PEOPLE OF THE HILLS
The Apennines—View from a Peak—Real Hospitality—Polenta—Woods
of Sabina—A Hill Family—The Cook—A Queer Adventure—People of
the South—A Night Festival in the Abruzzi—The Journey—The Old
Organ—Marion Crawford’s Boys—Juvenile Theatricals.
How much our Italy of Rome and Naples owes to the Apennines! How
gratefully should lovers of romance and history regard that mighty
chain that runs, an inland sea of crag and peak, forest and ravine,
between shore and shore! Physically and morally, it is the backbone
of the country, the fortress of tradition, the nurse of what our
modern cant calls, “Plain living and high thinking.” Its hard, yet
beneficent, climate, with sharp delimitations of season, its passes
so obdurate to the tainting allurements of railways, its hundreds
of sturdy, self-contained little towns, each with its story of its
own saints and heroes, its ancestry of tradition that laughs at the
flight of centuries—all this has bred a race of men and women of
whom modern Italy knows little, but who form the residue by which
the mixed enfeebled masses of her cities and plains will in the end
be saved. Faith is strong; morals, though often transgressed, still
clear and commanding. New fads, make-believe religions, free love and
race suicide presented as twin benefits to humanity, the worship of
materialism—all the old crimes that come dressed up as new virtues—find
no foothold here. The “pale-pink uplift” of these modern shams would be
laughed to scorn by our people of Sabina and Abruzzi and Ciocciarìa.
Their parish priests tramp round amongst them as friends and mentors.
The “parroco” and the apothecary may be the only persons in a whole
community who can read, but the child of ten knows the commandments
of God and the Church, and the innovator who attempts to make little
of these meets with a very cold reception. The people have many faults
and many weaknesses, but they are all human ones, and, frankly, I would
rather have to do with the man who has slain a rival or a sweetheart in
a fit of jealous anger than with a railway magnate or a prophet of the
Decadent. The murderer’s record is probably a good deal cleaner than
theirs.
So my inheritance of Sabina has always been very precious to me. Many
weary years have passed since I set foot there, but the remembrance of
young days spent in those high rich solitudes comes still as a fresh
breeze across the dusty wastes of the world, and very gladly shall
I return to them before I die. I have travelled so far and seen such
strange and endless varieties of scenery that I think I have a right
to say that there are few places on earth where nature has done more to
rejoice and strengthen the body and soul of man.
From Rome the Sabines are merely a noble chain of peaks, culminating
in the calm Lion profile of the couchant “Lionessa,” her face to the
north, waiting through the long blue days of summer for the crown
of snow that the winter lays on her brow. The slopes and spurs that
descend towards the Campagna are smiling enough—as they should be,
turned everlastingly to the sun and the sea. One must pass beyond
all that, climb by rough and narrow paths to the great tossed heart
of the hills, and stand on some peak like Guadognolo to take in the
amazing grandeur of the Sabines. Even from lower places—Olevano, for
instance—you may look east and west and south and north, and feel as
if you were standing on an island crag in an ocean of long sapphire
billows rolling away, breaker beyond breaker, into infinity, a sea
that in some moment of surpassing pride raised its breast too near the
sky and froze to stone in that passion of ambition; and your heart,
the heart of the native-born, tells you that every hollow between the
breakers holds its rivers and lakes smothered in olives and vines and
corn, its walled town and ancient Church, its old fortified farmhouses,
dazzlingly white against the sun-warmed rock of the mounting
ridge—farmhouses with broad brick loggias garlanded with festoons of
scarlet and orange, the bursting red “pepperoni” as big as citrons, and
strings of flame-coloured maize like golden spear-heads, all drying in
the sun for the winter’s needs.
Stop at one of these houses and ask for hospitality, and you will
find out what the word really means. I have often thought of it when I
was sitting through huge official dinners where the great ones of the
earth were arranging its destinies over the champagne and truffles—with
the murder of a nation in their hearts. The commanded smile, and the
cold watchful eyes—the men fencing with words for rapiers, and we
women watching every play of the shrouded steel and pretending to talk
amiable nothings to each other; the gasp of relief at parting, and the
consignment to everlasting perdition of the adversary, which broke from
our worried mate when the door of the brougham had been clapped to and
we could sink back on the cushions as we rolled away! Then would return
a vision of some halt in the hills at home, of the dark cavernous
kitchen with its freshly sprinkled brick floor and its bunches of
herbs hanging from the high blackened beams overhead shedding their
dry fragrance on the air, so cool and refreshing on entering from the
burning midday sunshine outside. “Favorisca!” cries the “Sposa”—she
may be eighteen or eighty, but that is her title from her wedding day
forward.—“Condescend to enter! Let the signori be accommodated!” The
rush-bottomed chairs are set out on the loggia in the shade, the boys
are sent to fetch ice-cool water from the well, and, as the bucket goes
splashing down into the invisible flood and comes up all diamonds in
the sun, “Sposa” brings out four or five heavy glasses, freshly rinsed,
in the fingers of one hand and a straw-bound fiaschetta of her own
wine in the other. “Vino sincero, signori miei!” she assures you as
she sets it down on the deal table already spread with the clean cloth
that smells of rosemary. Ay, a “sincere wine,” with no “dope” in its
crimson or topaz depths, and the welcome is as sincere as the wine. She
pours it out, smiling, her handsome head and rich costume standing out
picturesquely against the dark doorway behind her, within which one of
her girls is kneeling on the bricks, washing freshly pulled lettuce for
your salad in a great copper bowl, hand-beaten and reflecting the light
from every one of its red-bronze facets. Everything in the kitchen is
of beaten copper; these people would as soon think of cooking in any
other metal as of sleeping in cotton sheets—a degradation the poorest
scorns to put up with.
“Sposa” disappears within the kitchen and one of the girls comes out
to entertain the visitors while the dinner is cooking. She stands with
one hand on the back of a chair, the other fingering her blue and
yellow apron, pink with shyness, but devoured with curiosity. Every
detail of one’s dress, every bit of jewellery is being taken in—to be
described to all the other girls of the place when they meet at Church
on Sunday—but she answers one’s questions with a confident smile.
How old? Oh, “in seventeen”—that is, sixteen last birthday. Her name?
Candiduccia, at the Signora’s service! Betrothed! A pinker flush and an
indescribable little movement of the shoulders, and then down goes her
head, while “Mammà,” whose sharp ears have heard all, replies in her
deep sonorous tones, from among the pots and pans: “A good youth, but
he is getting a bad bargain! This lazy one has not spun half her linen
yet. I had mine all spun and woven by the time I was fourteen! Here,
thou! come and fetch the plates! The illustrious ones are hungry!”
Candiduccia dives into the kitchen, and a moment later your dinner is
before you—a big dimpled omelet, trout from the stream fried in olive
oil, and crisp salad in a big majolica bowl. Sposa cuts the fresh rough
bread—first making the sign of the Cross over the loaf—and serves you
cream cheese, made from goat’s milk, instead of butter. Butter and
cow’s milk do not enter into the Sabina bill of fare; our mountain
people do not care about these things, but it is a feast for the gods,
all the same.
When the time comes to go, you give Sposa what you think right, and
she takes it rather unwillingly, but very gratefully, and as you ride
away she and her girls stand at the door and wave their hands and say,
“La Madonna v’accompagni”; and the boys, young rascals, will race your
horses to the foot of the hill or the turn in the road, knowing well
that you will give them a few coppers for their very own as soon as you
are out of sight of “Mammà,” who, you may be sure, will never hear of
the transaction.
If one is an invited guest at some important farmhouse, an elaborate
feast is prepared, and there are heart-burnings if the guests do not
eat heartily of everything. I remember once going with the Cavalettis
to the “bene” of one of their tenants, for dinner—a really mediæval
repast which staggered even my robust young appetite. It began with
the “polentata,” a curious first course which is _de rigueur_ in
Sabina when guests of honour are being entertained. The chief table
was already set out with a dozen kinds of fresh and dried fruits,
“alicetti” (the tiny local sardines), smoked ham, and home-made
liqueurs, all intended to stimulate the appetite. But before sitting
down to that we were led to a small pinewood table at one side of
the room and requested to take our seats around it. Then the mistress
of the house advanced with a huge cauldron of polenta, which, to my
consternation, she poured out on the freshly scrubbed table-top, so
deftly that it exactly covered the entire surface. I stared, wondering
what was to happen next; but my companions took no notice of me, and
the Marchese, whom his peasants adored—as did everybody else who knew
him—leant back in his chair and discussed the condition of the game in
the woods with “Sor Giacomo,” while the wife, a piece of new string in
her hands, watched the polenta cool and fix to about the consistency
of cream cheese. Then, suddenly leaning over my shoulder, she cut it
swiftly across and across with the string in symmetrical divisions
nearly a foot square, one for each person, solemnly handed us each a
spoon, and, bowing gracefully, begged us to eat!
It was a searching preparation for a hearty meal!
On another occasion we were invited to dinner at the house of a country
notable many miles away, but still connected with the Cavaletti
domains. It was early autumn, and we had an enchanting ride in the
bright cool morning through the deep woods, where the chestnut burrs
came padding down on the moss with soft thuds as we passed, and here
and there some delicate ash or birch was already flaming into orange
with the first touch of the frost. They looked like torches alight in
the forest. They are so deep and green, those woods of Sabina, rich
with oak and chestnut, elm and beech, a fairyland of moss and fern
below, a world of sun and shadow above! The flowers are very delicate,
too, harebells like thin amethyst, and the dainty wild pansy that lifts
her little startled head like a Louis XV beauty who has lost her way;
and there are stars of Bethlehem, growing always apart and lonely,
five white petals with a touch of greenish gold for a heart, swinging
in the breeze on a long translucent stem; and wild strawberries—snowy
flower and crimson berry springing side by side among the broad
trefoil leaves; and wild garlic, a mass of spotless bloom, and magic
elder with great posies of perfumed level rime; and fern so tall that
one could lose oneself in it, seeking for the threaded turquoise
of forget-me-nots that grow beneath; and thousands more, fragile,
exquisite things blooming in the deep peace of the undergrowth, while
far overhead the strong tree-tops laugh in the wind and take all the
sun.
I remember how sorry I was when we left the woods behind that day
and reached a tiny walled town with, of course, a Church, a piazza, a
fountain, and one big house standing aggressively square to the street,
a typical Italian house with as many windows as could possibly be put
into it, all green-shuttered, and most of them balconied. That was all
I saw, for as we drew rein at the entrance we were surrounded by the
whole family, all grown-up men and women, who lifted us girls down from
our saddles, took possession of all our belongings, and all but carried
us up to a big cool room on the first floor, with many expressions of
sympathy for our supposed fatigue after the long ride. I believe they
thought us rather daring for venturing ourselves on the shaggy mountain
ponies at all, for few Italian women in the country ever mount anything
more frisky than a tried and sober donkey.
Having settled us on the “canapé”—a very large sofa covered with green
and scarlet checks—and provided us with rosolio and cakes to keep
us good, all the ladies disappeared together. The men were buzzing
around the Marchese, who, like the lover of horses he was, insisted
on seeing the animals housed and fed; then a kind of electric thrill
ran through the house, the Signora and her daughters came to fetch us
from the salone, and everybody moved towards the dining-room. I was a
little surprised to see so few seats at the table, which was covered
with every kind of dainty and very prettily arranged; but the matter
was explained when it became evident that the ladies of the family
were to wait upon us and their own men in approved feudal fashion. I
say “ladies” advisedly, for these were people as far removed from the
peasant class as they considered themselves from that of the Marchese.
They had never worn the costume of the contadine; they belonged to
the great respectable middle class, from which most of the professions
are supplied; both men and women spoke without a trace of dialect, and
their manners were perfect—but then, thank Heaven, Italy is the natural
home of good manners! I shall never forget the gentle, unobtrusive
sweetness of those women, as they moved about in perfect silence,
in their black Sunday frocks and little bits of ancient jewellery,
attending to all our wants so carefully and deftly, but refusing to
take any part in the conversation. That was not what was expected of
them!
The long elaborate feast had gone from “ante-pasto” and vermouth
right through to the sweets; my girl friend and I looked at each other
questioningly. We were growing fidgetty and wondered who was to give
the signal to rise, since we were the only women at the table—when,
to our dismay and despair, the whole meal began all over again! Course
after course, in regular sequence, we had to sit it through and pretend
to taste the new varieties of fish, flesh, and fowl which came in a
steady stream from the kitchen. It was like some crazy dream! I think
we had sat at that table nearly four hours before we were invited to
take our coffee in the salone. The sun was sinking then, and, to our
intense relief, the Marchese announced that we must be moving or we
should not reach home that night. The farewells were elaborate, and our
gratitude for all the trouble the dear people had taken was very real;
they packed a whole hamper of ancient Roman dainties for us to take
along lest we should faint by the way; but our joy when we got into
the open air, with our faces towards home, was inexpressible. As we
entered the woods—less alluring in the dusk than in the fresh morning
hours—a shadowy fourth joined our party, a smiling little man on a very
small donkey. In two minutes the Marchese had made friends with him and
called out to us in English: “Girls, think up some compliments! This
is the man who cooked the dinner. They sent twenty miles for him—and he
wants to know if you liked it!”
A woman noted for the charm and variety of her entertainments once said
to me: “I do try to give respectable parties, but somehow they always
turn into school feasts!” I am afraid the same kind of thing happens
to me in regard to serious subjects. With the best intentions in the
world I start to tell the story of some great person who has kindled my
admiration—and in the middle of the tale the sun strikes on my page—a
child laughs across the street—or some old refrain comes lilting to my
ears, and farewell to the historic train of thought! My hero or saint
recedes into the shadows and relinquishes the canvas to a thousand
amiable little sprites of memory, who hold it till they have frisked
through the very last step of their dance!
I do not know why, on this sunny July morning, there should rise before
me a picture of a dark old house in the steep street of a Sabina town,
where we drew rein after a long day’s ride to ask for rooms. The night
was falling, there was no inn in the place, and somebody had told us
that perhaps the people here would take us in. Our party was that with
which I left Castel Gandolfo some chapters ago—my stepfather, Marion,
and the Hon. and Rev. G—— C——, who had already several times saved
my life by stopping my runaway steed, a wall-eyed old crock given
to me because he looked so reassuringly tame. He was quiet enough at
that moment; we were both stiff and tired; and I slid to the ground,
resolved not to go a step further, whatever the people of the house
should say. The padrona came down and looked us over critically. Yes,
she could take in the gentlemen if they would all sleep in one room,
but it was impossible to receive the signorina—there was really nowhere
to put her! I replied by walking into the house, and sitting down
on the first chair I could find, and defying her to turn me out. She
stood and looked at me, considering. “Well,” she said at last, “there
_is_ a room—it belongs to my little boy—perhaps he will not come home
to-night. Yes, you may sleep there, Poverina! I see you are tired out.”
She led me down a long twisting passage and threw open a door,
holding the brass “lucerna” high to light me in. I saw a bed and a
chair, and what I took to be a highly variegated wallpaper. “It will
do beautifully,” I said. “Tell the gentlemen that I don’t want any
supper—I am going straight to bed!”
“Buon riposo, bella mia!” (A good rest, my beautiful!) she replied,
and shutting the door tramped away till her footsteps were lost in the
distance. Then I looked round. “What a funny room for a little boy!”
I thought. Guns and hunting knives hung on racks all about, and what
I had thought was wallpaper turned out to be a gigantic collection of
the pictures off the French match-boxes, which had just begun to find
their way into our part of the world, and which were not admitted into
our house because they were so improper. The little boy had covered the
walls with them from top to bottom! Well, it was none of my business,
and I prepared to lie down and forget them, but when I went to lock the
door I found that it had no key and would hardly close at all. Fatigue,
however, got the better of nervousness—it was a respectable house,
after all.
I was almost ready to get into bed, when a heavy step came along the
passage, accompanied by the cheerful whistling of an old opera air.
I sprang up, too late to prevent the door being thrown wide open—and
found myself staring at a tall young man in town clothes and a red tie,
who jumped back as if he had been shot. I screamed—he swore—and then we
both broke into peals of laughter. As soon as he could get his breath
he apologised abjectly for the intrusion—“Mammà” had not told him
about any guests—I was a thousand times welcome to his room—and would I
permit him to look for some necessary articles before he relieved me of
the inconvenience of his presence? I tried to bow with proper dignity,
sitting on the edge of the bed with a cloak around me, and he scuttled
about, dived into various drawers for garments, tobacco, matches, and
took his leave with careful courtesy, never having even glanced in my
direction after the first startling encounter. The country dandy was
quite as much of a “blue-rose” as the Austrian Prince who earned his
name among the girls in Rome—but that paladin belongs to another story.
As one travels southward the character of the people changes, and
in the later years of my life I have felt more at home with my
fellow-beings of the South than with the inhabitants of Romagna. Their
outlook is simpler, more indulgent, and their religious faith far more
fervent. I think the southern custom of going on pilgrimages was a
very valuable one to the contadini of the “Regno.” It used to be rare
to find middle-aged people of the labouring class in the province,
who had not travelled a little in that way and thus learnt that the
world was not confined to their own small town or hamlet. I suppose the
good custom will die out in time, like so many others, but it will not
suffer much diminution while such wonderful new centres of attraction
spring up as, for instance, the “Santuario” of New Pompeii, which I
described in a former book.[11] But many an unforgotten shrine in the
more remote hills has, like La Mentorana in the Sabines, its one day
or night of glory in the year, when the peasants come in great bands,
even from far away, and the chants and litanies go up all night long
in and around some dim old Church. Such a festival takes place at San
Salvatore in the Abruzzi, in the late summer, and is the scene of a
great gathering of the people of the Penisola Sarrcutina.
A night expedition is always alluring; and, besides, I had wanted to
see this particular festa for years, so I took one of the servants with
me—a broad-shouldered woman of the people, strong enough to carry me if
need be—and we set out, in a carrozzella, on a moonless night towards
nine o’clock. Very soon we had left Sorrento and its lights behind
and were climbing by steep narrow roads into the wild mountains that
cluster round Monte Sant’ Angelo. The chain of the Abruzzi that runs
out into the sea as the backbone of the Penisola rises sharp and high
from the rounded cup of the Piano di Sorrento, and, elsewhere, gives
way but little on either side to the needs of men. From the “Piano” and
the narrowing strip of level land, the cliffs facing the north plunge
clear into the water which has worn them into huge caves, each with
its tiny cove of sand, divided from one another by great outstanding
buttresses of rock. As soon as one turns inland one is lost in the
twisting defiles that scar the mountains through and through; and the
deep old roads, narrow and steep, crawl up away from the regions of
vines and olives till they reach wild, empty highlands, where only the
hardiest shrubs and flowers will grow. It is an impressive experience
to travel through these forgotten roads on a starlit night, further and
further from the sound of the sea and the haunts of men. The loneliness
is enormous, earth recedes from sight, and one is conscious of very
little except that unfathomable sky overhead, dripping and sprayed
with live silver to its furthest faintest depths, while some gorgeous
planet of our own system wheels its way between crag and crag as one
moves along. Broom and wild rosemary reach out from the wall of rock to
brush your face; a tang of bitter sweetness, clear as an exclamation,
fills your nostrils for an instant, and you know that you are passing
a clump of immortelles hidden in a cleft you cannot see. And then the
wild power of it all goes to your head; you are not a modern mortal
with a thousand anchors fastening you to the scrap heap of the workaday
world, but a new-born princess of romance, travelling through the hills
of fairyland to take possession of your unknown, enormous castle; its
thousand windows are glowing gold beyond that last peak, all lighted
up for your reception; in its deep courts and airy bowers invisible
subjects will minister to your wants. In a high tower looking south all
the great books in the world are waiting to be read; there is a terrace
a hundred feet from the ground, perfumed and trellised, where you can
watch the stars; and not a single creature in the whole world will ever
find the way to the castle!
“Quì si và a piedi, ‘cellenza!” said Maria, climbing down from her
seat. The little carriage could go no further, and I returned suddenly
to earth and meekly followed her example. The sound of voices and
footsteps began to fill the air, and we came on shadowy groups resting
by the wayside, pilgrims who had come from far on foot. Then at a
sudden turn we were in the piazza, and all outer things, sky and stars
and peaks, were swallowed up in blackness, for the piazza was one
blaze of orange light, from hundreds of torches, burning luridly and
outlining the dark façade of the Church with red-gold gleams that rose
and sank like dancing waters; turning a face here, a costume there, to
unearthly brightness and then leaping away in tall tongues of fire, to
be lost in the mist of smoke overhead. The crowd was so thick that we
could scarcely reach the Church, from the open doors of which a flood
of broad yellow radiance streamed out over the heads of the pilgrims
who knelt in serried ranks on the portico, all faces turned to the
interior, whence streamed that soft illumination. When we stood on
the threshold I saw that it came from the High Altar, which seemed
to be floating in a vast “mandorla” of light. Hundreds and hundreds
of wax candles, each a tongue of steady golden flame, surrounded the
Tabernacle and reached, in an oval of fire, almost to the roof. The
walls of the Church were covered with white draperies, to which were
fastened wreaths and garlands and single sprays of flowers, a delicate
ornamentation as old as ancient Rome and always used in the Penisola;
and every pilaster was panelled from top to bottom with crimson damask
trimmed with gold—those precious strips of drapery which the well-to-do
families hoard from generation to generation and lend to the different
Churches as required. From door to Altar rails the Church was packed
with kneeling worshippers, and a great hush prevailed, for midnight had
struck and Mass was about to begin.
My companion, threading her way with coaxing apologies, pulled me along
till she found a place where we could both kneel by a pillar at the top
of the Church, and just as we had settled ourselves a sweet-voiced old
organ, high up in an invisible gallery, sent out the first notes of the
chant, filling the little ancient building with a flood of music—not
the usual gay tunes that Italians love to hear in Church, but solemn
thrilling airs from some old Mass that I had never heard before. The
singers had been brought from far, and the voices were of the best,
which is saying a great deal in South Italy, where everybody is born
with “a harp in his throat.” Somehow it was one of the most beautiful
services I ever attended. The absorbed devotion of the people, the
reverent manner of the Celebrant and his assistants, the full-throated
responses that were taken up by the kneeling crowd outside, where
every sound was hushed the moment Mass began—it was the very essence of
whole-hearted, loving worship.
A number of persons went to Communion; there was a rousing sermon, and
then came much jollification in the piazza, crammed with little booths
that looked like altars of flame themselves, the wildly flaring torches
lighting up strange wares—long rosaries of yellow nuts that swung in
the wind, artificial roses set in a whirl of spun glass, each with its
pin to stick into hat or braids of hair, holy pictures in the crude
reds and blues that the people love, sweetmeats and honey-cakes and
fruit. Outside and everywhere beyond, the blackness of night, and on
that tiny plateau of the rocks a little whirlpool of life and fire.
We crept away, I and my Maria, and after some trouble found our
carrozzella and its driver, and started for home just as the darkness
thinned before the dawn. It was cold enough in the mountain roads then,
and I was glad to reach the lower levels and the hospitable gate of the
villa by the sea.
I think it was in that same year that my brother’s two boys,
enthusiastically aided by all the sailors, invented a kind of
switchback railway which really carried passengers! They got four
or five little trucks built—without saying a word to any of us—and,
coupling them together, started at the outer gate of the villa and
raced down the long paved incline which led, between walls covered
with stephanotis and jessamine, to the round garden in front of the
house. Here the encircling walk was also paved, and the impetus of the
downward rush carried the train once or twice round the whole space,
after which Luigi and Antonio submissively dragged it all the way to
the front gate again. There was quite an excitement in whirling round
the corners, and for some days every member of the family had to get
into the cars and be carried along, an occasional upset only adding
to the delight of the experience, as far as Harold and Bertie were
concerned. Then they built a “ristorante” at one point, and installed
their sisters to dispense lemonade and bonbons to the weary travellers,
who were supposed to have come from an immense distance. Of course the
travellers had to pay—such an undertaking costs money! Then, as the
autumn days drew in, there were night excursions, when the train, with
headlights on, came roaring down the garden to a great accompaniment of
hoots and whistles, quite an alarming thing to meet if one were taking
a stroll in the twilight.
The “ferro-via” was a great success, but the owners of the line panted
for more public recognition. We elders did not care to risk ourselves
in the trucks after dark, and for two or three evenings, as we sat
over our tea in the drawing-room, we wondered rather at the steady
persistence with which the train rushed backwards and forwards outside.
The boys were unusually silent about their exploits now, but from their
bright eyes and their sisters’ obstinate refusal to answer questions,
we could not help fancying that some kind of mischief was afoot. Then
one evening, just before dinner, Bonifazio came into the drawing-room,
looking very scared.
“Signora mia,” he exclaimed to my sister-in-law, “do you know what
the Signorini are doing? The entire town is gathered in the piazzale
outside the gate, and the young gentlemen are taking all the passengers
the cars will hold, twice round the garden—for two sous the trip!
And the young ladies are actually _selling refreshments to these
contadini_! For the love of Heaven, let the Signora stop this scandal!
The people are fighting to get into the cars!”
It would be interesting to know what is really going on in children’s
minds—those fairy plans which they weave steadily through lessons and
play and would rather die than confide to their elders! I remember
a surprise that my small brother and sister sprung upon the family
before I was married—a scheme all worked and irrevocably launched
before accident revealed it to any of the grown-ups in the house. Daisy
was about nine years old, and Arthur, her submissive slave, just over
seven. It was the height of the winter season, and there was the usual
rush of engagements for weeks ahead, when at some afternoon reception
a friend of my mother’s said to her: “We are so glad next Thursday is
free! We shall be so much interested to see your children’s play!”
“My children’s play? There must be some mistake,” my mother replied. “I
have not issued any invitations for theatricals!”
“Your little people have,” the lady retorted. “Look at this!”
And she produced a card on which was written in a nice round hand:
“Miss Terry and Master Arthur Terry request the pleasure of Mrs. ——’s
company on Thursday next at nine o’clock. (_Theatrakulls._)”
My mother’s feelings were not to be described! Within ten minutes three
or four other people smilingly informed her that they, too, had been
invited and certainly meant to come. There was nothing for it but to
go straight home and find out what the little monkeys had committed us
to. On being sternly questioned, Daisy, with the imperturbable calmness
that distinguished her even then, produced a list of some two hundred
names, culled from Mamma’s visiting book, and said: “These are the
people we have asked. We chose the ones we liked, of course. _I_ have
composed the play and it will be most interesting. Arthur is in love
with me, Sofia is my rival—I have one or two other children in it,
but they are rather stupid, so I shall have to do most of the acting
myself. Don’t worry me, please—you have nothing to do but order the
supper and send for the chairs!”
Of course we submitted. Everything had been done in order; Daisy
(Arthur could not write well enough as yet) must have devoted her
playtime, for days, to writing out the invitations, which the servants
had carried to their addresses, never doubting but that the Signora’s
authorisation had been obtained. We were not allowed to see the last
rehearsals even, the drop-curtain of the little theatre in the ballroom
being jealously closed while they went on. I tried to get taken on as
manager—no use! “I know exactly what I am about,” said my small sister.
“I haven’t watched you grown-ups all these years for nothing! It’s
going to be a _great success_!”
Which it certainly was! Daisy’s speeches were a little long, because
some of the others forgot their parts and she had to bridge their
silences by expressing their sentiments for them. “I know what you
would say, dear friend—your heart is true, but you fear the vengeance
of the Marquis! Oh, I understand!” And so on. Then, at the critical
moment of the love scene, Arthur got stage-fright, and the Marquise,
who was naturally taller than her adorer, stooped towards him and
energetically whispered, “Go down on your knees and kiss my hand _this
minute, stupid_!” at which a roar of merriment swept through the room,
to end in a storm of applause as the small boy, dropping on one knee,
gave the hand a smacking kiss and exclaimed ardently, “_My Angel!_”
Oh, yes, it was a great success! The little Marquise was a born
actress, and carried it all off so well that the guests declared they
had never enjoyed an evening so much. But we “grown-ups” had passed
some anxious moments; and when it was all over and the triumphant
performers had had all the applause, as well as all the cake and
goodies they wanted, we extracted a sleepy promise that we should be at
least warned the next time they asked the town to a play!