_A New Star Rises_
ANOTHER season had arrived, another of those magical periods of which
one had already witnessed his unparalleled triumphs, and from which
he had derived such exquisite delight. To his surprise, he viewed its
arrival without emotion; if with any feeling, with disgust.
He had quaffed the cup too eagerly. The draught had been delicious; but
time also proved that it had been satiating. Was it possible for his
vanity to be more completely gratified than it had been? Was it possible
for victories to be more numerous and more unquestioned during the
coming campaign than during the last? Had not his life, then, been one
long triumph? Who had not offered their admiration? Who had not paid
homage to his all-acknowledged empire? Yet, even this career, however
dazzling, had not been pursued, even this success, however brilliant,
had not been attained, without some effort and some weariness, also some
exhaustion. Often, as he now remembered, had his head ached; more than
once, as now occurred to him, had his heart faltered. Even his first
season had not passed over without his feeling lone in the crowded
saloon, or starting at the supernatural finger in the banqueting-hall.
Yet then he was the creature of excitement, who pursued an end which
was as indefinite as it seemed to be splendid. All had now happened that
could happen. He drooped. He required the impulse which we derive from
an object unattained.
Yet, had he exhausted life at two-and-twenty? This must not be. His
feelings must be more philosophically accounted for. He began to suspect
that he had lived too much for the world and too little for himself;
that he had sacrificed his ease to the applause of thousands, and
mistaken excitement for enjoyment. His memory dwelt with satisfaction on
the hours which had so agreeably glided away at Brighton, in the choice
society of a few intimates. He determined entirely to remodel the system
of his life; and with the sanguine impetuosity which characterised him,
he, at the same moment, felt that he had at length discovered the road
to happiness, and determined to pursue it without the loss of a precious
moment.
The Duke of St. James was seen less in the world, and he appeared but
seldom at the various entertainments which he had once so adorned. Yet
he did not resign his exalted position in the world of fashion; but,
on the contrary, adopted a course of conduct which even increased
his consideration. He received the world not less frequently or less
splendidly than heretofore; and his magnificent mansion, early in the
season, was opened to the favoured crowd. Yet in that mansion, which had
been acquired with such energy and at such cost, its lord was almost as
strange, and certainly not as pleased, an inmate as the guests, who felt
their presence in his chambers a confirmation, or a creation, of their
claims to the world’s homage. The Alhambra was finished, and there
the Duke of St. James entirely resided; but its regal splendour was
concealed from the prying eye of public curiosity with a proud reserve,
a studied secrecy, and stately haughtiness becoming a caliph. A small
band of initiated friends alone had the occasional entrée, and the
mysterious air which they provokingly assumed whenever they were
cross-examined on the internal arrangements of this mystical structure,
only increased the number and the wildness of the incidents which
daily were afloat respecting the fantastic profusion and scientific
dissipation of the youthful sultan and his envied viziers.
The town, ever since the season commenced, had been in feverish
expectation of the arrival of a new singer, whose fame had heralded her
presence in all the courts of Christendom. Whether she were an Italian
or a German, a Gaul or a Greek, was equally unknown. An air of mystery
environed the most celebrated creature in Europe. There were odd
whispers of her parentage. Every potentate was in turn entitled to the
gratitude of mankind for the creation of this marvel. Now it was an
emperor, now a king. A grand duke then put in his claim, and then an
archduke. To-day she was married, tomorrow she was single. To-day her
husband was a prince incog., to-morrow a drum-major well known. Even
her name was a mystery; and she was known and worshipped throughout the
whole civilised world by the mere title of ‘_The Bird of Paradise!_’
About a month before Easter telegraphs announced her arrival. The
Admiralty yacht was too late. She determined to make her first
appearance at the opera: and not only the young Duke, but even a
far more exalted personage, was disappointed in the sublime idea of
anticipating the public opinion by a private concert. She was to appear
for the first time on Tuesday; the House of Commons adjourned.
The curtain is drawn up, and the house is crowded. Everybody is there
who is anybody. Protocoli, looking as full of fate as if the French were
again on the Danube; Macaroni, as full of himself as if no other being
were engrossing universal attention. The Premier appears far more
anxious than he does at Council, and the Duke of Burlington arranges his
fanlike screen with an agitation which, for a moment, makes him forget
his unrivalled nonchalance. Even Lady Bloomerly is in suspense, and
even Charles Annesley’s heart beats. But ah! (or rather, bah!) the
enthusiasm of Lady de Courcy! Even the young Guardsman, who paid her
Ladyship for her ivory franks by his idle presence, even he must have
felt, callous as those young Guardsmen are.
Will that bore of a tenor ever finish that provoking aria, that we have
heard so often? How drawlingly he drags on his dull, deafening--
_Êccola!_
Have you seen the primal dew ere the sun has lipped the pearl? Have you
seen a summer fly, with tinted wings of shifting light, glance in the
liquid noontide air? Have you marked a shooting star, or watched a young
gazelle at play? Then you have seen nothing fresher, nothing brighter,
nothing wilder, nothing lighter, than the girl who stands before you!
She was infinitely small, fair, and bright. Her black hair was braided
in Madonnas over a brow like ivory; a deep pure pink spot gave lustre
to each cheek. Her features were delicate beyond a dream! her nose quite
straight, with a nostril which would have made you crazy, if you had not
already been struck with idiocy by gazing on her mouth. She a singer!
Impossible! She cannot speak. And, now we look again, she must sing with
her eyes, they are so large and lustrous!
The Bird of Paradise curtsied as if she shrunk under the overwhelming
greeting, and crossed her breast with arms that gleamed like moonbeams
and hands that glittered like stars. This gave time to the _cognoscenti_
to remark her costume, which was ravishing, and to try to see her
feet; but they were too small. At last Lord Squib announced that he
had discovered them by a new glass, and described them as a couple of
diamond-claws most exquisitely finished.
She moved her head with a faint smile, as if she distrusted her powers
and feared the assembly would be disappointed, and then she shot forth
a note which thrilled through every heart and nearly cracked the
chandelier. Even Lady Fitz-pompey said ‘Brava!’ As she proceeded the
audience grew quite frantic. It was agreed on all hands that miracles
had recommenced. Each air was sung only to call forth fresh exclamations
of ‘Miracolo!’ and encores were as unmerciful as an usurper.
Amid all this rapture the young Duke was not silent. His box was on the
stage; and ever and anon the syren shot a glance which seemed to tell
him that he was marked out amid this brilliant multitude. Each round of
applause, each roar of ravished senses, only added a more fearful action
to the wild purposes which began to flit about his Grace’s mind. His
imagination was touched. His old passion to be distinguished returned
in full force. This creature was strange, mysterious, celebrated. Her
beauty, her accomplishments, were as singular and as rare as her destiny
and her fame. His reverie absolutely raged; it was only disturbed by her
repeated notice and his returned acknowledgments. He arose in a state
of mad excitation, once more the slave or the victim of his intoxicated
vanity. He hurried behind the scenes. He congratulated her on her
success, her genius, and her beauty; and, to be brief, within a week of
her arrival in our metropolis, the Bird of Paradise was fairly caged in
the Alhambra.