female tenor by the name of Hannah Grünewald.

My carriage conveyed me to the theatre, where I anticipated a spectacular and thrilling performance. Prior to my departure, I had been deep in contemplation over my latest opera, which I was soon to present at the renowned Teatro Capranica in Rome—a theatre famous for its array of remarkable Baroque opera premieres, including Caldara’s Tito e Berenice, Scarlatti’s Griselda, and Vivaldi’s Ercole sul Termodonte. It was at that same theatre where I first encountered the angelic voice of Lady Grünewald.

She was performing a wondrous opera, and I had been a bidden guest of my esteemed Italian compeer, Signor Francesco Lombardi. He introduced me to Lady Grünewald after the performance. Indeed, I was entirely captivated by her feminine persuasion and the irresistible charm that so vividly complemented her immense artistic talent, beneath her delicate and fair complexion. This intense allure she possessed, I soon discovered, was unlike that of any other woman I had met before.

Fortunately for me, I had arrived in ample time before the commencement of the opera. The theatre was packed to capacity; not a single seat remained in the lower half of the house, nor in the balconies above by the wings, where I found myself seated in keen anticipation. The night’s spectacle evoked memories of a wintry evening from my youth, when my father took me to witness the premiere of Die Ahnfrau by Franz Grillparzer in 1817.

Soon, the first act, set in the gardens of Lammermoor Castle, began. I listened, enraptured, to the magnificent strains of the harp solo composed by Donizetti, which preceded the aria ‘Regnava nel silenzio’. The harp and the violin had always been my favoured instruments since my tender infancy, and their familiar timbre stirred something deep within me.

I was aware of the esteemed reputation of the soprano who had performed the role of Lucia the night before—the celebrated Cornélie Falcon of France—but I was certain that Lady Grünewald would prove equally enthralling to the audience. As for the tenor portraying Sir Edgardo di Ravenswood, his name was unfamiliar to me, and I awaited his performance with curiosity.

As I sat engrossed in the opera, an usher approached discreetly and handed me a folded note. Its arrival was unexpected, and as I opened it under the dim glow of the theatre lights, I immediately perceived its contents to be surreptitious and unsettling. Though addressed to me personally, the message bore a veiled threat, its ominous tone arresting my attention at once.

According to the note, the theatre would soon be engulfed in flames, trapping everyone inside. The words were succinct yet deeply disturbing in nature. I could not be certain whether it was a macabre bluff or a grim jest, but I knew there was also the harrowing possibility that the dreadful threat might indeed come to pass.

My immediate reaction was one of uncertainty and disbelief. I studied the rows of seats within the theatre intently, seeking to discern who amongst the crowd might be the deranged author of the note. My instinct was to resolve the mystery at once and alert the usher to the shocking contents, yet I found myself strangely reluctant, hesitating for a moment in indecision.

Surely, I wondered, was I merely overreacting, falling prey to paranoia? If so, I would make myself a fool before all; but if not? That lingering doubt was enough to unnerve me into action. I excused myself promptly from the company around me and made my way to speak with the usher in the adjacent corridor, seeking privacy to disclose what I had learned.

The opera of three acts by Gaetano Donizetti was progressing on stage. Though I had seen this very opera before in Paris, performed in French, I was particularly eager to witness it now in its original Italian composition.

When I attempted to explain the note to the usher, he was far too busy to heed my concern. The opera continued, and the theatre staff were wholly preoccupied with their evening duties. Frustrated yet left with little recourse, I returned to my seat, only to find that Lady Grünewald was now performing her role as Lucia. Her presence was utterly arresting, and her thespian talent shone with sublime eloquence. The audience seemed enraptured, astounded by her powerful voice. At first, I tried to separate my enjoyment of the opera from the sinister incident of the note, but I found myself waiting anxiously, heart pounding, for her magnificent scene to draw to a close.

I decided, for the nonce, to dismiss the contents of the note. Thus, I remained seated as the second act of the opera continued uninterrupted. After several minutes had passed and Lady Grünewald had completed her magnificent performance, I rose to my feet, unable to restrain my mounting concern for the safety of the audience any longer. My instinct urged me to investigate the theatre further.

I contemplated questioning those seated around me, yet I hesitated, knowing that such enquiries might provoke unnecessary alarm. Still, I sensed that someone present must have witnessed something unusual. My thoughts turned at once to the usher. Upon asking him, he recounted that he had seen a man engaged in conversation with another unidentified gentleman earlier in the evening. The pressing question lingered: was this man a stranger, or simply an acquaintance of someone amongst the audience—or perhaps even one of the performers?

I searched the theatre meticulously from top to bottom, but no significant clue emerged amidst the captivated crowd, who remained wholly absorbed by the opera. Where exactly had this mysterious man been seen within the theatre? A terrible sense of anxiety and desperation engulfed me.

Immediately, I considered asking the usher whether he had noticed the men return to their seats. Yet, uncertainty plagued me—had they left quietly, unnoticed, or were they still somewhere within the theatre’s shadowed recesses? I lacked any concrete evidence to conclude that the two were part of a clandestine plot, save for the unsettling fact that they had been spotted at all.

Thus, I considered my options carefully, and the notion that the culprits were still inside the theatre remained a viable possibility I could not dismiss so easily. I endeavoured to quell my rising anxiety, but after ten agonising minutes had passed, the weight of uncertainty grew unbearable. Ever since the first distressing note had been handed to me, the situation had unfolded with increasing menace.

Once more, I approached the usher, determined to glean any further insight, when—to my dismay—he handed me another disconcerting note. This time, its contents were even more explicit and terrifying. According to the anonymous author, the theatre was to be set ablaze before the iconic scene of “Oh, giusto cielo!...Il dolce suono” (Lucia’s renowned “Mad Scene”) of Act 3. The note was undoubtedly from the same mysterious figure who had penned the earlier warning, again addressed directly to me.

No name was signed, and I remained unable to identify the audacious perpetrator. Yet one fact stood out with chilling clarity: the threat was real, and the scheme, meticulously planned. The note issued a single, unmistakable demand—that I refrain from alerting the authorities. This veiled threat was an implicit warning to me, a signal from a cowardly but cunning adversary. Who could this contemptible scoundrel be? What perverse game was he playing?

He might have been anywhere in the theatre, hidden in plain sight, watching my every move, scrutinising my every reaction. I could no longer conceal my frustration or my deepening apprehension. Crucially, this second note bore a clue—a subtle but telling hint—suggesting the culprit’s possible location within the theatre. Yet the challenge that lay before me now seemed all the more desperate, infused with a growing sense of panic and dread.

In spite of the horrific predicament confronting me, I knew I must maintain an air of equanimity in both mien and introspection, lest I draw undue attention from the prying onlookers around me. Yet, in the depths of my mind, I perceived with growing certainty that one among these persons was perhaps the devilish rogue I sought. The feasibility of this villain being a member of the opera’s cast was an inevitable suspicion I could not ignore. No one present at the Theatre an der Wien that night could be excluded from consideration. Could he be lurking amidst the green and silver hues of the auditorium’s ornate galleries? Or was he seated in the parterre, near the orchestra, blending seamlessly with the rapt audience?

It was, undeniably, like searching for a needle in a haystack, and my slender stock of clues afforded me little guidance in this delicate and dangerous investigation. The villain’s daring allusion had revealed a masterful duplicity—an elaborate subterfuge crafted with cunning precision. I wondered uneasily whether his fiendish plot might be but a fragment of a grander scheme, born of some delusional and malevolent mind. Such a presupposition was unnerving to conceive with any clarity or rational calm. Yet I was bound, by the threat's ominous dictate, to eschew the involvement of the police. How was I to resolve this baffling quandary unaided, left to my own wits and limited resources?

And then—something curious on the stage caught my eye, compelling my attention with an almost magnetic force. Towards the rear of the stage, I noticed a crossover that led discreetly to a dressing room, half-shrouded in shadow. At that moment, no cast members nor ushers were in sight; the passage lay eerily deserted.

Sensing my fleeting opportunity, I seized a lantern from the theatre’s side and ventured cautiously toward the singular passage I had glimpsed from above. The opera had entered Act 3, and I was keenly aware that precious little time remained. The utmost importance of locating the deranged arsonist now rested on a series of improbable and precarious factors—ones I was not at all certain I could command. The identity of my supposed adversary remained as inscrutable and insoluble as ever.

The only true certainty I had grasped as reality was the threat posed by this madman; yet it remained unclear whether I would succeed in finding him within the theatre, or whether he was concealed somewhere beyond my knowledge of its precise location. A sudden eeriness overcame me as I proceeded cautiously. I observed the delicate webwork of broken cobwebs trailing across the dim passage. And there, ahead of me, stood a singular and peculiar figure—a stranger clad entirely in black, from head to foot. His inconspicuous guise startled me to the very core of my already unsettled nerves and anxious preoccupation. The lantern in my hand was the only source of light illuminating my search.

At first, the darkly dressed stranger, who stood impassively before me, uttered not a single word as I addressed him. He wore a black cape, a top hat, and a bauta mask, which together formed the distinctive hallmarks of his unsettling appearance. By his side, he bore a luminous gold walking stick, a detail that suggested a certain air of stature or affectation. I recognised his familiar attire at once—from the night before, when I had departed the Theater in der Josefstadt after witnessing a marvellous performance by Fanny Elssler, the celebrated Austrian ballerina of the Romantic period. He was the exact man who had been shadowing me as I walked the darkened streets that murky night.

As I ventured a step closer, he abruptly raised his hand and commanded me to stop, forbidding me from advancing further. It was the first time I had heard his voice—an utterance clear and deliberate.

‘Do not come closer!’

‘Who are you, mysterious man, and what do you want?’ I asked, my voice edged with rising frustration.

‘Who am I, you ask?’ He replied.

‘I shall not indulge in this insidious game of yours. Are you the true author of the notes? Speak now—why are you threatening to burn the theatre?’

There was a pause, and then he spoke again, his tone tinged with something almost mocking. ‘I see that time and fame have caused you to forget your memorable past, Heinrich'.

‘Who are you? How do you know my name?’ I demanded.

‘Do you not recognise my voice, Heinrich?’

The more he spoke, the more I began to recognise that hauntingly familiar voice from the past. ‘Mein Gott…Dietrich Weiner! You cannot be him—you are dead!’

‘Yes, Heinrich,’ he hissed, with a sinister relish, ‘I am the great composer, Dietrich Weiner. I have risen from the grave to avenge my death upon this very night!’

Slowly, with deliberate theatricality, he removed his distinctive bauta mask, and I was at last able to descry his grotesque and disfigured countenance, hideously marred by the burnt scars that ravaged his face.

‘How can this be? I thought you were dead, Herr Weiner!’ I exclaimed, recoiling at the dreadful sight.

‘That is precisely what the world was led to believe, Heinrich. For years, I have lurked in the dark recesses of Vienna’s underworld—unseen, unheard, forgotten. But tonight, all of that changes. The world will witness my miraculous and triumphant return'.

‘Why have you done this? Why all of this, Herr Weiner?’ I pressed him, my voice trembling with incredulity.

His eyes gleamed with a feverish intensity. ‘Because you stole my rightful place—my legacy! I was destined to dazzle and conquer the world with my magnificent operatic compositions. The glory was mine by right! And yet now… now I am but a grotesque wretch, a freak of nature, left to languish in obscurity, hidden behind these scars that seared my body and soul with intractable indignation!’

‘What are you talking about, Herr Weiner?’ I demanded again, my heart pounding with growing dread.

A devilish smirk curled upon his lips before he leant in slightly and reiterated, his voice laced with venom, ‘You were never a foolish boy when you were young, Heinrich. You were a fine pupil…but you were always hopelessly naïve in your judgement of women'.

'You were an excellent mentor, Herr Weiner. How did you survive the infernal flames of the Odéon-Théâtre de l'Europe in Paris? The newspapers reported your death!’ I exclaimed, my mind reeling at the impossibility before me.

‘I did not die—I survived!’ he thundered, his voice echoing eerily through the narrow passage. ‘I was left to perish in that wretched theatre on that cursed night—abandoned by the world. Do you not remember, Heinrich?’

‘What are you saying, Herr Weiner? Have you gone completely mad? You were trapped in the fire—there was no escape!’ I protested, my voice rising in disbelief.

He began to tremble with visible rage, his eyes blazing with a frenzied light. I saw at that moment the unmistakable signs of a mind unhinged, a man teetering on the edge of reason. I steeled myself and implored him, ‘Herr Weiner, you are evidently in need of medical attention. Your mind—your brilliant mind—has led you into madness! I entreat you, please, abandon this absurd notion of vengeance. It will bring you nothing but further misery.’

Once more, that sinister smile crept across his scarred visage, and he began his bitter tirade, his voice dripping with venomous resentment. ‘If it had not been for your despicable greed for fame and fortune, Heinrich, I would have reigned supreme as the greatest composer in all Europe! You stole what was rightfully mine—my acclaim, my legacy!’

‘I don’t understand what you are accusing me of, Herr Weiner!’ I cried, shaking my head, desperate to reason with him. ‘I was your devoted pupil—you were my exceptional mentor! I had nothing to do with the fire that destroyed you. I swear it!’

The air between us thickened with a palpable tension as Herr Weiner’s twisted gaze never left me. His anger seemed to grow, becoming more erratic, and I feared he might lash out at any moment. His words came through clenched teeth, each syllable sharpened with venom.

‘Mad, it is you who are mad and evil. You are the cause of my callous misfortune and ugliness!’ he spat, the words expressed with a vengeance.

‘It was not me, I tell you, Herr Weiner! You are sorely mistaken. I did not cause the fire. It must have been someone else!’ I insisted, my voice shaking with a mix of fear and desperation.

‘Liar! You are lying to save yourself, Heinrich!’ His eyes burnt with an intensity that seemed to transcend mere anger. There was a madness in them now, a gleaming passion that bordered on insanity, and I could see how truly unhinged he had become. His whole body trembled with fury, and I realised this was no longer a conversation but a battle for his very soul.

‘You are not well, Herr Weiner! Where have you been all this time?’ I asked, my mind racing for answers.

His laugh was hollow, dark, and chilling. ‘How can you expect me to be normal, when my face is disfigured and my dreams destroyed? I have been condemned to the wretched chambers of darkness and dreariness, Heinrich, ever since that terrible night of the fire. There is no redemption for me… no salvation’, he said, his voice quivering with self-pity and bitter remorse.

I could see the despair in his eyes, but it was warped by rage, making him even more dangerous. My heart sank as I realised he was a man broken beyond recognition.

‘Herr Weiner, there is still time for you to regain your sanity and your former grandeur. Do not commit this insane act of murder! Do not burn the theatre down!’ I pleaded, taking a step towards him, but he backed away, his cane held firmly as if to ward me off.

He shook his head violently. ‘Yes, yes, I shall regain my status and fame anew! I cannot allow you to reap what I have sown with my effort and talent. You have stolen everything from me, Heinrich!’ He was nearly shouting now, the words tumbling out in a manic blur.

‘Think, Herr Weiner, by killing me you will not achieve your objective! I once admired you as a child. Even now, I still admire your brilliance. I repeat, I did not cause the fire!’ I tried to steady my voice, hoping my words could reach some part of him that still recognised reason.

For a moment, there was silence. The only sound was the faint echo of distant opera notes filtering through the walls, which seemed absurdly out of place in the weight of the situation. Then, his lips curled into a wretched smile, one that sent a shiver down my spine.

‘You still do not understand, do you, Heinrich? It was never about the fire. It was always about the world forgetting me, casting me aside like a relic of a forgotten age. And you, you who were once my protege, have become everything I could not be. You took what should have been mine, and now I shall take everything from you’.

I realised then that this man was beyond reasoning. He had already made up his mind, and there was nothing I could say to change it. The theatre, his obsession, and the vengeance burning inside him had consumed him entirely.

The distinct sound of footfalls was heard approaching the dressing room, and there behind us stood Lady Grünewald, dressed in a white silk gown.

‘Papa, he is correct. He did not set the theatre on fire—it was I who caused the fire’.

‘What are you saying, Hannah?’

‘It was a terrible accident, Papa—you were not supposed to be there at the time of the fire.’

She stared into my eyes with a maddening repulsion and pointed at me.

‘It was supposed to be him, not you! Heinrich Von Schuster was meant to die on that tragic night, Papa.’

‘Mein Gott!’ uttered Herr Weiner.

‘Kill me? What motive would you have to murder me, Lady Grünewald?’ I asked.

‘Your pompous attitude and your acclaim! Had you died that night, Papa would have been immortalised forever as one of the greatest composers of Austria and Europe!’

I was stunned by her blatant confession and her rage, horrified by the ghastly vengeance she sought. From beneath her white silk gown, she drew a pistol and pointed it at me.

‘The end is near, Heinrich Von Schuster. You must now pay for everything you did to Papa’.

‘You are insane, like your beloved father. Please, do not kill me, for I am not to blame for the cruelty inflicted upon your father. I admired his brilliance, and his operas have inspired me to this day. If I am to be blamed for your father's misfortune, then it is for my failure to recognise his dreadful fate afterwards. You must understand that I did not know he was alive. I offer him my assistance willingly, and it is not too late. He was once my mentor, and for that reason, I shall attempt to help restore his sanity, if he allows me’.

‘Hush, I can hear the applause and the clamour of the audience. They are calling you, Papa—the great Dietrich Weiner!’

She looked at her father for a moment, and sensing her distraction, I attempted to grab the pistol from her hand. We struggled for control of the weapon, and in the heat of the moment, it discharged. There was a swift shot, and the bullet accidentally struck Herr Weiner. He slowly fell to the ground, lingering in the grip of death. The Lady Grünewald immediately rushed to his side, but it was too late. Herr Weiner had died from the bullet wound to his chest. A deafening scream echoed from the Lady Grünewald as she realised her beloved father was dead. She held him tightly in her arms, weeping uncontrollably, while I stood motionless, watching them.

After a moment, she rose to her feet, wiped away her tears, and hurried to the stage to resume her role in the opera. Before she left, she fixed her gaze on me and declared, 'The world will now know of the great Dietrich Weiner, my devoted father!'

I do not know if it was a mere coincidence, but it was precisely at that moment that the aria 'Oh, giusto cielo!...Il dolce suono' from Lucia's 'Mad Scene' echoed through the theatre. She took the pistol, pressed it to her temple, and shot herself with a single bullet. The blood began pouring down her face, and the audience was horrified by the dreadful scene unfolding before them.

The Lady Grünewald gazed at the audience, who had gasped in collective horror. Everyone in the theatre, including myself, bore witness to the tragic end of the troubled Lady Grünewald. Within minutes, she was dead. Before she passed, she screamed to the audience, 'Long live Dietrich Weiner, the greatest composer of Austria!'

Her fathomless death was a sad reminder of what madness could drive a person to commit, with such fervent, unnecessary passion. A cigar was discovered afterwards, lying near a large container of black powder, with a long fuse made of rope. Had the cigar reached the rope, it would have caused an explosion and the deaths of many guests at the Theatre an der Wien.

The theatre lay silent now, the seats empty, the velvet curtains drawn. Outside, the streets of Vienna were blanketed in a quiet snow, yet inside, an air of tragedy still hung thick and suffocating. I sat alone in the dressing room, my hands trembling as they clutched a crumpled letter—the final note from Lady Grünewald, written in hurried, jagged script.

Forgive me, it read. But forgiveness will never heal the wound I carry within. Papa’s name shall be immortal, no matter the cost.

I closed my eyes, the echo of her last words on stage still ringing in my ears. Her lifeless body, crumpled upon the boards, had been swiftly covered, yet no curtain could conceal the horror seared into the memories of all who had witnessed that final, gruesome act.

A soft knock sounded at the door, and a theatre usher entered hesitantly. ‘Herr Von Schuster, the police have concluded their investigation. They say the theatre will reopen in the spring.’

I nodded numbly, unable to speak. How could one resume life after such calamity? The opera may have ended, but its tragedy lingered in every corner of that cursed building. Rising slowly, I walked to the window and gazed out into the Vienna night, my heart heavy with sorrow.

For even though the world would soon applaud once more, I knew that the true finale had already been sung—one of love, madness, and the unbearable weight of vengeance.

Herr Weiner and his unstable daughter had devised a plan to murder me and the others within the theatre, but their ingenious plot ultimately led to their own demise. When I was interviewed at the police station in Vienna, I described every revealing detail I could recall. I mentioned my relationship with Lady Grünewald and Herr Weiner and handed over the daunting notes that had been written and addressed to me.

The Vienna police believed my account and included my deposition in their investigation. The two men who had been conversing in the theatre were never charged. The case was ultimately closed, and I was absolved of any criminal involvement in the plot to burn down the Theatre an der Wien.

It had been a week since that fateful night, yet my mind remained shackled by its horrors. Compelled by something I could not explain, I returned to the Theatre an der Wien, seeking closure, or perhaps answers that reason could not provide. The corridors were cold and eerily silent, the echo of my footsteps the only sound that accompanied me as I wandered aimlessly, drawn deeper into the labyrinthine backstage passages.

Then, as if by instinct, I came upon a door I did not recall seeing before—a narrow, unmarked door wedged between two forgotten dressing rooms. An inexplicable chill coursed through me as I pushed it open.

The room was long and narrow, lined entirely with ancient mirrors, their silvered surfaces dimmed with age and dust. A heavy stillness hung in the air, as though time itself had been suspended within these walls. I stepped inside, the door creaking shut behind me.

As I gazed into the nearest mirror, a sudden wave of dread washed over me. For in that fractured glass, alongside my own reflection, I saw her—Lady Grünewald. Her face was pale and ethereal, her eyes hollow yet piercing, fixed upon mine with a sorrowful intensity that froze the blood in my veins.

‘You...’ I whispered, my voice cracking in disbelief.

Her lips moved, but no sound came at first. Then, faintly, like the last note of a dying aria, I heard her voice: ‘The music never ends, Heinrich... nor does the torment'.

She lifted a ghostly hand to the glass, her fingers brushing the surface from the other side of existence. The mirror shimmered, ripples of silver spreading outward like water disturbed by a single drop. I stumbled back, my heart hammering wildly.

‘Why are you here?’ I managed to utter.

Her expression twisted with anguish. ‘Papa’s legacy...my fate... forever bound to this place. You have escaped, but I remain—a reflection of tragedy, caught between worlds'.

Suddenly, the mirrors around me flickered with images of that dreadful night: Herr Weiner’s collapse, the opera’s haunting chorus, the fatal gunshot. Each shard of glass bore a fragment of the past, a relentless replay of madness and grief.

I turned to flee, my pulse thundering in my ears, but her voice called after me, louder now, echoing through the room: ‘Do not forget, Heinrich... the opera is never truly over!’

I burst from the room, slamming the door behind me. Breathless and shaken, I found myself once again in the quiet corridor, the theatre as still and lifeless as when I had entered. And yet, deep within me, I knew—some tragedies linger far beyond their final curtain.

Every time I thought of the tragic circumstances that led to the ghastly deaths of Lady Grünewald and Herr Weiner, I would awake from a horrific nightmare that burdened my conscience and soul relentlessly. Is it possible that the condemnation of one’s own soul can be borne so purposely by another, or is that traumatic burden too invincible in the end to conquer?

It is difficult to draw tangible comparisons to the actual events of the opera Lucia di Lammermoor, which was performed on that winter’s night in 1843, but the morose tragedy that unfolded remains forever parallel to the merciless fate of Lady Grünewald, who loved in the truest sense of the word. The madness at the opera was twofold; her blinding devotion, concealed within an insatiable thirst for vengeance, ultimately doomed her sublime destiny and remarkable musical talent.

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