The little acrobat: a story of Italy

by Janie Prichard Duggan

It was a fortunate thing that there was no wind that first evening, for if there had been even a stiff breeze there would have been no performance. A very little wind caught under the canvas spread on that exposed hillside before it was securely roped into place might have carried it all away to be stranded in the tops of the chestnut trees below, and a new canvas for such a circo as that would have cost certainly three hundred francs.

When at last the tent was raised, Giovanni hung above the entrance a broad strip of blue canvas with clowns’ and horses’ heads painted upon it, and the sign in large letters: “Circo Equestre”, which is Italian for “Circus with Horses.”

Lastly, figured curtains of pale green calico were hung around the little vestibule, so that outsiders who had not paid the entrance fee might not peep inside and see what was going on, without payment.

Now all was ready, and it was still early, although almost dark in the field. Among the mountains, where one lives perhaps at the foot or even half-way up the slopes, night falls early, because the sinking sun is hidden from sight over the mountain tops long before it really drops into the sea behind them.

Yet it was not quite time to light the lamps inside the tent, as the performance was not to begin until half-past eight o’clock. Cutigliano was full of Italians, and a few English and Americans who had left the hot cities behind, with their churches and picture galleries and ruins, and had come to the pleasant hotels of the ancient mountain town to enjoy the fine air and the beautiful chestnut woods during the hot summer months. These visitors would not be through with their dinners at the hotels before eight o’clock, while the servants and plain village folk would find a late hour convenient for coming down the hill to the yellow tent.

At seven o’clock, however, the three men, with the big brass horn, the cornet and the drum, climbed the stony street into the town and made lively music in the little stone-paved piazzas, or open squares, where the children played in the sunset light.

By this time everybody in Cutigliano had learned what had been going on down in the field for the past two days, and many even of the rich strangers had made up their minds to go to see the show, partly out of curiosity, partly out of kindly purpose to help the strolling players. It had been announced that six soldi, or cents, would admit to the side of the ring where there would be benches and a chair or two for seats, while three cents offered room on the other side with a few boards and the green grass as accommodation. Visitors were invited to bring chairs for their sittings, if possible.

The music sounded very brave and loud as it returned down the very steepest street of all, which ran between high walls past Madame Cioche’s English pension or boarding-house and ended in the field. As this was a dark and even dangerous descent at night for the unwary, Antonio had driven a nail into a tree at the foot of the street, and had hung there a smutty tin lamp, with the light flaring and the smoke pouring from two long spouts.

Nonna had beguiled most of the children away from the tent by this time, and was putting the youngest to bed in the wagon, while the others rolled over the grass behind the tent.

Natale was as busy as a bee in the small tent which opened out of the large one. This was the dressing room, and the different costumes of the actors lay in heaps on the boxes scattered about.