A Love Story, by a Bushman by - (classic literature books TXT) 📖

Chapter V

The Fête.

 

“Ye stars! which are the poetry of heaven!

If, in your bright leaves, we would read the fate

Of men and empires,—‘tis to be forgiven,

That, in our aspirations to be great,

Our destinies o’erleap their mortal state,

And claim a kindred with you.”

 

The night came on with its crescent moon and its myriads of stars: just

such a night as might have been wished for such a fête. It was in the

month of April. April dews, in Britain’s variable clime; are not the

most salubrious, and April’s night air is too often keen and piercing;

but the season was an unusually mild one; and the ladies, with their

cloaks and their furs, promenaded the well-lighted walks, determined to

be pleased and happy.

 

The giver of the fête was an enterprising Italian. Winter’s

amusements were over, or neglected—summer’s delights were not

arrived; and Signor Pacini conceived, that during the dull and

monotonous interval, a speculation of his own might prove welcome to

the public and beneficial to himself. To do the little man justice, he

was indefatigable in his exertions. From door to door he wended his

smiling way,—here praising the mother’s French, there the daughter’s

Italian. He gained hosts of partisans. “Of course you patronise

Pacini!” was in every one’s mouth. The Signor’s prospectus stated,

that “through the kindness of the steward of an influential nobleman,

who was now on the continent, he was enabled to give his fete in the

grounds of the Earl of W–-; where a full quadrille band would be in

attendance, a pavilion pitched on the smooth lawn facing the river,

and a comfortable ball room thrown open to a fashionable and

enlightened public. The performance would be most various, novel, and

exciting. Brilliant fireworks from Vauxhall would delight the eye, and

shed a charm on the fairy scene; whilst the car would be regaled with

the unequalled harmony of the Styrian brethren, Messrs. Schezer,

Lobau, and Berdan, who had very kindly deferred their proposed return

to Styria, in order to honour the fete of Signor Pacini.”

 

As night drew on, the mimic thunder of carriages hastening to the scene

of action, bespoke the Signor’s success. After the ninth hour, his

numbers swelled rapidly. Pacini assumed an amusing importance, and his

very myrmidons gave out their brass tickets with an air. At ten, a

rocket was fired. At this preconcerted signal, the pavilion, hitherto

purposely concealed, blazed in a flood of light. On its balcony stood

the three Styrian brethren,—although, by the way, they were not

brethren at all,—and, striking their harmonious guitars, wooed

attention to their strains. The crowd hurried down the walk, and formed

round the pavilion. Our party suddenly found themselves near the

Vernons. As the gentlemen endeavoured to obtain chairs for the ladies, a

crush took place, and Sir Henry was obliged to offer his arm to Julia,

who happened to be the nearest of her party. It was with pain Miss

Vernon noted his clouded brow, and look of abstraction; but hardly one

word of recognition had passed, before the deep voices of the Styrians

silenced all. After singing some effective songs, accompanied by a

zither, and performing a melodious symphony on a variety of Jew’s-harps;

Pacini, the manager, advanced to address his auditors, with that air of

smiling confidence which no one can assume with better grace than a

clever Italian. His dark eye flashed, and his whole features irradiated,

as he delivered the following harangue.

 

“Ladies and gentlemen! me trust you well satisfied wid de former

musical entertainment; but, if you permit, me mention one leetle

circonstance. Monsieur Schezer propose to give de song; but it require

much vat you call stage management: all must be silent as de grave. It

ver pretty morceau.”

 

The applause at the end of this speech was very great. Signor Pacini

bowed, till his face rivalled, in its hue, the rosy under-waistcoat in

which he rejoiced.

 

Schezer stepped forward. He was attired as a mountaineer. His hat

tapered to the top, and was crowned by a single heron feather. Hussars

might have envied him his moustaches. From his right side protruded a

couteau de chasse; and his legs were not a little set off by the

tight-laced boots, which, coming up some way beyond the ancle, displayed

his calf to the very best advantage.

 

The singer’s voice was a fine manly tenor, and did ample justice to the

words, of which the following may be taken as a free version.

 

“Mountains! dear mountains! on you have I passed my green youth; to me

your breeze has been fragrant from childhood. When may I see the chamois

bounding o’er your toppling crags? When, oh when, may I see my

fair-haired Mary?”

 

The minstrel paused—a sound was heard from behind the pavilion. It was

the mountain’s echo. It continued the air—then died away in the

softest harmony. All were charmed. Again the singer stepped

forward—the utmost silence prevailed—his tones became more

impassioned—they breathed of love.

 

“Thanks! thanks to thee, gentle echo! Oft hast thou responded to the

strains of love my soul poured to—ah me! how beautiful was the

fair-haired Mary!”

 

Again the echo spoke—again all were hushed. The minstrel’s voice rose

again; but its tones were not akin to joy.

 

“Why remember this, deceitful echo? War’s blast hath blown, and hushed

are the notes of love. The foe hath polluted my hearth—I wander an

exile. Where, where is Mary?”

 

The echo faintly but plaintively replied. There were some imagined that

a tear really started to the eye of the singer. He struck the guitar

wildly—his voice became more agitated—he advanced to the extremity of

the balcony.

 

“My sword! my sword! May my right hand be withered ere it forget to

grasp its hilt! One blow for freedom. Freedom—sweet as was the

lip—Yes! I’ll revenge my Mary!”

 

Schezer paused, apparently overcome by his emotion. The echo wildly

replied, as if registering the patriot’s vow. For a moment all was

still! A thundering burst of applause ensued.

 

The mountain music was succeeded by a sweep of guitars, accompanying a

Venetian serenade, whose burthen was the apostrophising the cruelty of