It took all of that first day and most of the next to get everything into shape for an exhibition on the second night after the arrival of the circus troop at Cutigliano.

The turf had been removed from the ring, or round space inclosed by the low panels of wood, and the tent pole erected, by the time the canvas was mended and the side curtains were ready to be hung.

The sun was just about to slip over the mountain rim in the west when everything was done, and it only remained to draw the stout ropes and hoist the canvas into position. Natale was generally on hand when this was done, listening for the creaking of the pulley at the top of the pole, as the dull yellow canvas slowly rose into position, till, all at once, it spread like a queer, pointed mushroom over the green grass of the field.

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.

As half-past eight o’clock approached, the boy became as excited as if this were to be his first appearance in public, and he kept lifting up the flap of curtain dividing the two tents to see how fast the seats were filling. The band had brought back a horde of village children in its train, and though few of these were possessed of the three cents charged for children, they served to keep up an appearance of bustle and enterprise outside, where the band now played the National Hymn of Italy gaily in the light of the big lamp at the entrance.

Cara, the mother of Olga and the rest of the seven, stood in the vestibule and took in the great copper cents which by and by began to pile up in the bowl on the table. She was a very striking person to look at, with her coal-black hair frizzed bushily on each side of her head, with her flashing black eyes and her heavy brows, her red, red lips and cheeks, and her scarlet and black gown. No one dared to slip in behind the rustling skirts or portly form of anybody without paying, for her piercing eyes seemed everywhere. Once or twice, when the crowds about the doors seemed to hesitate and to wonder whether, after all, it were worth while to expend six or even three cents for what was to be seen behind the curtain, the pretty little figure of her Olga was seen to flit, as if by accident, across the vestibule, the full light streaming over her little full blouse of yellow satin, and her pink feet tripping as if on air.

The anxious half-hour of expectation ended in the sight of a full circle surrounding the ring, and then the band came inside and all the performers slipped into the smaller tent and hurried on their costumes.

The band played on; Arduina danced a measured dance on the tight rope which was stretched near the ground; the clown made his funny jokes; Antonio performed his clever feats on the bars; Elvira rode the galloping horses with Cara dancing in and out and everywhere, while Giovanni cracked the whip and Paulo held the bar for Il Duca to leap. The pantomime then brought shouts of laughter and loud hand-clappings from the spectators; and afterward the tumbling began.

There was nothing that Olga loved so much, and she showed it in every line of her chubby, yet nimble little figure as she came prancing into the ring, and then went heels over head, over and over again, without stopping to breathe, as far as the strip of dusty carpet stretched. Then back again she tumbled, only stopping to toss a stray wisp of hair from her flushed face.

Next Arduina came tripping in, and over and over she went too, not so gracefully and daintily as Olga had done, for Arduina was getting a little too large for that kind of thing,—a great girl of fifteen years.

The clown followed Arduina, dressed in his clumsy suit of black and white, and what a farce his tumbling was, to be sure; only the spectators must have known that he failed in order to make them laugh at his awkwardness, and make merry they did.

Somehow Natale never quite enjoyed the laughter which often accompanied his own performances, and now his time had come.

“Ecco! Natalino!” called his stepfather, the clown, rushing behind the curtain all breathless and covered with dust. “Over and over and over you go, youngster, without stopping to sneeze between!”

Natale was such a little fellow, so much smaller than Olga even, that many of the faces outside the ring softened at sight of him, as he darted out into the light of the lamps and then halted to make his funny little salute. He was dressed in imitation of the clown, in long black trousers and a tailed black coat, with a pointed white waistcoat reaching below his waist. With an earnest seriousness very different from Olga’s smiling grace, Natale turned his first somersault, paused on his back, turned another jerkily, while the little boys watching him hooted, and a ripple of laughter ran around the ring. Back again he came, however, his thin black legs sprawling in air, and his pale little face flushing with the exertion. On his feet again, he clapped one hand to the back of his neck, bobbed his head to the spectators, and trotted off behind the friendly curtain, satisfied that he had, at least, done as well as usual, and pleased with the loud clapping attending his exit. Indeed, there was a clapping and a calling out of something with laughing voices.

“Il picino! Il picino!”[3]

“You will have to go back, Natalino,” laughed the clown. “Salute them and stand on your head, boy, but don’t lose it on the way.”

The music played loudly, and Natale stepped gravely back again, made his odd little bow, and fell over on his hands as the first step toward standing on his head. Poor, stiff little legs! It took more than one effort to throw them into an upright position above his head, but finally he really did accomplish it, and stood thus several seconds while the shouting and laughing went on.

When Natale had disappeared a second time behind the curtain, there were a few grave faces among the laughing ones looking on. An English lady whispered to her companion and sighed.

“The poor little fellow is evidently afraid to disobey that dreadful clown,” she said. “Did you see how he trembled as the man stood over him, when he tried to stand on his head? Something ought to be done to put a stop to this, Betty.”

“The child looks weak, as if he were not very well fed,” Betty answered, “but I do not think he looks unhappy. And the clown was certainly smiling, and seemed to be standing by as if to help the little boy accomplish his wonderful feat, I thought. Don’t distress yourself, Aunty. He is just learning, it may be, and they bring him in to contrast him with that little beauty who turned the ‘wheels.’ Send the boy some good bread and meat to-morrow, and that will be better for him than our empty sympathy.”

But “Aunty” was not satisfied, as we shall see.

The last act of the evening again brought Natale to the fore. The big spotted horse, Il Duca, was again brought into the ring, and after he had cantered gaily around inside the ring many times, to the music of a schottisch, striking terror to the ladies occupying the front seats, with their knees pressed against the low barrier, the clown suddenly called a halt and caught the bridle of the panting steed. Gently the solemn strains of the “Dead March” sounded through the tent, and Il Duca fell slowly and painfully upon his knees, and then rolled over upon the ground, apparently dying. The light dust of the ring stirred under the beast’s laboring nostrils, and deep groans issued from his throat, while Giovanni stood mournfully by and the music played on.