I prefer to pass over the remainder of this scene in silence. Suffice it to say that I did what I could to alleviate the physical sufferings of poor little “Zéphyr” and her unfortunate sister; and before leaving I earnestly entreated the now quite softened and still sobbing elder girl to let me know whether her sister grew better or worse. This she promised to do, and leaving my name and address, I kissed the hot little forehead of the fallen “Fairy Queen,” and took my departure. The next morning I heard that the child was dead. She had died in the night, and with her last fluttering breath she had tried to sing her little fairy song. And so the human “Zéphyr” had floated away from the stage of this life, where fairy-land is only the dream of poets, to the unknown country — to the
“Island valley of Avilion,
Where never wind blows loudly.”
Thinking of her as I write, I almost fancy I see a delicate sprite on rainbow pinions flitting past me; I almost hear the sweet child-voice rendered powerful and pure by the breath of immortality, singing softly —
“Follow me soon
Back to my place behind the moon,
Where I reign for ever and ever!”
And who shall assert that she does not reign in some distant glorified region — the little queen of a chosen court of child-angels for whom this present world was too hard and sorrowful?
TINY TRAMPS.
THE idea of childhood is generally associated in our minds with mirth, grace, and beauty. The fair-haired, blue-eyed treasures of proud and tender mothers, the plump, rosy little ones whose fresh young hearts know no sorrow save the sometimes ungratified longing for a new toy or new game — these are the fairy blossoms of our lives, for whom childhood really exists, and for whose dear sakes we think no sacrifice too great, no pain too wearisome, no work too heavy, so long as we can keep them in health, strength, and happiness, and ward off from their lives every shadow of suffering. And as we caress our own dimpled darlings, and listen to their merry prattling voices and their delightful laughter, we find it difficult to realise that there are other children in the world, born of the same great Mother Nature, who live on without even knowing that they are children, and who have “begun life” in the bitterest manner at a time when they can scarcely toddle; children to whom toys are inexplicable mysteries, and for whom the bright regions of fairyland have never been unclosed.
These poor little waifs and strays, no matter how young they are in years, are old — one might almost say they were born old — they are familiar with the dark and crooked paths of life, and the broad, shining, golden road of love, duty, wisdom, and peace has never been pointed out to their straying little feet.
Homes for destitute children may and do exist, refuges and charities of all kinds are open to those who seek them, and yet, in spite of all that is done, or is doing, poor child-wanderers walk the earth, and meet us in streets and country roads, clothed in rags, their pinched faces begrimed with dirt and tears, and their tiny voices attuned to the beggar’s whine, while too often, alas! their young hearts are already withered by the corroding influences of deceit and cunning.
The other day one of these tiny tramps came to my door, and implored in piteous accents for a crust of bread. He was a pretty little fellow of some seven or eight years old, and his blue eyes looked bright with innocence and trust. His tiny naked feet were cracked and sore, and covered with mud, and his clothes were in so dirty and ragged a condition that it seemed a miracle how they could hang together at all. Through the large holes in these wretched garments, however, might be seen many pretty glimpses of soft pink and white skin, and his face was as plump, and fair, and rosy as the fondest mother could desire it to be. Nevertheless, he assured me in the most mournful manner that he was very cold and hungry, and that his feet were so very sore he could scarcely stand; so, without more ado, we took him into the kitchen, bathed his feet for him in refreshing warm water, and provided him with a warm pair of stockings and a strong pair of boots. Then we put him on a chair by the fire, and feasted him with a large bowl of barley-broth, which he appeared to enjoy exceedingly. A piece of cake was then given to him as a concluding relish, and when he had quite finished his meal, I asked him where he was going.
My small tramp screwed his knuckles into his eyes, and mournfully replied, “Home.”
“Where is home?” I inquired.
“With mother.”
“And where does mother live?”
“Please, ‘m, she lives on the road.”
“Lives on the road!” I exclaimed; “but where does she sleep?”
“On the road, ‘m, please, ‘m.”
I looked at the small waif in silence. He met my glance with a weird upraising of his eyes and eyebrows, which gave him an expression that was half-plaintive, half-cunning.
“What road does she live on?” I asked.
“Please, ‘m, any road as comes ‘andy.”
I sighed involuntarily. He was such a pretty child; and what a life seemed in store for him!
“What does your mother do?” I continued.
“Please, ‘m, she sells buttings.”
“Buttings?”
“Yes, ‘m, buttings, an’ ‘ooks an’ ‘ise.”
Buttons, and hooks and eyes. I knew the kind of woman she must be — bold, slovenly, and dirty, most likely, wearing a flashy bonnet on one side of her head, and brass rings on her fingers. A woman with a carneying voice, with which she insinuated herself into the good graces of servants, and persuaded them to purchase her trumpery goods.
“Have you a father?” I asked.
“Yes, ‘m. He gits drunk, ‘m.”
Dismissing the idea of the father at once, I continued my catechising.
“Why doesn’t your mother send you to school?”
“I dunno, ‘m.” Here the small knuckles were screwed into the eyes more violently than ever.
“Where is your mother now?”
“I dunno, ‘m.”
“Well, then, how are you going to find her?”
“I dunno, ‘m. I kin try.”
“Do you know where to try?”
“Yes, ‘m. I knows her pub.”
“Do you mean the public-house?”
“Yes, ‘m, please, ‘m.” And as if the recollection of the “pub” had suddenly aroused him to action, the little forlorn wanderer slipped off his chair by the fire, and prepared to start. I fastened an old warm cloth jacket round him, and turning his little rosy face up that I might survey it closely, I said —
“Now, suppose you cannot find your mother, will you come back here? I’ll take care of you till we can find her for you, and you shall have some more cake. Do you understand?”
“Yes, ‘m.”
“Stop a minute,” I said; and seizing a scrap of paper, I hastily wrote the words—” Should you wish this child taken care of, put to school, and brought up to earn an honest livelihood, you can call at this house any day during the next three weeks and adding my name and address, I sealed the paper carefully. Then putting it in the pocket of the jacket I had just given him, I again addressed my small tramp —
“Will you give that letter to your mother when you find her?”
He looked decidedly astonished, and somewhat doubtful about the propriety of acceding to this request; but after a moment of consideration, he gave me his invariable reply —
“Yes, ‘m, please, ‘m.”
Raising the child in my arms, I kissed his rosy intelligent face, my heart swelling with pity for his hard fate, and then I led him to the front door. He made a kind of attempt at a salute, by pulling one of his chestnut curls into his eyes, and then scrambled down the steps and ran away, while I rushed to my window, which commands an entire view of the street, and watched him. He looked round now and then to see if any one were near, and finding the road pretty well deserted, he finally seated himself on a doorstep, and I was able to observe the whole of his proceedings, which filled me with the greatest surprise and dismay.
&nb
sp; The first thing he did was to take off the boots and stockings with which he had been provided, and to tie them in a bunch together. He then deliberately walked into a heap of the thickest black mud he could find, and tramped and splashed about therein till the feet, which had been so nicely washed, were as black and grimy as they could well be. This done, he took off the warm jacket, and rolling it up in as small a bundle as he could manage to make, he tucked it under his arm, then giving himself two or three dexterous shakes which had the effect of displaying the large holes in his own tattered garments to the best advantage, he uttered a sort of wild whoop or yell, and scampering up the street as fast as he could go, he disappeared from my sight. I knew his destination as well as if it had been told to me then and there. He was going to convert that jacket and those boots and stockings into money at the nearest old-clothes shop, and then he would no doubt hasten to his mother’s “pub,” and detail to her his successful morning’s adventure. She would take the money he had obtained for the clothes, and, perhaps, give the child twopence for himself as reward for his smartness and there would be an end, while certainly the letter I had prepared would never be thought of or even discovered unless by some old Jew salesman, who would not comprehend its meaning. Yet could I blame the poor little tramp for his behaviour? No, indeed, I only pitied the unfortunate child more than ever.
Trained to deceive as thoroughly as we train our children to speak the truth, could anything else have been reasonably expected of him? It would have been a real matter for surprise had he acted differently. Still, I was foolish enough to feel somewhat disappointed, for the boy’s face had attracted me. It is curious, too, to observe how very many attractive child-faces there are among the little vagrants of the London streets. Children with beautiful eyes and hair — children whose flesh is a perfect marvel of softness and fair delicacy, in spite of the dirt that grimes them from top to toe — and children whose limbs are so gracefully and finely formed, and whose whole manner and bearing are so indescribably lofty, that one would ‘almost deem them to have been born in the purple. An excellent type of the tramp aristocracy came to me one morning in the shape of an Italian boy of about ten or eleven years of age, who strolled under my window, twanging prettily enough the chords of a much-used, far-travelled, but still sweet-toned, mandoline. I have always an extra soft heart for these straying minstrels from my own sunny land of song, and I immediately called him, and entered into conversation with him. He told me he had travelled far and earned little, and that he seldom had enough to eat, but he was merry. “Oh, yes,” he said, smiling his bright southern smile, “he was always hopeful and lighthearted.”
Some peculiarity in his accent impelled me to ask him if he were not from Lombardy, and never shall I forget the superb gesture of head and the proud flash of his eyes, as he drew himself up, and replied, with dignity, “No, signorina, io son Romano” (“I am a Roman”).
If he had declared himself an emperor, he could not have asserted himself with more dignity. Many a languid dandy, dawdling through the saloons of fashion, might have envied his grace of figure and princely bearing.
There was a very interesting account once in the Telegraph, concerning two baby tramps known as “Sally and her Bloke.” Sally was eight, and her boy companion, the “Bloke,” was nine. No matter how great the distances each had to traverse during the day in obedience to the will of the tyrannical parents or masters who employed them to beg, or sell matches in the streets, as surely as the evening fell these two mites were always found together. Some irresistible attraction, some inexplicable sympathy, drew them together, and the poor little things entertained for each other so harmless, and withal so true, an affection, that even the coarse companions with whom their lot was cast were touched by their behaviour, and spoke with rough good-nature akin to respect of “Sally and her Bloke,” and forbore to interfere with their pretty and pathetic little romance. I wondered at the time if anything would be done for this forlorn little couple, but the matter seems to have died out in mere sentiment, and “Sally and her Bloke” will no doubt be left to grow up as such children do grow up — in vice and misery.
A great step in advance has been made since the great English author, Charles Mackay, wrote his famous poem, “The Souls of the Children,” which so powerfully impressed the late Prince Consort that he had thousands of copies printed at his own personal expense, and circulated them freely all over the land. This poem helped largely to influence the minds of English philanthropists and statesmen in favour of universal popular education; but, surely, there yet remains much to be done! True, the question may be justly asked, can anything more be done? It is, indeed, terrible to think that we must always be doomed to see sorrow, ignorance, and vice imprinted on the tender, flowerlike faces of the very young, and that there must always be, in spite of the efforts of the wisest and best men, a large majority of babes and children for whom there is and can be no hope of good. Must there be a perpetual sacrifice of the innocents to the god of all evil? One of the saddest sights to me, among all the sad sights of London, are the neglected children who have somehow eluded the kindly-meant, though occasionally stern, grasp of the Government officials, and who have literally nothing to hope for, nothing to render their lives of value to the nation; and who, as far as their wretched parents are concerned, might be better out of the world than in it. The streets swarm with such helpless little ones, and yet it seems impossible to do more than is being done every day. English men and women have tender hearts full of pitiful gentleness for the helplessness of infancy, and the charities that are instituted for poor and neglected children are, I believe, most generously supported; yet, amid such a mass of distress and evil, how futile seems all the best work of statesmen and philosophers! We must, however, continue to hope for better times, when every child that is born into the land may be recognised as the child of the Government no less than of its parents, and may be brought to realise its own responsible position and value as a servant of the state. This was the condition of things in Sparta, — and, though the Spartans carried their ideas rather too far, still it must be admitted that their system had its foundation in very excellent common sense. Whatever mistakes and shortcomings Lycurgus may have had to answer for, it is certain that he never would have tolerated baby tramps.
THE LADY WITH THE CARNATIONS.
A DREAM OR A DELUSION?
IT was in the Louvre that I first saw her — or rather her picture. Greuze painted her — so I was told; but the name of the artist scarcely affected me — I was absorbed in the woman herself, who looked at me from the dumb canvas with that still smile on her face, and that burning cluster of carnations clasped to her breast. I felt that I knew her. Moreover, there was a strange attraction in her eyes that held mine fascinated. It was as though she said “Stay till I have told thee all!” A faint blush tinged her cheek — one loose tress of fair hair fell caressingly on her half-uncovered bosom. And, surely, was I dreaming? — or did I smell the odour of carnations on the air? I started from my reverie — a slight tremor shook my nerves. I turned to go. An artist carrying a large easel and painting materials just then approached, and placing himself opposite the picture, began to copy it. I watched him at work for a few moments — his strokes were firm, and his eye accurate; but I knew, without waiting to observe his further progress, that there was an indefinable something in that pictured face that he with all his skill would never be able to delineate as Greuze had done — if Greuze indeed were the painter, of which I did not then, and do not now, feel sure. I walked slowly away. On the threshold of the room I looked back. Yes! there it was — that fleeting, strange, appealing expression that seemed mutely to call to me; that half-wild yet sweet smile that had a world of unuttered pathos in it. A kind of misgiving troubled me — a presentiment of evil that I could not understand — and, vexed with myself for my own foolish imaginings, I hastened down the broad staircase that led from the picture-galleries, and began to make my way out through that noble hall o
f ancient sculpture in which stands the defiantly beautiful Apollo Belvedere and the world-famous Artemis. The sun shone brilliantly; numbers of people were passing and repassing. Suddenly my heart gave a violent throb, and I stopped short in my walk, amazed and incredulous. Who was that seated on the bench close to the Artemis, reading? Who, if not “the Lady with the Carnations,” clad in white, her head slightly bent, and her hand clasping a bunch of her own symbolic flowers! Nervously I approached her. As my steps echoed on the marble pavement she looked up; her grey-green eyes met mine in that slow wistful smile that was so indescribably sad. Confused as my thoughts were, I observed her pallor, and the ethereal delicacy of her face and form — she had no hat on, and her neck and shoulders were uncovered. Struck by this peculiarity, I wondered if the other people who were passing through the hall noticed her deshabille. I looked around me enquiringly — not one passer-by turned a glance in our direction! Yet surely the lady’s costume was strange enough to attract attention? A chill of horror quivered through me — was I the only one who saw her sitting there? This idea was so alarming that I uttered an involuntary exclamation; the next moment the seat before me was empty, the strange lady had gone, and nothing remained of her but — the strong sweet odour of the carnations she had carried! With a sort of sickness at my heart I hurried out of the Louvre, and was glad when I found myself in the bright Paris streets filled with eager, pressing people, all bent on their different errands of business or pleasure. I entered a carriage and was driven rapidly to the Grand Hotel, where I was staying with a party of friends. I refrained from speaking of the curious sensations that had overcome me — I did not even mention the picture that had exercised so weird an influence upon me. The brilliancy of the life we led, the constant change and activity of our movements, soon dispersed the nervous emotion I had undergone; and though sometimes the remembrance of it returned to me, I avoided dwelling on the subject. Ten or twelve days passed, and one night we all went to the Théâtre Français — it was the first evening of my life that I ever was in the strange position of being witness to a play without either knowing its name or understanding its meaning. I could only realise one thing — namely, that “the Lady with the Carnations’’ sat in the box opposite to me, regarding me fixedly. She was alone; her costume was unchanged. I addressed one of our party in a low voice —
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli Page 907
