Every place
is occupied, every box is crammed; rows of lights sparkle around the
darkened house, and the heat is a thing to be remembered afterwards.
There is a gorgeous ballet being acted on the stage, and Caesar is being
tempted by every variety of female art and posture, in a way which never
happens except to ballet heroes, and to Saint Anthony of Padua. The
dancing girls, however, dance in vain, and the orchestra plays to deaf
ears, for all voices are raised at once, and all eyes are turned from the
stage. The King has entered the royal box, and every lady in the long
tiers of boxes unfurls the tricolor-flag she bears in her hands and waves
it bravely. The whole house keeps rising, shouting, cheering. The
musicians lay down their instruments, and the ballet-girls drop their
postures and Caesar forgets his dignity, and one and all crowd forward on
the stage and join in the general cheering; and when the king leaves, the
curtain drops upon the unfinished ballet, and the whole house rush into
the piazza to see Victor Emmanuel again as he drives away.
The last time that my path comes across the kingly progress is at a
railway station. The long street of Parma, leading to the station, is
lined with a dense crowd; and the flowers and flags and triumphal arches
are to be seen in greater profusion here than even I have been accustomed
to before.
Pages:
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220