Works of grant allen, p.451
Works of Grant Allen, page 451
The Signora interposed. She saw the One-eyed Calender visibly waver. She tried a subterfuge “One soldo in ten, up to ten soldi; one in five for all you earn after.”
I stamped my foot. “I have spoken my ultimatum,” I cried. “One in five — or nothing. I am free to leave you. How often should I ever earn more than ten? But that is not the point You have heard my terms. An ultimatum is an ultimatum.”
The One-eyed Calender put his left thumb to his teeth and stared at me fixedly. Then he spoke again in the unknown tongue to the Signora. She gave way sullenly, letting her hands drop by her side. From that day forth, the One-eyed Calender respected me enormously.
And, indeed, I am not built of the stuff that meekly yields to the tyranny of capital. I stood up for my rights from the first I had left my comfortable and luxurious home — the well-provided home of a landed proprietor on the Monti Berici — for freedom’s sake, and voluntarily embraced the hard life of the road, that I might be my own mistress. And was I then to knuckle down before arrogant capitalism? Was this one-eyed Rothschild in a tattered shirt and a small way of business to walk over me roughshod (in his second-hand boots), simply because he had managed to possess himself of the reserve-fund of foodstuffs in the shape of panettone, and the instrument of production in his strident grinding-wheel? Ten thousand times no! The blood of the Lupari rose against such oppression.
I did not yet know how much or how little I might be likely to earn by my artistic energies; but from the very first night I made up my mind to this — that what I earned should be my own, not any complexion of capitalist’s. I fought for a principle. The principle would be the same if I were Patti and he the impresario of some famous opera-house.
So we went on our way towards Paris, rejoicing — and also sorrowing, just as the mood and the market took us. On, past white towns that jut on promontories; on, past bays of oily sea, zoned with belts of darker and lighter blue like watered silk; on, up the dry rocks that hem in the Rhône valley. At first, I aspired to no more than such unpremeditated dramatic exhibitions — mere spontaneous play of a child with her puppets. But as time went on, and I began to earn more, I took greater pains with the study of my monologue, and also incidentally with my scenery and dresses. At some places in Provence we made as much as twenty or thirty sous in a day; and then it became apparent that, as a commercial speculation, it was worth our while to spend a trifle on tinsel and spangles, both for myself and my dollies. Ferdinand had now slashed sleeves to his doublet, and Miranda was richly dight in a rag of white satin — only three sons the triangular remnant, cut on the bias! Bit by bit the fantastic performance grew, till, as we reached the centre of France, I had developed into a little impromptu actress, delivering monologues half remembered from books, half of my own composition, and interspersed with puppet-shows and appropriate dances. I managed it all out of my own head, without even imagining myself to be doing anything out of the common.
Another consequence was, that the Calender’s wife found it worth her while to dress me properly. The Signora was herself a slattern, in that advanced stage of dissolution where pins have wholly superseded buttons; but she saw that it paid to keep me tidy. My Italian costume contributed not a little to the success of the entertainment; people love that slight flavour of the alien and the exotic which raises art above the level of the commonplace. So, as our budget swelled, the Calender’s wife took care to prank me out in a somewhat theatrical peasant garb, which recalled, I must confess, the Roman Campagna rather than my own Venetian mainland. This helped to preserve my self-respect; for I kept my head up. However ill my padrone and his wife might be attired, I at least went flashing through the towns of Provence in scarlet and orange.
At the outset, too, I trusted for my plots to memory. But in time I began to find my small repertory pall; besides, I forgot more and more the original books, and was thrown more and more on my inventive faculty. I am afraid the hash I made of The Merchant of Venice would have turned Sir Henry Irving’s hair prematurely grey, could he only have heard it. I was still mainly dependent for subjects on Shakespeare, who, strange to say, knew what drama was quite as well as I did. I tried Dante, indeed, but found him wanting: Dante is not dramatic. The Thousand and One Nights supplied me with a play or two — notably Aladdin, and to a less degree Ali Baba — but the mass of the stories were caviare to the general. The name of Allah puzzled my hearers; and they were clearly at sea as to viziers and dervishes. These exotic terms, though I did not understand them, had given me no trouble — I suppose I was more imaginative; but they sufficed to render the Moslem tales unpalatable to the ordinary French villager. I was quick to feel the pulse of my audiences. When I caught them yawning, I never repeated the proved failure.
As a rule, however, they were sympathy itself. I had a little introductory phrase which generally put us on the best of terms at the outset. “Ladies and gentlemen,” I would begin, “I shall have the honour of presenting to you the celebrated and fascinating drama of The Tempest; the part of Ferdinand” — I held him up—” by Signor Giovanni Fantocchino; the part of Miranda” — I tapped my chest—” by Signorina Rosalba Lupari. The other characters” — I tapped myself again—” by the whole strength of the company.” That always made them smile. They entered into the spirit of the thing, and we were friends immediately.
When we loitered awhile in great towns like Marseilles, Avignon, Lyons, Dijon, I lingered round the book-stalls at the street corners, and ventured to turn over the paper-covered volumes, especially those at twenty centimes. The stall-keepers proved kindly as a rule; my Italian costume and my evident eagerness piqued their curiosity. “Is the droll, the little dancing-girl?” they asked one another.
One of them gave me a book; ‘t was at Orange; it was called Œuvres Dramatiques de Molière. That was a Talk-Book, something like my English one, but not quite so well suited for my personal purpose — less romantic and flexible. It lacked the element of Puck and Ariel. Nevertheless, I got good from it, and added to my repertory the story of Sganarelle.
Some books I read through, more or less, without buying them. Thus I learned in a certain whirling way the tale of Consuelo and that of the Tour de Nesle. Other books I bought with my own hoarded sous — they call soldi “sous” in France, and centesimi “centimes.” One was a glorious romance, by name Les Trois Mousquetaires; another, less useful, but which I loved far better, was a volume of poems by Alfred de Musset. English and Italian books were particularly cheap; a book-stall keeper at Lyons, who heard me sing and saw me dance, gave me, instead of coppers, a volume of curious songs called Sonnets by one Petrarca, and the Poetical Works of Percy Bysshe Shelley. I do not know whether it was because English and Italian were my two mother tongues, but I loved those two books better than anything I ever read in French. I learned them by heart. They live with me always.
Two other English books I likewise acquired, and these helped me greatly. One was given me outright by a book-stall man, who saw me devouring it with eager eyes on his stall; it was called Kenilworth, and was written by a certain Sir Walter Scott Bart. I admired that man Bart immensely — admired him more, indeed, than my maturer taste approves to-day; and I made a little tragedy for my puppets out of Amy Robsart’s fate, which I still believe was not wholly devoid of rude dramatic merit The second book came to me in this fashion. I was playing on the Grande Place at a Rhône town, whose name escapes me, and had made my usual introduction, in its French form—” Messieurs et Mesdames, I shall have the pleasure of representing before you this evening the famous and entertaining comedy of The Merchant of Venice. The part of Shylock the Jew, in this admirable work, will be sustained by M. Jean Marionette” — I held him up and dandled him; “the part of Portia by Mademoiselle Rosalba Lupari, formerly of the Royal Italian Opera, and of the principal theatres on the highroads of Italy.” As I spoke, I saw a bland-faced, stout, sweet-tempered-looking old gentleman attracted by my performance. He lounged up, and listened, sedately happy. He was one of a class higher than those who ordinarily patronised me — I knew him by his black coat and loose black tie for one of those hateful bourgeois. But he stood long and smiled a paternal smile at all my sallies. His presence inspired me: I was brighter than my wont When I had finished, he laid his hand on my head and beamed on me charmingly.
“My child,” he said, in an exquisitely soft and musical voice, “thou wilt go far. How didst thou learn Shakespeare?”
“Is that Shakespeare, monsieur?” I answered, blushing.
“Ay, marry, is it?” he replied in English, with a marked foreign accent. “Where did you read it?”
I told him my history. “But I have forgotten much of the words as they ran in the book,” I continued sadly. “I remember for the most part the story only.”
He pressed his kindly hand on my head once more. It was a large soft hand. “We shall remedy that, my child,” he answered, with a delicious intonation. “Come this way with me.” There was a caress in his “Viens ici!”
He led me to a shop and bought me a brand-new copy, well printed, and stoutly bound. “A pen, je vous prie,” he said, and, leaning over, wrote his name and mine in it. His writing was small and daintily beautiful. “There, little one,” he said, handing it to me. “Thou wilt be famous some day. When thou art, remember, I beg of thee, that the snuffy old gentleman who gave thee this prophesied thy greatness.”
I looked at the inscription:
“À MADEMOISELLE ROSALBA LUPARI,
Enfant, mais artiste,
Hommage prophétique d’un vieillard,
ERNEST RENAN.”
I seized the old gentleman’s hand and kissed it with effusion many times over. Only years after did I come to know the real value of that gift. I possess it still, and naturally number it among my most cherished treasures.
But even then the true French politeness of the one word “Mademoiselle” went home to my heart He saw I was no beggar.
This episode may lead you rashly to suppose that I am the famous Signorina Lupari, the renowned singer. There, you guess too hastily. It is Mariana who — But you shall hear in the sequel.
Thus I owned a Shakespeare again, and was enabled to enlarge and enrich my repertoire by many new plots and many new episodes. Of course I altered and adapted them all to my own fashion. What suits the Lyceum does not necessarily suit a one-child play with dances and puppets.
I shall only add a single point further about this phase of my existence. Of course I was mistaken in supposing that we should make more in the great rich towns than in the scattered villages. The great rich towns had already their theatres, their Alcazars, their cafés chantants; they despised my poor little self-taught exhibitions. But the smaller the village, the more I was appreciated, especially in warm Provence and warm Liguria. The land of the troubadours has not yet forgotten the echoing tradition of spontaneous song.
It loves the improvisatore. There, and there alone, we have still peasant poets. The volcanic soul of the lava-hills makes Provence a Bacchante. She understood my native wood-notes wild as Paris and London could never understand them. To this day, I can hold spellbound a group of children on my Italian hills with what critical London would coldly describe as “an intensely feeble and amateurish performance.”
Often in our wanderings we passed a church. I would drop in at times and let fall a prayer to Our Lady or the dear Saints. Not for my own welfare. I do not think I troubled myself much about the state of my soul — it was a gay, flighty, happy-go-lucky little soul — but I did pray that I might live to see once more my dear father.
CHAPTER VIII
I CHANGE MASTERS
AS I increased in commercial value to the One-eyed Calender, I could note that he grew more and more jealous of keeping me. If his brother-tramps seemed to pay me attentions, he hung nervously near, and called me off whenever he thought they might snatch a chance of talking alone with me.
For myself, I knew my worth (as an article of commerce) and used it for a lever to prevent what I most hated — injustice.
Once, as we were approaching Paris, the Calender was harsh to me. I had done some small thing awkwardly. “Goose!” he cried, seizing my arm hard.
“Take care!” I said, shaking him off, with flashing eyes. “I lay the golden eggs. Beware of killing me!”
“I do not think to kill thee,” he answered.
“Or driving me away — which comes to the same thing,” I added.
“Thou art too proud, child. What wouldst do if thou shouldst leave us?”
“My affair once more,” I replied. “I can take care of myself. I came to you of my own free will; of my own free will I can equally quit you. What I came for was — freedom.” He looked at me curiously. “The child grows too wise,” he muttered to his wife. “She waxes faster in wisdom than in stature.”
At last we reached Paris — garish, wonderful, coquettish Paris. From afar the tawny glare of electric lights, reflected on the sky above a dusty road, announced its neighbourhood. We straggled in, over miles upon miles of suburban pavement, more footsore than usual. Paris needed us not. Her scissors were all sharp, her amusements ready-made. What should such as we do in the capital of civilisation?
We stayed but three days. In those three days a new situation developed itself.
We had taken up our abode in a tramps’ lodging-house in the Montmartre quarter, specially patronised by Italians. Its squalor was unspeakable. On the last day of our stay, the Calender slouched in — without the Signora.
“What have you done with her?” I asked, looking up from my polenta.
He waggled his head, between the spasms of St. Vitus, expanded both arms, with hands palm outward, and gasped out feebly, “How should I know? I never expect to see her. Henceforth, thou and I must travel the world, alone, together.”
“Certainly not,” I answered, for I was nearly fourteen, and had a clear idea what the world was made of. “Without the Signora, it is not convenable for me to remain with you one day longer.”
He shrugged his shoulders with a helpless air. “She is gone,” he repeated, endeavouring to keep his head still, so as to look impressive. “I never again expect to see her.”
What had really happened to her I never knew. I had various surmises. Perhaps they had merely quarrelled; perhaps he had murdered her and thrown her into the Seine; perhaps she had gone off, a squalid Héloise, with some more squalid Abelard; perhaps she had managed to provoke our constant enemies, the police, and he (like a man) had saved himself by deserting her. But, at any rate, she was gone. With that patent element of the problem I had most to concern myself.
I acted promptly. “In that case,” I said, “we part — this evening!”
“You mean it, Rosalba?”
“But, certainly.”
To my immense astonishment, the One-eyed Calender did the last thing I should have expected of him — burst into tears, and rocked himself to and fro. “You will not desert a poor old man, carina, in his hour of trouble!” I was adamant. “Nothing else is possible.” Our temporary neighbours crowded round, seeing the chance of a squabble, perhaps a fight — which, next to a funeral, is the chief public amusement in a tramps’ lodging-house. Some of them began to condole. One, who was an organ-grinder, with a villainous full-fed face and a stubby black ring of beard an eighth of an inch long, rough and razorable — a more practical soul — came forward with an offer. He diffused a delicate perfume of garlic. I had nicknamed him mentally (as a reminiscence of Macbeth) the First Murderer.
“The girl can dance,” he said, eyeing me sideways. “A dancer goes better with grinding music than with grinding scissors. And I have a wife — a fact which will meet the Signorina’s delicate scruples. I will take her off your hands. How much do you want for her? Quanto volete — quanto?”
“I am not a slave,” I murmured, drawing back half angrily.
The One-eyed Calender wiped his finger across his mouth, as an aid to reflection. He calculated offhand the net value of a recalcitrant companion who declined to accompany him, and arrived at a properly modest figure. “She is worth twenty francs,” he said, eyeing me as one eyes a chicken for sale; “but” — with a generous recklessness—” you can have her for fifteen.”
I made no comment.
They higgled over me for some time, the vendor dwelling much on my artistic accomplishments and my knowledge of English; the purchaser admitting that he was bound for England, but ungallantly disparaging my other merits.
“Now, thirteen francs!” he said insinuatingly, as if it were a Dutch auction. “Come, come! she is leaving you.”
“Fifteen. Speaks English.”
“Thirteen, fifty. A mere street-singer!”
“Fifteen. Good eyelashes, and earns plenty!”
At last they settled terms on the basis of a compromise — fourteen francs down, and a glass of absinthe.
I bided my time. When all was arranged, and the money about to change hands in solid bronze (for silver was rare with us) I interposed quietly, “Seven francs goes to me, please!”
“And why?” they both exclaimed, astonished.
“I am not yours to buy and sell. I object to this transaction. I will go with the Signore organ-grinder, because he has a lady of his own, and because I see nothing else now possible. But if he pays you fourteen francs for me, I claim half of it. No slavery! République française: liberté, égalité, fraternité! Otherwise I upset your coach altogether by declining to travel with him.”
The One-eyed Calender clasped his hands and made piteous appeals to Our Lady, the Saints, and my personal feelings. I took no heed of them. A duenna is a duenna, so I was ready for the arrangement; but why should I be trafficked like a Cuban negress — I, the daughter of the man who had freed Italy? In the end the vendor gave in and I got my money.
“But you engage to remain with me,” the First Murderer added as an afterthought.
