"No, I have nothing of the sort, but still I should always want to go
back," he explained to me. "I go home because there is always a something
that draws one to one's native place." And once more he repeated with a
shrewd, self-satisfied smile, his phrase, "_Oui, le sucre est bon_," and
then laughed good-naturedly.
The servants were very much amused, and laughed heartily; only the
hunch-backed dish-washer looked earnestly from her big kindly eyes at the
little man, and picked up his cap for him, when, as we talked, he once
knocked it off the bench. I have noticed that wandering minstrels,
acrobats, even jugglers, delight in calling themselves artists, and several
times I hinted to my comrade that he was an artist; but he did not at all
accept this designation, but with perfect simplicity looked upon his work
as a means of existence.
When I asked him if he had not himself written the songs which he sang, he
showed great surprise at such a strange question, and replied that the
words of whatever he sang were all of old Tyrolese origin.
"But how about that song of the Righi? I think that cannot be very
ancient," I suggested.
"Oh, that was composed about fifteen years ago. There was a German in
Basel; he was a clever man; it was he who composed it. A splendid song. You
see he composed it especially for travellers." And he began to repeat the
words of the Righi song, which he liked so well, translating them into
French as he went along.
"_If you wish to go to Righi,
You will not need shoes to Wegis,
(For you go that far by steamboat),
But from Wegis take a stout staff,
Also take upon your arm a maiden;
Drink a glass of wine on starting,
Only do not drink too freely,
For if you desire to drink here,
You must earn the right to, first._"
"Oh! a splendid song!" he exclaimed, as he finished.
The servants, evidently, also found the song much to their mind, because
they came up closer to us.
"Yes, but who was it composed the music?" I asked.
"Oh, no one at all; you know you must have something new when you are going
to sing for strangers."
When the ice was brought, and I had given my comrade a glass of champagne,
he seemed somewhat ill at ease, and, glancing at the servants, he turned
and twisted on the bench.
We touched our glasses to the health of all artists; he drank half a glass,
then he seemed to be collecting his ideas, and knit his brows in deep
thought.
"It is long since I have tasted such wine, _je ne vous dis que ça_. In
Italy the _vino d'Asti_ is excellent, but this is still better. Ah! Italy;
it is splendid to be there!" he added.
"Yes, there they know how to appreciate music and artists," said I, trying
to bring him round to the evening's mischance before the Schweitzerhof.
"No," he replied. "There, as far as music is concerned, I cannot give
anybody satisfaction. The Italians are themselves musicians,--none like
them in the world; but I know only Tyrolese songs. They are something of a
novelty to them, though."
"Well, you find rather more generous gentlemen there, don't you?" I went on
to say, anxious to make him share in my resentment against the guests of
the Schweitzerhof. "There it would not be possible to find a big hotel
frequented by rich people, where, out of a hundred listening to an artist's
singing, not one would give him any thing."
My question utterly failed of the effect that I expected. It did not enter
his head to be indignant with them: on the contrary, he saw in my remark an
implied slur upon his talent which had failed of its reward, and he
hastened to set himself right before me. "It is not every time that you get
any thing," he remarked; "sometimes one isn't in good voice, or you are
tired; now to-day I have been walking ten hours, and singing almost all the
time. That is hard. And these important aristocrats do not always care to
listen to Tyrolese songs."
"But still, how can they help giving?" I insisted.
He did not comprehend my remark.
"That's nothing," he said; "but here the principal thing is, _on est tres
serré pour la police_, that's what's the trouble. Here, according to these
republican laws, you are not allowed to sing; but in Italy you can go
wherever you please, no one says a word. Here, if they want to let you,
they let you; but if they don't want to, then they can throw you into
jail."
"What? That's incredible!"
"Yes, it is true. If you have been warned once, and are found singing
again, they may put you in jail. I was kept there three months once," he
said, smiling as though that were one of his pleasantest recollections.
"Oh! that is terrible!" I exclaimed. "What was the reason?"
"That was in consequence of one of the new republican laws," he went on to
explain, growing animated. "They cannot comprehend here that a poor fellow
must earn his living somehow. If I were not a cripple, I would work. But
what harm do I do to any one in the world by my singing? What does it mean?
The rich can live as they wish, _un pauvre tiaple_ like myself can't live
at all. What kind of laws are these republican ones? If that is the way
they run, then we don't want a republic: isn't that so, my dear sir? We
don't want a republic, but we want--we simply want--we want"--he hesitated
a little,--"we want natural laws."