‘At Bologna, O Signori, they deemed this representation worthy of wax-light. We gave it in the Piazza before two thousand spectators, who, if less great or beautiful than those we see here, were yet bountiful in their generosity! Sound the drum, comare mia said he, addressing the old woman, ‘and let the spirit-rousing roll inspire heroic longings. A blast of the tromb, figlio mio will set these noble hearts high-beating for a tale of chivalry.’ The deafening clamour of drum and trumpet resounded through the air, and came back in many an echo from across the Arno; but, alas! they awoke no responsive sympathies in the audience, who probably having deemed that the spectacle might be partly gratuitous, showed already signs of thinning away. ‘Are you going, Illustrissimi Signori, cried he, more energetically, ‘going without one view, one passing glance at the castle on the Guadalquivir, with its court of fountains, all playing and splashing like real water; going without a look at the high-pooped galleon, as she sailed forth at morn, with the banner of the house of Callemacho waving from the mast, while the signal guns are firing a salute, the high cliffs of Carthagena reverberating with the sound? ‘A loud ‘bom’ from the drum gave testimony to the life-like reality of the description. ‘Going,’ screamed he, more eagerly still, ‘without witnessing the palace of the Moorish king, lit up at night—ten thousand lanterns glittering along its marble terraces, while strains of soft music fill the air? A gentle melody, figlio mio, whispered he to the boy beside him.
‘Let them go, in the devil’s name!’ broke out the old woman, whose harsh accents at once proclaimed our old acquaintance Donna Gaetana.
‘What says she—what says the Donna?’ cried three or four of the crowd in a breath.
‘She says that we ‘ll come back in the daylight, Signori,’ broke in the old man, in terror, ‘and sing our native songs of Calabria, and show our native dances. We know well, O gentle public, that poor ignorant creatures like ourselves are but too rash to appear before you great Florentines, citizens of Michel Angelo, dwellers with Benvenuto, companions of Boccaccio!’
‘And not a quatrino among ye!’ yelled out the old hag, with a laugh of scorn.
A wild cry of anger burst from the crowd, who, breaking the circle, now rushed in upon the strollers.
In vain the Babbo protested, explained, begged, and entreated. He declared the company to be the highest, the greatest, the richest, he had ever addressed; himself and his companions the vilest and least worthy of humanity. He asseverated in frantic tones his belief, that from the hour when he should lose their favour no fortune would ever attend on him, either in this world or the next.
But of what avail was it that he employed every eloquence at his command, while the Donna, with words of insult, and gestures more offensive still, reviled the ‘base rabble,’ and with all the virulence of her coarse nature hurled their poverty in their teeth?
‘Famished curs!’ cried she. ‘How would ye have a soldo, when your nobles dine on parched beans, and drink the little sour wine of Ponteseive?’
A kick from a strong foot, that sent it through the parchment of the drum with a loud report, answered this insolent taunt, and gave the signal for a general attack. Down went the little wooden edifice, which embodied the life and fortunes of the Don and the fair Princess of Cordova; down went the Babbo himself over it, amid a crash of properties, that created a yell of laughter in the mob. All the varied insignia of the cunning craft, basins and bladders, juggling sticks, hoops, and baskets, flew right and left, in wild confusion. Up to this time Gerald had witnessed the wreck unmoved, his whole care being to keep the crowd from pressing too rudely upon Marietta, who clung to him for protection. Indeed, the frantic struggles of old Gaetana, as she laid about her with her drum-sticks, had already provoked the youth’s laughter, when, at a cry from the girl, he turned quickly around.