Even now I find winter a sad time. All my worst disasters — and there have been many — happened in wintertime, as you shall discover.
SCENE: The apartment, Menton, France
A disaster, and an opportunity
It is the winter of 1853: a harsh winter, in which, for once, the chill creeps into every corner of Menton. See how snow powders the cliffs of the towering peaks that rear up behind the town. The orange harvest will be poor. People are cold and grumpy. The tenants of the little apartment below the ancient basilica of Saint Michel lose patience with the noisy Alouettes and complain to the landlord.
Here comes Monsieur le Propriétaire clumping up the three flights of stairs one dark evening. He is our villain! Here on the landing are the neighbours who share this floor with our little family. The group listens in silence to the happy shouts and thumps behind the door of number six. One neighbour raises her hands to her ears.
‘My husband is ill, Monsieur, sick in his bed. How can we put up with the din any longer?’
Another shakes his head sadly. ‘They are nice people, but not of our class, Monsieur. They practise even on a Sunday. Not one day do we have of peace. Our patience has worn out. It’s them or us, Monsieur le proprio.’ They all nod in agreement. They have complained, they have received apologies, but the racket continues month after month.
The dark brows of the landlord lower. He pulls his warm cloak more tightly about his tall frame and pounds on the door of number six. Bang, bang, bang!
Papa comes to the door, sweating in his vest, smiling his welcome, to be met with the stony glare of the landlord. By now the shamefaced neighbours have melted back into their apartments.
Monsieur le Propriétaire thrusts an eviction paper into Papa’s unsuspecting hand. ‘I have been patient,’ he growls, ‘but you have tried the good nature of saints. In one week from today you will be gone from my property. One week.’
Maman cries out at the cruel words, thrusts little Lili forward. ‘Monsieur, the child … the cold winter … have pity …’
But the landlord has already turned and is clumping back down the narrow staircase. His voice comes echoing up from below. ‘One week!’
Maman wept into her apron, but nothing ever seemed to daunt Papa. No sooner had the door closed behind that cruel landlord than he was making plans. Out from its hiding-place came the tin box which contained our savings — the simple coins that tourists threw during the summer and which sustained us through the barren winter months. With trembling hands he and Maman counted what remained, adding in the rent money which would now no longer be needed.
I dried my tears and began to smile. Papa’s enthusiasm was infectious. He announced that we must sell the bed and the chest of drawers, wedding gifts from Maman’s parents; also the beautiful silver platter, which I loved and which had been in his family for generations. Maman shrieked at this suggestion, but even she began to be drawn into the excitement. As we sat in the low light from the lamp, stacking the coins into little towers, Papa explained his plans. His ideas seemed to expand and grow wings as he talked, until the whole room flowered with wonderful new and golden opportunities. We would go abroad, he said, to Australia. Gold had been discovered there and he had heard of a ship leaving from Nice which would take prospectors on that long voyage to the other side of the world. He had heard that those who could offer to entertain the passengers might be allowed to travel for less — even free! ‘Imagine the possibilities!’ he said. ‘We are fit and strong. We can dig and shovel better than most. Imagine if we strike it rich! We might become lord and lady and return home to buy our own apartment, even our own little puppet theatre for the summer crowds.’
Papa longed to run a little theatre and would often delight me with his mimicry: a sock in one hand and a handkerchief in the other would magically became Punchinello and Columbine, hopelessly in love.
‘Australia will be our grand adventure!’ he cried. ‘And if we don’t find gold ourselves, why then, we’ll winkle it from the pockets of others with our performances. God bless le propriétaire for giving us the opportunity!’ Up he jumped and threw me into the air: catching me on one arm, flipping me to the other then sending me head over heels down to the floor again before I could take breath.
Who could withstand him? Not Maman, not I. By the end of the week we were aboard the sailing ship Esmeralda, watching the port of Nice grow smaller and smaller until the wide blue waters of the Mediterranean stretched endlessly out to the horizon in all directions.
SCENE: Aboard the Esmeralda
I make a new friend
Aboard the Esmeralda was another performer, the mysterious Madame Tournear. I was fascinated by this exotic and beautiful lady, who was a Madame but seemed to have no companion Monsieur. Surely Madame Tournear was rich. She occupied a private cabin on the first deck, one spacious enough to accommodate not only her travelling trunk — which was painted in rainbow colours, with peacocks and parrots and bowls of luscious fruit — but also a marvellous wooden horse. The horse — the head and torso of a horse to be exact — was life-sized and cunningly attached to springs, so that a mounted person might rock alarmingly in all directions (forwards and back and sideways) at the slightest pressure.
Being a bold and adventurous child, I didn’t understand that steerage passengers were not allowed to wander the top decks or to mingle with the first-class passengers. One day I found my way to a forbidden deck, peered through Madame Tournear’s porthole, and spied her standing on the precariously rocking horse, with arms outstretched and one toe pointing towards the pricked and pointed wooden ears. Oh what a wonder! I dragged a box under the porthole and climbed up, the better to see this feat of balance. Now the madame was upside down, hands planted on the broad wooden back, and her pantalooned legs in the air! On dry land it would be difficult. At sea, unbelievable. I was about to run below to call my parents, when the upside-down face broke into a beam, and one hand lifted for a brief moment in a gesture that looked like an invitation. Could this exotic lady be beckoning me?
Sadly, no. Standing behind me, peering in the window and grinning with as much pleasure as I, was a tall and handsome man in brocade waistcoat and dark frock coat, a cigar clamped between his teeth. Madame Tournear flipped herself upright, opened the cabin door with a flourish and the man entered. The curtains were immediately drawn. My peep show was over.
Again and again I returned to the porthole. At last, some days later, the curtains were drawn back. There was the miraculous wooden horse! As I stared, a face suddenly popped into view, inches from the glass. The dark eyes were narrowed; huge clusters of jewels swung from her ears; Madame’s black hair cascaded in wild ringlets down to her shoulders. I jumped back in fright, but the fearsome visage suddenly broke into a laugh. The mouth was shouting something that I couldn’t hear. But the gesture was clear. At last I was invited into the fabulous cave.
Madame Tournear was not beautiful. Her nose was large and her mouth too small. Her arms were thin, with the veins running like blue rivers down to her wrists. But everything about her seemed to me wonderful. Her clothes easily made up for any lack of splendour elsewhere. First there were the earrings: possibly coloured glass, but to my young eyes flashing rubies and winking emeralds. Madame’s dress was dark red velvet; the skirt swung a good foot off the ground. The jewelled shoes and pretty ankles were clearly visible.
Madame Tournear smiled to see me staring. ‘You are shocked?’ She spoke French, but with a heavy accent that I found hard to place. Could she be a gypsy? Or Italian perhaps?
‘My dear,’ continued this amazing lady, ‘God gave us ankles to delight the men. Why hide them? Also, a long skirt at sea is an encumbrance, don’t you think? All these steps up and down.’ She gestured vaguely, her ringed hands fluttering like shining birds. ‘All this water …’
What did she mean? Everything about her confused me, but I nodded eagerly. I reached out a finger to the carved and painted nose of the horse. Real leather reins lay l
oose on the painted mane. ‘Why …?’ I managed, but the cabin was so strange, Madame so exotic that I could not think of words rich enough to clothe my question.
Madame Tournear had no trouble understanding. ‘I am an artiste,’ she said, laughing with pure pleasure, it would seem. ‘I dance on the bare backs of beautiful horses. You have heard of me? Madame Tournear? In some towns I am famous.’
Of course I had heard of the famous Tourniaire circus family. Could this woman be one of them? (Later I learned that indeed she was not, but hoped to be mistaken for one.) Then, oh what a wonder! Madame placed her ringed hands on the wooden rump of her horse, vaulting upwards in a curving somersault. Her feet slapped down as if glued onto the broad back. The horse bounced wildly. Madame Tournear shouted ‘Hola!’, flung her arms wide, pirouetted twice and leaped to the floor again. For a moment I had glimpsed bare buttocks and a dark bush of hair, but delight overrode the shock. Eyes shining, I clapped and clapped.
‘Would you like to try?’ asked Madame Tournear, grinning her challenge.
Now it was her turn to gasp. Needing no further invitation, I determined to copy the move I had just witnessed. Up I went, landed on my feet, threw my hands wide, then, alas, after a few frantic moments, lost control of the wildly bouncing horse and crashed to the floor in a heap. Madame Tournear rushed to help but of course I had learned long ago how to fall, and was already on my feet.
‘Again?’ I pleaded. ‘Please may I try again?’
‘Oh là là!’ Madame Tournear was laughing, but her dark eyes narrowed. She offered no advice, simply nodded and stood back to give me room for an approach.
This time I steadied myself before I launched. My vault was careful; my feet landed gently on the broad back. Again the horse bounced and bucked, but I rode the changes, my knees absorbing the shock, my flailing arms no doubt lacking style but doing the trick. As the horse came to rest, I finally managed a pointed toe and a little curtsey. I waited, pink with pleasure, for applause.
But Madame Tournear was frowning. ‘So, little one, you have fooled me. You are in the circus business too? Who has trained you?’
I backed toward the cabin door. ‘No, Madame, I am not in a circus. Maman and Papa, they …’
‘Aha! Ah!’ Madame Tournear placed a hand on her heart. Her jewels and beads clashed violently. ‘I have rivals here on this very ship!’ She took the three paces that separated us at a run. Her hands dug into my childish shoulders. ‘Your maman and papa. Their names? They are from what circus?’
Oh how my heart beat with fear to see Madame’s glittering eyes. Suddenly she was transformed into a wicked witch in a fairy story. ‘Alouette,’ I whispered. ‘We are Alouette, Madame. Simple street acrobats. We are in no circus.’
‘No? Then what is your parents’ purpose aboard?’
‘Madame, please, we are below in steerage. Papa intends to make his fortune on the goldfields.’
Madame Tournear relaxed her grip. She stepped away, suddenly smiling. ‘True?’
‘True, Madame. In the name of God’s Blood.’
Madame crossed herself. ‘No call for swearing, sweetheart.’ She draped an arm over her horse’s neck, scratched his ears as if he were a real animal. ‘Well then, we may remain friends.’
I risked a tight little smile. What a fascinating woman, like a brilliant peacock, whose moods seemed to change from one breath to another. ‘Are you in a circus?’ I asked.
Madame Tournear sighed. ‘Well, it is a long story. I was. Now, due to circumstances too dreadful for a child’s ears to hear, I am cast aside. But there is a new sun rising in a new land on the other side of the ocean. Madame Tournear will ride again! You have heard of Foley’s Victoria Circus?’
‘No, Madame.’
Madame Tournear shrugged, threw herself on her bed and kicked her pretty feet in the air. ‘Well, after all neither have I. But it exists, and is playing to the goldfields and I am going to join it! What do you think of that?’
‘I think that if we find gold quickly we will come and see you every night,’ I said boldly.
Madame’s laugh was like birds trilling. A strange mixture she was, one moment child, the next woman. ‘Well,’ she said, suddenly all serious, ‘I have a gentleman calling shortly, and also I must practise. Run along below, now.’
‘Can I come again? Will you teach me to ride?’
Madame cocked her head to one side. ‘We’ll see. Perhaps. It would make no sense to train up a pretty rival, no sense at all. But they say Australia is a big country. Perhaps there is room for the two of us.’
Words I was to remember some months later when in desperate need of help.
[Archivist’s Note: Apart from this mention of meeting Madame Tournear, Lily’s journal skips over the long months of the sea voyage as if the trip were nothing more than a brief excursion to Corsica or Genoa. We can imagine her sea-sick, perhaps, or unhappy in some other way, for her writing, almost without exception, describes momentous events: happy or hilarious, disastrous or infuriating. She never records the simply sad or tedious. Lili’s mother, Madame Alouette, became pregnant on that long voyage: her discomfort might have dampened family spirits, and made the voyage even more unpleasant than usual.
There are records, though, stating that in 1854 a Mr V. Alouette staked a claim eight feet square in the alluvial goldfields of Mount Alexander, Victoria, along with thousands of other diggers from all parts of the world. The family had arrived to make their fortunes. E. de M.]
SCENE: The goldfields of Victoria, Australia, 1854
Tragedy on the goldfields
Here I was, only ten years old, trembling somewhat at the enormity of this new adventure. All was so strange, so utterly different!
[Archivist’s Note: Lili is consistently a little confused over dates. I believe she would have been at least twelve years old at this stage. E. de M.]
Where were the buildings? The apartments? The theatres and boulevards? Especially, where was the sea? Beyond our little tent were other little tents, and other people digging furiously. Here and there a lonely tree stood to give shade, but mostly the land had been cleared of every trunk and bush. The ground was pitted with holes as if giant dogs had been at work, burying giant bones. Oh how I missed not only the sea, but the craggy ramparts of the Alpes Maritimes, which gave shape and drama to our hometown. The land here sloped this way and that, undulating sickeningly like the wild ocean we had thankfully now quit. Mounds of rubble scarred the land. Even Mount Alexander seemed too silly to be called a mountain. There were people everywhere, burrowing in their little claims, their tents perched on the lip of the excavation, or even on the heaps of rubble. Those lucky enough to find timber built a log fence to protect their pit from night-time scavengers.
Soon Papa built a tripod above our little hole, from which we hung a rope and bucket. Maman and I would wind up the full buckets of wash dirt and store the rubble beside the box-cradle. Papa would emerge from time to time and we all watched breathlessly while he rocked and rocked the cradle that held — we hoped — our future: not a baby, but grains of gold.
Alas we had no running water at the claim. Claims near to water were beyond our means. The nearest spout from the long, snaking water-race was ten claims distant. Maman or I were forced to pay a penny for each bucket of water then carry it back to Papa, who directed the precious liquid into the top of the box. It was slow work. Papa often said cheerfully that we were fitter than most and able to stand the hard labour. But in truth we were not. There is a certain dogged toughness necessary for such endless labour. We were performers. Strong-limbed, yes, but accustomed to a certain liveliness and sparkle to our daily routine. Looking back, I see now that we all three became low-spirited with the digger’s life. Everything was sand-coloured; the dry soil invaded everything: our bed, our food, our clothes. We were hungry.
But every day there was hope. Every day promised to be the one where the cradle or the pan would show the colour. Many times we discovered a few pennyweight.
Papa would whoop and laugh and dance, which brought angry or jealous scowls from his neighbours. More often those who made a find were silent, furtively hiding away their golden grains in a little bag tied by a thong around the neck, hidden from view until the bank agent, with his scales and his letters of credit, rode past, weighed the precious grains and then carried them safely away in his saddle-bags.
Papa’s sparse findings went to buy food for Maman. Her baby — I never thought of it as a brother or sister, but hers alone — jutted hugely from her thin body and would soon be born. At that time we were two months behind on our thirty-shilling-a-month claim fee, but so were most of the diggers. The collectors hovered, waiting to pounce.
Papa’s claim was in a block where most of the diggers were Polish or Italian. And nearly all of them were men, whose only interest was in working hard and then walking or riding in to Bendigo to spend their earnings on drink and women. They sang and shouted as they worked, but fell silent when Maman and I approached, embarrassed, I suppose, to find a woman and young girl in their midst. It made us feel like outcasts. Maman especially felt this, but she did her bit, fetching water, cooking and washing clothes. But she was never happy in this rough male world. No one, it seemed, had time for chatter — or for entertainment.
Papa tried his hand at juggling; up went the Indian clubs and golden globes — four in the air — while Papa shouted and sang to attract the diggers. But mostly people smiled and passed by, ignoring the cap which I passed around. Maman was too cumbersome — and too tired — to perform acrobatics, and without her our old routines were useless.
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