The little acrobat: a story of Italy

When Natale next opened his eyes he became very wide awake indeed, in an instant. In fact, he did not know that he had been asleep at all, until the moonlight, slanting in, showed Luigi’s long body stretched upon the iron bed close by.

What could have waked Natale? For a moment he lay still without recollection of the momentous plans made at his early bedtime. Then he recalled a sensation of icy cold water about his feet, and he remembered that he had dreamed of a sudden plunge into the river while trying to find the stepping-stones. It must have been the chill of the dream-water that had awakened him! He sat up and found that he was still dressed and in his old clothes.

Ah! it was easy to remember all now, and after a breathless glance over his shoulder at Luigi, who was comfortably snoring, Natale slipped out of bed. Catching up his old hat and his shoes he stole softly over the brick floor and down the stone stairs as quietly as any mouse would have done.

Sora Grazia slept downstairs, but the door of her room was mercifully closed, and Natale knew that she often locked it at night. He turned his back upon it, therefore, with confidence, as he felt in the darkness for the balcony door. He exerted all his strength to raise the heavy bar of iron which guarded the door. Then he was very careful to keep his hold on the bar, as it swung downward, lest it should rouse the house with its usual clanging fall. The huge key was in the lock, and Natale succeeded in turning it with both hands, although this was much more difficult than raising the bar above the lock. It creaked dully as it turned, and Natale’s heart leaped into his throat, and a dozen noises buzzed in his ears.

Breathless, he stood with his hand on the latch, afraid to move lest the door behind him should open, and everything come to an end. But nothing happened, so he swung open the door, and without stopping to close it behind him, he again caught up his shoes, which he had had to set down, and ran along the balcony and out into the street, his feet pattering softly on the stones.

In his haste he did not stop to think of the direction he should take. His only impulse was to get out into the night somewhere, away from the houses and street. So he ran swiftly along in the shadow cast by wall and house, in just the opposite direction from that which would have led him past the church tower and through the village, out upon the downward road. Presently he crouched in a shadow to draw on his shoes, then fled onward again.

Once away, he lost his bearings utterly and hurried on without turning, past the small house with the Madonna painted on the wall, past the large house where the white tablet to “Pietro Pacioni” gleamed in the moonlight, and then downward, by a roughly paved path leading to the Campo Santo. Perhaps he would have kept on aimlessly along San Vito,—the fashionable promenade leading always higher along the mountain side till it ended in an open plateau high up above the valley,—if he had not heard steps approaching. Whether these steps came from behind or from ahead he did not stop to discover. The downward path offered safety, and a small pink villa threw a dark shadow across its entrance, so Natale lost not an instant in scudding down the friendly by-way.

On he trotted, past the shrine where the tiny Della Robbia Madonna sits under her arch, the moonlight touching the shining blue of her hood, the yellow of her robe and the pink of the baby on her knees with a radiance that was almost startling on the edge of the shadow. Now the path grew level, and the stones were left behind, and no more noise of footsteps disturbed the quiet.

A few rods more, and Natale stood in front of the small mortuary chapel outside the cemetery. The iron gates set in the wall of the cemetery were locked, as Natale found on gently shaking them. He had paused to peep through the slender grating into the inclosure where the moonlight touched the white tomb of the foreign gentleman buried close under the wall, and showed so plainly the numbers on the low stakes marking the graves of the nameless poor. The shadows of the cypress trees lay like long black fingers outstretched upon the wilds of weedy undergrowth, and the wind stirred dismally on the exposed hillside.

One day, Natale and Olga had wandered together as far as these iron gates. He remembered it now, and with the recollection he sprang away, eager to continue his journey,—then stood still, uncertain as to his path.

The way which had brought him downward came to an abrupt end with the little chapel, outside the gates. It would not do to lose himself among the chestnut woods in search of a path! Yet, how could he plunge down the pathless slopes among the great trees, with nothing to guide him but the murmur of the river far below? Still less was he willing to return to the road above and turn about to take his way through the village and so on out upon the road. He was almost sure that if he could only see to find his way, some downward path from where he stood would bring him to a river crossing, perhaps a long, long way below the arched bridge, and therefore much farther on his journey.

Bewildered and tired, he was almost ready to give up his flight, and to creep into the dark portico of the little chapel, and back into the shade beneath the picture of the Saint with the skull in his hand, and there end this strange night, which already seemed to him longer than any night he had ever known. But he roused himself to one more effort, and crept around to the back wall of the chapel. There, to his joyful surprise, he came upon a semblance of a path!

All indecision was gone now, and he fairly slid down the rocky and precipitous way, which was more gully than footway, being in fact a watercourse for the torrents leaping down the mountain side, after some storm of rain, as well as a short cut to the river for roughly shod peasant feet.

More than once Natale stumbled, and once he fell headlong, bruising his hands and knees, but he did not mind, for the rushing of the little river down among the rocks was becoming very loud in his ears.

When at last he came out of the woods, and stood on the edge of the waste of rounded stones loosely paving the river bed, he looked back a moment to where the village must be, high above, a huddle of gray wall and roof, with the square church tower in its midst. All seemed as silent in the sleeping town as in the home of the sleeping dead on its outskirts. Then, just as Natale again turned his back upon the mountain side, where perched Cutigliano like a bit of gray lichen growing on some mossy bowlder, the beautiful, bright, friendly moon slipped quite over the mountain in the west, and darkness fell upon the valley, where deep down in its darkest shadow Natale was ready to cross the river. The light of the moon still touched the chestnut woods higher up the slopes, but every moment the shadow would be creeping higher and higher, until there would be no more moonlight on this side the mountain, and only the stars would come peeping out at Natale.

After slipping off his shoes and leggings, the boy began picking his way carefully over the large dry stones which were worn smooth and round by slow wasting in the wet seasons, when the river flooded its narrow course and spread to the grassy banks. The stones rolled under even his light footsteps, but Natale kept his balance in crossing the smaller stones, and clambered patiently over or around the largest ones, and presently arrived at the edge of the black, rushing water. The brawling Lima makes a great ado hereabouts, as it tumbles over the rocks, for its bed slopes decidedly all the way to Lucca and beyond, and there is no opportunity for it to moderate its pace, or calm its chafings against the rocks.

With the first touch of the icy water upon his bared feet, Natale recalled his dream. How long ago it had been since he had lain safely in his bed under the slanting roof of Luigi’s house! Again and again he tried to plant his foot firmly in the midst of the swirling water, which was perhaps as much as twenty feet wide at that point, but always it was deeper and colder than he had expected, and the stones more slippery and unsteady. Then he began wandering up and down the bank, in quest of the stepping-stones, which here and there certainly crossed the river both above and below the arched bridge. Unsuccessful in this, Natale finally exerted himself to make a reckless dash into the current, where he found himself the next instant up to his waist in the black water and clinging desperately by one free hand to a wet rock, with the instinct of preserving himself from being carried off his feet. Then miserably he felt his way back to the dry rocks on the edge of the stream, and dropping down upon their harsh bosom, he began to cry bitterly.

He had so hoped there would be a crossing place! If he could only find it! His feet were sore with bruises now, and he felt as if he could not walk another step. He grew cold as he crouched there, sobbing with disappointment, for though the sun shines hot during the daytime on the chestnut trees and the vines of the Apennines, the nights, even of summer, are cool, and now a chill wind came sweeping down the valley from the fir-crowned summits of Abetone.

Presently the little wanderer roused himself and stood on his feet. Nothing could tempt him to try to find his way back to the house of the priest, not even aching feet or shivering limbs, but he began to think there might be a more sheltered place near by—this little boy of the road, who had taken many a noontide nap curled up at the foot of some wayside tree. Perhaps the earliest light of dawn would show him the stepping-stones and the road, of which there was no hint now in the blackness of darkness across the river. Painfully he crept back toward the bank, where presently he curled himself into a knot at the foot of a huge, distorted old chestnut tree, a short distance up the slope. The grass was soft and springy about the roots of the old tree, and a huge boulder near by shut off the wind from Natale’s shivering legs. So, with a sigh of content, and for the first time tasting the sweets of his new freedom, the little acrobat closed his eyes upon the stars winking down at him from above the stirring leaves, and fell asleep for the second time that night.