In The Afternoon We Were Sitting Beneath The Shade Of Our Tamarind Tree,
When We Thought We Could Perceive Our Musical Friend Returning.
As he
drew near, we were convinced that it was the identical minstrel, who had
most probably been sent with a message from Mek Nimmur.
There he was, in
snow-white raiment, on the snow-white mule, with the mounted attendant
and the violin as before. He dismounted upon arrival opposite the camp,
and approached with his usual foppish bow; but we looked on in
astonishment: it was not our Paganini, it was ANOTHER MINSTREL! who was
determined to sing an ode in our praise. I felt that this was an
indirect appeal to Maria Theresa, and I at once declared against music.
I begged him not to sing; "my wife had a headache - I disliked the
fiddle - could He play anything else instead?" and I expressed a variety
of polite excuses, but to no purpose; he insisted upon singing. If I
disliked the fiddle, he would sing without an accompaniment, but he
could not think of insulting so great a man as myself by returning
without an ode to commemorate our arrival.
I was determined that he should NOT sing; he was determined that he
WOULD, therefore I desired him to leave my camp. This he agreed to do,
provided I would allow him to cross the stream and sing to my Tokrooris
in my praise, beneath a neighboring tree about fifty yards distant. He
remounted his mule with his violin, to ford the muddy stream, and
descended the steep bank, followed by his attendant on foot, who drove
the unwilling mule.
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