Part 29

Juno, Sjenni, Maor, Tommek, Blanc, Cæsar, Brutus, Paris, Bruxelles, Henderik, Swart and Gora were the members of the troupe some years past--together with Boulanger, a tiger-marked kitten who displayed “little fear and a great thirst for fame,” and Tyber, the star-actor. The latter was a wonderful performer, evincing a fine intellect, and, says De Biez, would certainly have been a god in Egypt!

A parallel may be found for these clever French felines in the Brighton cats of England. They are more discriminatingly chosen than Prof. Bonnetty’s actors; but their performances, although different in some respects, are no more wonderful. One of them, a white Angora, rides a bicycle with much grace. When fairly started she becomes enthusiastic, and urges her two-wheeler rapidly along, with an evident enjoyment that the by-standers find contagious. The tabbies do housework to perfection, scrub little handkerchiefs or towels in a tub, hang up the washing, preside over the roast beef of Old England, or the tea things, skate on rollers, and all with such blithe content and spirit, that they seem like little witches masquerading in fur.

FIVE O’CLOCK TEA.

A FAVORITE DIVERSION.

“A SPIN.”

(The Brighton Cats.)]

One of the most notable efforts at educating Pussy has been made recently by a Russian, Prince Krapotkine. This gentleman’s revolutionary sentiments landed him one day in a prison, where he had plenty of leisure to educate anything he could find. The anything in this case proved to be the prison cat. His fellow-prisoner, M. Emile Gautier, being already educated, was a disinterested observer of the experiment. He reports among other things, that Pussy became very expert at the game of hide-and-seek. He adds:

“I ought to tell you, besides, that Nature has ornamented my head with a luxurious mass of hair. Krapotkine, on the other hand, is extremely bald.... It has often happened when playing with her, that she softly passed her paw over our respective heads, as if to ascertain that her eyes did not deceive her. This inspection concluded, and the visual notions confirmed by touch, her physiognomy took the air of comic surprise. The variety of sensations perplexed her. Nearly every evening the scene was gone through, to our great edification, as you may imagine.”

(One of Prof. Bonnetty’s Troupe.)]

The birds which act with these different troupes have been comparatively unimportant, except in connection with their feline companions. Nevertheless, birds, too, can be trained, and are. There is a charming pathetic story of a little Sardinian, Francesco Micheli, who turned his liking for birds to account in earning money for his family. He trained sparrows, thrushes, linnets, canaries--whatever feathered creature came within his reach. Some he taught to pipe simple tunes, others to play hide-and-seek with his white Angora cat; a nest of young partridges, under his teaching, embraced the military profession, learned to drill, hold little swords, fire off little cannon, pretend to be killed, and then come to life again. One of these intelligent partridges, Rosolotta, grieved with a human grief when her dear master died, and is said--like “Greyfriars’ Bobby”--to have watched over his grave so long as she lived.

(The Roman Bird Girl.)]

I was reminded of this little Sardinian and his pets by a scene I witnessed one morning in Rome. A crowd of people had gathered near the broad base of the Antonine column, watching the performance of four pigeons and three canaries. The little maid with the pigeons was charming--and so were they--as she bid them tell her their secrets, and in response they fluttered up her shoulders, and cooed into her ear. But the true interest of the entertainment--its dramatic part--began with the canaries. The little actors were sitting in a row on top of their cage, demurely waiting for orders. Their mistress talked to them meanwhile, now praising their talents, now admiring their beauty, they following each motion of her lips with keen, inquisitive glances.

“Thou, Beppo, art a bird of great character, un gran carattere! Really, thou art wonderful! Zirlo, my fine fellow” (to the second), “what a bird art thou! Who like thee can climb the scaletta (little ladder)! No one, in truth, and they are base ladroni that deny thy merits; eh Pippa?” (to the third). “Dost thou hear? Bellissima! One, two, three, come then, my Pippa, kiss me.” She extended a finger. Pippa transferred herself to it from the perch, and climbing the arm to her face, gave a fluttering little salute first to one cheek, then to the other. After which, hopping back to the finger, she made a droll little bow, and returned to the perch.

Then it was Zirlo’s turn; and this enterprising bird not only climbed the scaletta, but finding a gun at the top, shouldered it, pulled the trigger with an infinitesimal claw, and--bang!--who should tumble from his perch but poor Beppo, and lie perfectly rigid on the ground. Zirlo’s fit of anger was quenched at this piteous sight; carefully he examined the stiff figure and at last, picking up an inch-square pocket-handkerchief with one foot, applied it to his eyes, and wept bitterly. Then up jumped Beppo, who had only been feigning, and the two touched bills in token of reconciliation, and waltzed--wing in wing--fraternally off the stage.

It was a pretty scene--the sunshine, the people, the tiny performers below, and the mighty column towering high above them--the grandeur of old Rome looking down upon the present thus lightly amusing itself.

XI.

A MENAGERIE IN STONE.

XI.

A MENAGERIE IN STONE.

In Rome there is always something to stir the fancy and quicken the pulse--always something to recall to the Present the magnificent Past. Now it is a column or statue, now a ruined palace, and now the vast fabric of an amphitheater. But the ruins are weighted with such tragic memories of by-gone Cæsars--their wars, their triumphs, their funeral pomp--as to be almost oppressively solemn. Let us then leave them for once, and go where the Past will suggest itself in some simpler, happier fashion--let us visit a Roman “Zoo.”

No day could be better for the purpose than this sunny one; for the Zoo has its home in the Vatican, and we need all the sunshine we can get to counteract its chill. Besides, no matter with how definite a purpose we set out, once within that marble world we are sure to linger--so many are the objects that claim the eye. It is only after a lingering stroll that we at last reach the Sala degli Animali, or Hall of the Animals.

An odd world it is, suggesting the pictures of Paradise before the dispersion of species; a world that includes creatures wild and tame, familiar and suppositious--birds, harpies, dragons, reptiles, quadrupeds, Minotaur, insects and fish. Three patrons of the chase preside, Diana and Hercules at one end of the hall, the imperial hunter Commodus at the other.

The longer we gaze the stronger grows our feeling that it is in truth a menagerie, surviving somehow from early days. Only, how very silent! The last party of tourists has passed on, we are quite alone, save for these many shapes all around us--and it is hardly in nature that no faintest sound or movement should be heard. Those graceful greyhound puppies play with each other in perfect silence; not a footfall nor crackling twig betrays the flight of yonder deer.

And so, gradually, it dawns on us that although this is life, it is life long turned to stone. Some Arabian Nights’ enchantment has been at work, arresting these varied forms in their prime of activity; and, doubtless, on some future day, at the true wizard’s touch, they will turn back again from marble into breathing flesh. But that will not happen to-day, nor yet to-morrow, so we may as well take advantage of the stillness to see what the menagerie contains.

A dun cow, not far from Diana, stands snuffing the fresh air with upraised head; and a horse which once was roan--at least the marble still bears traces of reddish paint--looks inquiringly toward her. Near these peacefully-inclined animals crouches a lion, in readiness to leap upon his prey. In the next group the victim is secured; it represents a horse pulled down by a lion. Note the relentless grasp of the one, the helpless agony of the other. Wonderful as a work of art, it is nevertheless too painful to linger before; we are glad to turn away. Similar in character are two groups of deer seized by hounds, and another of a panther devouring its prey.

Here is a wild boar, here the ugly phiz of a camel; here an alligator, to whose neutral character an existence in marble seems peculiarly well adapted; and here, at a respectful distance from his jaws, are a cock, a goose, a pelican, several peacocks and an eagle. The dignity of the latter is worth noting--its calm, imperial reserve, so indicative of the Rome whose emblem it was.

Of the monkey hard by it can only be said that he is as perfect as monkeyish a monkey as ever breathed. He has been stealing fruit, probably from some old Roman garden, and has made off to this corner to eat it on the sly, glancing over his shoulder every now and then to make sure that no one will interrupt.

A goat, a rhinoceros and a hyena come next, and then we approach a most remarkable bust of the Minotaur, that bull-headed, human-bodied terror which demanded a yearly tribute of youths and maidens, and was finally slain by Theseus, to the great relief of the Athenian world. What brutal, pitiless life, what fierce joy in the anticipated victims, looks out from his eyes and dilates his nostrils! It is a relief to turn away from the brute and examine instead his near neighbors, a crab and a green-gray dolphin rising from waves of white marble.