Tancred

B >> Benjamin Disraeli >> Tancred

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Sidonia mounted the staircase, and, being a suitor for a ticket for the
principal seats, was received with a most gracious smile by a pretty
woman, fair-faced and arch, with a piquant nose and a laughing blue
eye, who sat at the door of the room. It was a long and rather narrow
apartment; at the end, a stage of rough planks, before a kind of
curtain, the whole rudely but not niggardly lighted. Unfortunately for
the Baroni family, Sidonia found himself the only first-class spectator.
There was a tolerable sprinkling of those who paid half a franc for
their amusement. These were separated from the first row, which Sidonia
alone was to occupy; in the extreme distance was a large space not
fitted up with benches, where the miscellaneous multitude, who could
summon up five sous apiece later in the evening, to see the Crucifixion,
were to be stowed.

'It hardly pays the lights,' said the pretty woman at the door. 'We have
not had good fortune in this town. It seems hard, when there is so much
for the money, and the children take such pains in going the rounds in
the morning.'

'And you are Madame Baroni?' said Sidonia.

'Yes; I am the mother,' she replied.

'I should have thought you had been their sister,' said Sidonia.

'My eldest son is fifteen! I often wish that he was anything else but
what he is, but we do not like to separate. We are all one family, sir,
and that makes us bear many things.'

'Well, I think I know a way to increase your audience,' said Sidonia.

'Indeed! I am sure it is very kind of you to say so much; we have not
met with a gentleman like you the whole time we have been here.'

Sidonia descended the stairs; the smoking amateurs made way for him
with great parade, and pushed back with equal unkindness the young and
wistful throng who still hovered round the portal.

'Don't you see the gentleman wants to go by? Get back, you boys!'

Sidonia halted on the doorway, and, taking advantage of a momentary
pause, said, 'All the little boys are to come in free.'

What a rush!

The performances commenced by the whole of the Baroni family appearing
in a row, and bowing to the audience. The father was now dressed in
a Greek costume, which exhibited to perfection his compact frame: he
looked like the captain of a band of Palikari; on his left appeared the
mother, who, having thrown off her cloak, seemed a sylph or a sultana,
for her bonnet had been succeeded by a turban. The three girls were
on her left hand, and on the right of her husband were their three
brothers. The eldest son, Francis, resembled his father, or rather was
what his father must have been in all the freshness of boyhood; the
same form of blended strength and symmetry; the same dark eye, the same
determined air and regular features which in time would become strongly
marked. The second boy, Alfred, about eleven, was delicate, fair, and
fragile, like his mother; his sweet countenance, full of tenderness,
changed before the audience with a rapid emotion. The youngest son,
Michel, was an infant of four years, and with his large blue eyes and
long golden hair, might have figured as one of the seraphs of Murillo.

There was analogy in the respective physical appearances of the brothers
and the sisters. The eldest girl, Josephine, though she had only counted
twelve summers, was in stature, and almost in form, a woman. She was
strikingly handsome, very slender, and dark as night. Adelaide, in
colour, in look, in the grace of every gesture, and in the gushing
tenderness of her wild, yet shrinking glance, seemed the twin of Alfred.
The little Carlotta, more than two years older than Michel, was the
miniature of her mother, and had a piquant coquettish air, mixed with
an expression of repose in one so young quite droll, like a little opera
dancer. The father clapped his hands, and all, except himself, turned
round, bowed to the audience, and retired, leaving Baroni and his two
elder children. Then commenced a variety of feats of strength. Baroni
stretched forth his right arm, and Josephine, with a bound, instantly
sprang upon his shoulder; while she thus remained, balancing herself
only on her left leg, and looking like a flying Victory, her father
stretched forth his left arm, and Francis sprang upon the shoulder
opposite to his sister, and formed with her a group which might have
crowned a vase. Infinite were the postures into which, for more than
half an hour, the brother and sister threw their flexible forms, and all
alike distinguished for their agility, their grace, and their precision.
At length, all the children, with the exception of Carlotta, glided from
behind the curtain, and clustered around their father with a quickness
which baffled observation. Alfred and Adelaide suddenly appeared,
mounted upon Josephine and Francis, who had already resumed their former
positions on the shoulders of their father, and stood immovable with
outstretched arms, while their brother and sister balanced themselves
above. This being arranged, Baroni caught up the young Michel, and, as
it were, flung him up on high; Josephine received the urchin, and tossed
him up to Adelaide, and in a moment the beautiful child was crowning the
living pyramid, his smiling face nearly touching the rough ceiling of
the chamber, and clapping his little hands with practised triumph, as
Baroni walked about the stage with the breathing burden.

He stopped, and the children disappeared from his shoulders, like birds
from a tree when they hear a sound. He clapped his hands, they turned
round, bowed, and vanished.

'As this feat pleases you,' said the father, 'and as we have a gentleman
here to-night who has proved himself a liberal patron of artists, I will
show you something that I rarely exhibit; I will hold the whole of
the Baroni family with my two hands;' and hereupon addressing some
stout-looking fellows among his audience, he begged them to come forward
and hold each end of a plank that was leaning against the wall, one
which had not been required for the quickly-constructed stage. This they
did with some diffidence, and with that air of constraint characteristic
of those who have been summoned from a crowd to perform something which
they do not exactly comprehend.

'Be not afraid, my good friends,' said Baroni to them, as Francis
lightly sprang on one end of the plank, and Josephine on the other; then
Alfred and Adelaide skipped up together at equal distances; so that the
four children were now standing in attitude upon the same basis, which
four stout men endeavoured, with difficulty, to keep firm. At that
moment Madame Baroni, with the two young children, came from behind the
curtain, and vaulted exactly on the middle of the board, so that the
bold Michel on the one side, and the demure Carlotta on the other,
completed the group. 'Thank you, my friends,' said Baroni, slipping
under the plank, which was raised to a height which just admitted him to
pass under it, 'I will release you,' and with his outstretched hands he
sustained the whole burthen, the whole of the Baroni family supported by
the father.

After this there was a pause of a few minutes, the stage was cleared and
Baroni, in a loose great-coat, appeared at its side with a violin. He
played a few bars, then turning to the audience, said with the same
contemptuous expression, which always distinguished him when he
addressed them, 'Now you are going to hear a scene from a tragedy of the
great Racine, one of the greatest tragedy writers that ever existed, if
you may never have heard him; but if you were at Paris, and went to the
great theatre, you would find that what I am telling you is true.' And
Josephine advanced, warmly cheered by the spectators, who thought that
they were going to have some more tumbling. She advanced, however, as
Andromache. It seemed to Sidonia that he had never listened to a voice
more rich and passionate, to an elocution more complete; he gazed with
admiration on her lightning glance and all the tumult of her noble brow.
As she finished, he applauded her with vehemence. He was standing near
to her father leaning against the wall.

'Your daughter is a great actress,' he said to Baroni.

'I sometimes think so,' said the father, turning round with some
courtesy to Sidonia, whom he recognised as the liberal stranger who had
so kindly increased his meagre audience; 'I let her do this to please
herself. She is a good girl, but very few of the respectable savages
here speak French. However, she likes it. Adelaide is now going to sing;
that will suit them better.'

Then there were a few more bars scraped on the violin, and Adelaide,
glowing rather than blushing, with her eyes first on the ground and then
on the ceiling, but in all her movements ineffable grace, came forward
and courtesied. She sang an air of Auber and of Bellini: a voice of the
rarest quality, and, it seemed to Sidonia, promising almost illimitable
power.

'Your family is gifted,' he said to Baroni, as he applauded his second
daughter as warmly as the first; and the audience applauded her too.

'I sometimes think so. They are all very good. I am afraid, however,
that this gift will not serve her much. The good-natured savages seem
pleased. Carlotta now is going to dance; that will suit them better. She
has had good instruction. Her mother was a dancer.'

And immediately, with her lip a little curling, a look of complete
self-possession, willing to be admired, yet not caring to conceal her
disgust, the little Carlotta advanced, and, after pointing her toe,
threw a glance at her father to announce that he might begin. He played
with more care and energy than for the other sisters, for Carlotta was
exceedingly wilful and imperious, and, if the music jarred, would often
stop, shrug her shoulders, and refuse to proceed. Her mother doted
on her; even the austere Baroni, who ruled his children like a Pasha,
though he loved them, was a little afraid of Carlotta.

The boards were coarse and rough, some even not sufficiently tightened,
but it seemed to Sidonia, experienced as he was in the schools of Paris,
London, and Milan, that he had never witnessed a more brilliant facility
than that now displayed by this little girl. Her soul, too, was entirely
in her art; her countenance generally serious and full of thought,
yet occasionally, when a fine passage had been successfully achieved,
radiant with triumph and delight. She was cheered, and cheered,
and cheered; but treated the applause, when she retired, with great
indifference. Fortunately, Sidonia had a rose in his button-hole, and
he stepped forward and presented it to her. This gratified Carlotta, who
bestowed on him a glance full of coquetry.

'And now,' said Baroni, to the people, 'you are going to see the
crucifixion of Jesus Christ: all the tableaux are taken from pictures
by the most famous artists that ever lived, Raphael, Rubens, and others.
Probably you never heard of them. I can't help that; it is not my fault;
all I can say is, that if you go to the Vatican and other galleries,
you may see them. There will be a pause of ten minutes, for the children
want rest.'

Now there was a stir and a devouring of fruit; Baroni, who was on the
point of going behind the curtain, came forward, and there was silence
again to listen to him.

'I understand,' he said, roughly, 'there is a collection going to be
made for the children; mind, I ask no one to subscribe to it; no one
obliges me by giving anything to it; it is for the children and the
children alone, they have it to spend, that is all.'

The collectors were Michel and Adelaide. Michel was always successful at
a collection. He was a great favourite, and wonderfully bold; he would
push about in the throng like a Hercules, whenever anyone called out
to him to fetch a Hard. Adelaide, who carried the box, was much too
retiring, and did not like the business at all; but it was her turn,
and she could not avoid it. No one gave them more than a sou. It is due,
however, to the little boys who were admitted free, to state that they
contributed handsomely; indeed, they expended all the money they had
in the exhibition room, either in purchasing fruit, or in bestowing
backsheesh on the performers.

'_Encore un liard pour Michel_,' was called out by several of them, in
order to make Michel rush back, which he did instantly at the exciting
sound, ready to overwhelm the hugest men in his resistless course.

At last, Adelaide, holding the box in one hand and her brother by the
other, came up to Sidonia, and cast her eyes upon the ground.

'For Michel,' said Sidonia, dropping a five-franc piece into the box.

'A piece of a hundred sous!' said Michel.

'And a piece of a hundred sous for yourself and each of your brothers
and sisters, Adelaide,' said Sidonia, giving her a purse.

Michel gave a shout, but Adelaide blushed very much, kissed his hand,
and skipped away. When she had got behind the curtain, she jumped on her
father's neck, and burst into tears. Madame Baroni, not knowing what had
occurred, and observing that Sidonia could command from his position a
view of what was going on in their sanctuary, pulled the curtain, and
deprived Sidonia of a scene which interested him.

About ten minutes after this, Baroni again appeared in his rough
great-coat, and with his violin. He gave a scrape or two, and the
audience became orderly. He played an air, and then turning to Sidonia,
looking at him with great scrutiny, he said, 'Sir, you are a prince.'

'On the contrary,' said Sidonia, 'I am nothing; I am only an artist like
yourself.'

'Ah!' said Baroni, 'an artist like myself! I thought so. You have
taste. And what is your line? Some great theatre, I suppose, where
even if one is ruined, one at least has the command of capital. 'Tis a
position. I have none. But I have no rebels in my company, no traitors.
With one mind and heart we get on, and yet sometimes----' and here a
signal near him reminded him that he must be playing another air, and in
a moment the curtain separated in the middle, and exhibited a circular
stage on which there were various statues representing the sacred story.

There were none of the usual means and materials of illusion at hand;
neither space, nor distance, nor cunning lights; it was a confined
tavern room with some glaring tapers, and Sidonia himself was almost
within arm's reach of the performers. Yet a representation more
complete, more finely conceived, and more perfectly executed, he had
never witnessed. It was impossible to credit that these marble forms,
impressed with ideal grace, so still, so sad, so sacred, could be the
little tumblers, who, but half-an-hour before, were disporting on the
coarse boards at his side.

The father always described, before the curtain was withdrawn, with a
sort of savage terseness, the subject of the impending scene. The groups
did not continue long; a pause of half a minute, and the circular stage
revolved, and the curtain again closed. This rapidity of representation
was necessary, lest delay should compromise the indispensable
immovable-ness of the performers.

'Now,' said Baroni, turning his head to the audience, and slightly
touching his violin, 'Christ falls under the weight of the cross.'
And immediately the curtain parted, and Sidonia beheld a group in the
highest style of art, and which though deprived of all the magic of
colour, almost expressed the passion of Correggio.

'It is Alfred,' said Baroni, as Sidonia evinced his admiration. 'He
chiefly arranges all this, under my instructions. In drapery his talent
is remarkable.'

At length, after a series of representations, which were all worthy of
being exhibited in the pavilions of princes, Baroni announced the last
scene.

'What you are going to see now is the Descent from the Cross; it is
after Rubens, one of the greatest masters that ever lived, if you
ever heard of such a person,' he added, in a grumbling voice, and then
turning to Sidonia, he said, 'This crucifixion is the only thing which
these savages seem at all to understand; but I should like you, sir,
as you are an artist, to see the children in some Greek or Roman story:
Pygmalion, or the Death of Agrippina. I think you would be pleased.'

'I cannot be more pleased than I am now,' said Sidonia. 'I am also
astonished.'

But here Baroni was obliged to scrape his fiddle, for the curtain moved.

'It is a triumph of art,' said Sidonia, as he beheld the immortal group
of Rubens reproduced with a precision and an exquisite feeling which no
language can sufficiently convey, or too much extol.

The performances were over, the little artists were summoned to the
front scene to be applauded, the scanty audience were dispersing:
Sidonia lingered.

'You are living in this house, I suppose?' he said to Baroni.

Baroni shook his head. 'I can afford no roof except my own.'

'And where is that?'

'On four wheels, on the green here. We are vagabonds, and, I suppose,
must always be so; but, being one family, we can bear it. I wish the
children to have a good supper to-night, in honour of your kindness. I
have a good deal to do. I must put these things in order,' as he spoke
he was working; 'there is the grandmother who lives with us; all this
time she is alone, guarded, however, by the dog. I should like them to
have meat to-night, if I can get it. Their mother cooks the supper.
Then I have got to hear them say their prayers. All this takes time,
particularly as we have to rise early, and do many things before we make
our first course through the city.'

'I will come and see you to-morrow,' said Sidonia, 'after your first
progress.'

'An hour after noon, if you please,' said Baroni. 'It is pleasant for
me to become acquainted with a fellow artist, and one so liberal as
yourself.'

'Your name is Baroni,' said Sidonia, looking at him earnestly.

'My name is Baroni.'

'An Italian name.'

'Yes, I come from Cento.'

'Well, we shall meet to-morrow. Good night, Baroni. I am going, to send
you some wine for your supper, and take care the grandmamma drinks my
health.'

II.

It was a sunny morn: upon the green contiguous to the Auberge of St.
Nicholas was a house upon wheels, a sort of monster omnibus, its huge
shafts idle on the ground, while three fat Flemish horses cropped the
surrounding pasture. From the door of the house were some temporary
steps, like an accommodation ladder, on which sat Baroni, dressed
something like a Neapolitan fisherman, and mending his clarionet; the
man in the blouse was eating his dinner, seated between the shafts, to
which also was fastened the little dog, often the only garrison, except
the grandmother, of this strange establishment.

The little dog began barking vociferously, and Baroni, looking up,
instantly bade him be quiet. It was Sidonia whose appearance in the
distance had roused the precautionary voice.

'Well,' said Sidonia, 'I heard your trumpets this morning.'

'The grandmother sleeps,' said Baroni, taking off his cap, and slightly
rising. 'The rest also are lying down after their dinner. Children will
never repose unless there are rules, and this with them is invariable.'

'But your children surely cannot be averse to repose, for they require
it.'

'Their blood is young,' continued Baroni, still mending his clarionet;
'they are naturally gay, except my eldest son. He is restless, but he is
not gay.'

'He likes his art?'

'Not too much; what he wants is to travel, and, after all, though we are
always moving, the circle is limited.'

'Yes; you have many to move. And can this ark contain them all?' said
Sidonia, seating himself on some timber that was at hand.

'With convenience even,' replied Baroni; 'but everything can be effected
by order and discipline. I rule and regulate my house like a ship. In a
vessel, there is not as much accommodation for the size as in a house
of this kind; yet nowhere is there more decency and cleanliness than on
board ship.'

'You have an obedient crew,' said Sidonia, 'and that is much.'

'Yes; when they wake my children say their prayers, and then they come
to embrace me and their mother. This they have never omitted during
their lives. I have taught them from their birth to obey God and to
honour their parents. These two principles have made them a religious
and moral family. They have kept us united, and sustained us under
severe trials.'

'Yet such talents as you all possess,' said Sidonia, 'should have
exempted you from any very hard struggle, especially when united, as
apparently in your case, with well-ordered conduct.'

'It would seem that they should,' said Baroni, 'but less talents than we
possess would, probably, obtain as high a reward. The audiences that we
address have little feeling for art, and all these performances, which
you so much applauded last night, would not, perhaps, secure even the
feeble patronage we experience, if they were not preceded by some feats
of agility or strength.'

'You have never appealed to a higher class of audience?'

'No; my father was a posture-master, as his father was before him. These
arts are traditionary in our family, and I care not to say for what
length of time and from what distant countries we believe them to have
been received by us. My father died by a fall from a tight rope in the
midst of a grand illumination at Florence, and left me a youth. I count
now only sixty-and-thirty summers. I married, as soon as I could,
a dancer at Milan. We had no capital, but our united talents found
success. We loved our children; it was necessary to act with decision,
or we should have been separated and trampled into the mud. Then I
devised this house and wandering life, and we exist in general as you
see us. In the winter, if our funds permit it, we reside in some city,
where we educate our children in the arts which they pursue. The mother
can still dance, sings prettily, and has some knowledge of music. For
myself, I can play in some fashion upon every instrument, and have
almost taught them as much; I can paint, too, a scene, compose a
group, and with the aid of my portfolio of prints, have picked up more
knowledge of the costume, of different centuries than you would imagine.
If you see Josephine to-night in the Maid of Orleans you would perhaps
be surprised. A great judge, like yourself a real artist, once told me
at Bruxelles, that the grand opera could not produce its equal.'

'I can credit it,' said Sidonia, 'for I perceive in Josephine, as well
as indeed in all your children, a rare ability!'

'I will be frank,' said Baroni, looking at Sidonia very earnestly, and
laying down his clarionet. 'I conclude from what you said last night,
and the interest that you take in the children, that you are something
in our way, though on a great scale. I apprehend you are looking out for
novelties for the next season, and sometimes in the provinces things are
to be found. If you will take us to London or Paris, I will consent to
receive no remuneration if the venture fail; all I shall then require
will be a decent maintenance, which you can calculate beforehand: if the
speculation answer, I will not demand more than a third of the profits,
leaving it to your own liberality to make me any regalo in addition,
that you think proper.'

'A very fair proposal,' said Sidonia.

'Is it a bargain?'

'I must think over it,' said Sidonia.

'Well; God prosper your thoughts, for, from what I see of you, you are a
man I should be proud to work with.'

'Well, we may yet be comrades.'

The children appeared at the door of the house, and, not to disturb
their father, vaulted down. They saluted Sidonia with much respect, and
then withdrew to some distance. The mother appeared at the door,
and, leaning down, whispered something to Baroni, who, after a little
hesitation, said to Sidonia, 'The grandmother is awake; she has a wish
to thank you for your kindness to the children. It will not trouble
you; merely a word; but women have their fancies, and we like always to
gratify her, because she is much alone and never complains.'

'By all means,' said Sidonia.

Whereupon they ushered forward a venerable woman with a true Italian
face; hair white as snow, and eyes still glittering with fire, with
features like a Roman bust, and an olive complexion. Sidonia addressed
her in Italian, which greatly pleased her. She was profuse, even solemn,
in her thanks to him; she added, she was sure, from all that she had
heard of him, if he took the children with him, he would be kind to
them.

'She has overheard something I said to my wife,' said Baroni, a little
embarrassed.

'I am sure I should be kind to them,' said Sidonia, 'for many reasons,
and particularly for one;' and he whispered something in Baroni's ear.

Baroni started from his seat with a glowing cheek, but Sidonia, looking
at his watch and promising to attend their evening performance, bade
them adieu.

III.

The performances were more meagrely attended this evening than even on
the preceding one, but had they been conducted in the royal theatre of
a capital, they could not have been more elaborate, nor the troupe have
exerted themselves with greater order and effect. It mattered not a jot
to them whether their benches were thronged or vacant; the only audience
for whom the Baroni family cared was the foreign manager, young,
generous, and speculative, whom they had evidently without intention
already pleased, and whose good opinion they resolved to-night entirely
to secure. And in this they perfectly succeeded. Josephine was a tragic
muse; all of them, even to little Carlotta, performed as if their
destiny depended on the die. Baroni would not permit the children's
box to be carried round to-night, as he thought it an unfair tax on the
generous stranger, whom he did not the less please by this well-bred
abstinence. As for the mediaeval and historic groups, Sidonia could
recall nothing equal to them; and what surprised him most was the effect
produced by such miserable materials. It seemed that the whole was
effected with some stiffened linen and paper; but the divine touch of
art turned everything to gold. One statue of Henri IV. with his flowing
plume, and his rich romantic dress, was quite striking. It was the very
plume that had won at Ivry, and yet was nothing more than a sheet of
paper cut and twisted by the plastic finger of little Alfred.

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