Monday, 20th.
The whole city is in a tumult over the Carnival, which is nearing its
close. In every square rise booths of mountebanks and jesters; and we
have under our windows a circus-tent, in which a little Venetian
company, with five horses, is giving a show. The circus is in the centre
of the square; and in one corner there are three very large vans in
which the mountebanks sleep and dress themselves,--three small houses on
wheels, with their tiny windows, and a chimney in each of them, which
smokes continually; and between window and window the baby's
swaddling-bands are stretched. There is one woman who is nursing a
child, who prepares the food, and dances on the tight-rope. Poor people!
The word _mountebank_ is spoken as though it were an insult; but they
earn their living honestly, nevertheless, by amusing all the world--and
how they work! All day long they run back and forth between the
circus-tent and the vans, in tights, in all this cold; they snatch a
mouthful or two in haste, standing, between two performances; and
sometimes, when they get their tent full, a wind arises, wrenches away
the ropes and extinguishes the lights, and then good by to the show!
They are obliged to return the money, and to work the entire night at
repairing their booth. There are two lads who work; and my father
recognized the smallest one as he was traversing the square; and he is
the son of the proprietor, the same one whom we saw perform tricks on
horseback last year in a circus on the Piazza Vittorio Emanuele. And he
has grown; he must be eight years old: he is a handsome boy, with a
round and roguish face, with so many black curls that they escape from
his pointed cap. He is dressed up like a harlequin, decked out in a sort
of sack, with sleeves of white, embroidered with black, and his slippers
are of cloth. He is a merry little imp. He charms every one. He does
everything. We see him early in the morning, wrapped in a shawl,
carrying milk to his wooden house; then he goes to get the horses at the
boarding-stable on the Via Bertola. He holds the tiny baby in his arms;
he transports hoops, trestles, rails, ropes; he cleans the vans, lights
the fire, and in his leisure moments he always hangs about his mother.
My father is always watching him from the window, and does nothing but
talk about him and his family, who have the air of nice people, and of
being fond of their children.
One evening we went to the circus: it was cold; there was hardly any one
there; but the little harlequin exerted himself greatly to cheer those
few people: he executed precarious leaps; he caught hold of the horses'
tails; he walked with his legs in the air, all alone; he sang, always
with a smile constantly on his handsome little brown face. And his
father, who had on a red vest and white trousers, with tall boots, and a
whip in his hand, watched him: but it was melancholy. My father took
pity on him, and spoke of him on the following day to Delis the painter,
who came to see us. These poor people were killing themselves with hard
work, and their affairs were going so badly! The little boy pleased him
so much! What could be done for them? The painter had an idea.
"Write a fine article for the _Gazette_," he said: "you know how to
write well: relate the miraculous things which the little harlequin
does, and I will take his portrait for you. Everybody reads the
_Gazette_, and people will flock thither for once."
And thus they did. My father wrote a fine article, full of jests, which
told all that we had observed from the window, and inspired a desire to
see and caress the little artist; and the painter sketched a little
portrait which was graceful and a good likeness, and which was published
on Saturday evening. And behold! at the Sunday performance a great crowd
rushed to the circus. The announcement was made: _Performance for the
Benefit of the Little Harlequin_, as he was styled in the _Gazette_. The
circus was crammed; many of the spectators held the _Gazette_ in their
hands, and showed it to the little harlequin, who laughed and ran from
one to another, perfectly delighted. The proprietor was delighted also.
Just fancy! Not a single newspaper had ever done him such an honor, and
the money-box was filled. My father sat beside me. Among the spectators
we found persons of our acquaintance. Near the entrance for the horses
stood the teacher of gymnastics--the one who has been with Garibaldi;
and opposite us, in the second row, was the little mason, with his
little round face, seated beside his gigantic father; and no sooner did
he catch sight of me than he made a hare's face at me. A little further
on I espied Garoffi, who was counting the spectators, and calculated on
his fingers how much money the company had taken in. On one of the
chairs in the first row, not far from us, there was also poor Robetti,
the boy who saved the child from the omnibus, with his crutches between
his knees, pressed close to the side of his father, the artillery
captain, who kept one hand on his shoulder. The performance began. The
little harlequin accomplished wonders on his horse, on the trapeze, on
the tight-rope; and every time that he jumped down, every one clapped
their hands, and many pulled his curls. Then several others,
rope-dancers, jugglers, and riders, clad in tights, and sparkling with
silver, went through their exercises; but when the boy was not
performing, the audience seemed to grow weary. At a certain point I saw
the teacher of gymnastics, who held his post at the entrance for the
horses, whisper in the ear of the proprietor of the circus, and the
latter instantly glanced around, as though in search of some one. His
glance rested on us. My father perceived it, and understood that the
teacher had revealed that he was the author of the article, and in order
to escape being thanked, he hastily retreated, saying to me:--
"Remain, Enrico; I will wait for you outside."
After exchanging a few words with his father, the little harlequin went
through still another trick: erect upon a galloping horse, he appeared
in four characters--as a pilgrim, a sailor, a soldier, and an acrobat;
and every time that he passed near me, he looked at me. And when he
dismounted, he began to make the tour of the circus, with his
harlequin's cap in his hand, and everybody threw soldi or sugar-plums
into it. I had two soldi ready; but when he got in front of me, instead
of offering his cap, he drew it back, gave me a look and passed on. I
was mortified. Why had he offered me that affront?
The performance came to an end; the proprietor thanked the audience; and
all the people rose also, and thronged to the doors. I was confused by
the crowd, and was on the point of going out, when I felt a touch on my
hand. I turned round: it was the little harlequin, with his tiny brown
face and his black curls, who was smiling at me; he had his hands full
of sugar-plums. Then I understood.
"Will you accept these sugar-plums from the little harlequin?" said he
to me, in his dialect.