About ten minutes after this, Baroni again appeared in his rough
great-coat, and with his violin. He gave a scrape or two, and the
audience became orderly. He played an air, and then turning to Sidonia,
looking at him with great scrutiny, he said, 'Sir, you are a prince.'
'On the contrary,' said Sidonia, 'I am nothing; I am only an artist like
yourself.'
'Ah!' said Baroni, 'an artist like myself! I thought so. You have
taste. And what is your line? Some great theatre, I suppose, where
even if one is ruined, one at least has the command of capital. 'Tis a
position. I have none. But I have no rebels in my company, no traitors.
With one mind and heart we get on, and yet sometimes----' and here a
signal near him reminded him that he must be playing another air, and in
a moment the curtain separated in the middle, and exhibited a circular
stage on which there were various statues representing the sacred story.
There were none of the usual means and materials of illusion at hand;
neither space, nor distance, nor cunning lights; it was a confined
tavern room with some glaring tapers, and Sidonia himself was almost
within arm's reach of the performers. Yet a representation more
complete, more finely conceived, and more perfectly executed, he had
never witnessed.
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