Everyone—great artists and writers—are praising your work. And, Pamela, the crowd! I wish that I could name everyone who attended—they were fighting over the pictures—Lady Sackville! John Galsworthy! And almost every piece has sold—perhaps soon you shall buy a grand house for us all! Remember to draw new things—forget your Madonnas and rabbits and fairies—draw from life! Our good friend Mr. Manson has written a wonderful article about you and says he will be writing to you soon—be sure you write him a nice letter in return.
Daddy’s delirium vibrated through the letter in my hands. I should have been thrilled, too. I didn’t understand why I wasn’t. Was it that Daddy wasn’t here with me, that I couldn’t see his face? Surely he would be beaming at me. I tried to feel the warm bolt of happiness that would have surged straight through me. But I felt nothing. The stone floor ran cold on my legs.
The sea air gently nudged the lace curtains.
Child miracle.
Was that what I was, really? I didn’t feel like one at all. I thought again of home—teasing Cecco about his cap with the red tassel, darning socks with my mother, the little morning ritual with Signora Campanaro. Watching my guinea pig, Tiddles, scrabbling about the floor as I drew. But I wasn’t at home. I was in San Remo, sitting on a chilly floor in the house of strangers.
Why was I here?
Because it was important to Daddy.
Why was it important to Daddy?
Because . . . I was a child prodigy. Italy’s little flower. England’s miracle.
It was true. I was not like other children.
I opened Mam’s letter.
Tiddles has been eating ever so much lettuce and cabbage, and now he has learned a new trick—he sits on my lap and drinks tea out of a teaspoon! And guess who has been asking about you? The silent Signora Campanaro! She caught me as I was heading out to market, and I had the impression she had been waiting for me. There was no hello for me, just “Dov’è tua figlia dai capelli d’oro?” (“Where is your golden-haired daughter?”) I think you have charmed her, Pamela. . . .
My mother’s letter, I knew, was meant to cheer me. But it knocked me right down. I was consumed by a fierce homesickness, suddenly grown tenfold.
Our family was all broken apart. It wasn’t right.
I read my mother’s letter over and over, and each time her words became less real, as if I were reading an echo and it kept fading and I strained to hear her voice, but in the end I lost her. She disappeared into a void.
I followed her. I drew my legs up against my chest, pulling my dress down to my feet. I rested my head on my knees and inhaled the unfamiliar but pleasant scent of the linen. Sophia used starch in the laundry and hung the clothes outdoors to dry. I smelled the sea.
Through the window I could see the sunlit fruit trees. Vittorio stood on his rickety ladder, pulling down oranges with a rake.
I couldn’t face the sun. I closed my eyes.
I was a weight, drawn down to the stone floor.
A thick pain spread all inside. I couldn’t seem to move.
This time, no tears would form.
In my rigid silence I was keening.
Mam!
“Pamela! Pamela!”
It was Mimmi’s voice, out in the garden.
I heard Vittorio.
“I think she’s in her room. . . .”
I heard the quick, soft footsteps in the hallway, and I roused myself.
The door opened.
“Pamela!”
Mimmi’s determined little face lit up when she saw me.
“There you are! Why are you sitting on the floor? Come on . . . I’ve brought Doria and Lisabetta, and they need us to make hats for them . . . ! Get up, Pamela!”
Because of Mimmi, I shook loose and jumped to my feet. I outran the darkness.
margery
Pamela never complained when Francesco made plans for her, never made a peep. Even when he sent her off to San Remo.
I knew, of course, that she was terrified to leave home. But as the days passed in Turin, I began to see that a quiet villa by the sea was, in fact, the very best place for her. Francesco, though I was loath to admit it, had been right. Turin was not a good place for a child in those days. Everything was in turmoil at home, everything was topsy-turvy.
I was quite alone. Francesco had taken Cecco to Oxfordshire, got him settled at boarding school. Now he was managing things in London, and Pamela was off with the da Bolognas.
But being alone turned out not to be the worst of it. Soon I lost more than my family—I lost my home.
It was such a terrible, volatile time in Turin! Everyone was on strike—the factory workers, the postal workers, the railroad workers. So many had gone off to fight in the war and returned to find their jobs gone or their pay cut. There was bloody fighting in the streets. There were no supplies coming in. I was forced out of town by the chaos. Still, I was lucky enough. Friends who owned a villa in the hilly region north of the city offered me safe harbor.
One morning I sat on the hillside terrace. Just beyond the stone wall that surrounded the villa was a little orchard of delicate cherry trees, their white blossoms shivering in the breeze. And in the distance I could just make out the tiny chapel perched on the summit of Tre Denti. Such a lovely place, I thought. Yet I was fighting off a sadness, a strange, desperate sort of sadness such as I had never felt before. I’d just received a letter from Francesco. Quite a cheerful letter. Exuberant, in fact. Yet. . . .
Francesco said that things were going swimmingly in London. He’d arranged an exhibition for Pamela at the prestigious Leicester Galleries. Jack de la Mare had agreed to write the introduction to the catalog. And—this is what had Francesco so happily agitated—he’d enclosed an advance copy of the article that our friend Jimmie Manson was going to publish in International Studio. I could understand Francesco’s excitement. It was a gorgeous piece of writing, a beautiful paean to our little girl. I was well aware that Jimmie was among the most esteemed art critics in Great Britain, that I should be ecstatic, but as I read—and reread—his worshipful words, I felt quite uneasy.
Here is a case, remarkable and beautiful, of a child . . . being moved to produce art as fine, in essence, as that of Botticelli, Piero della Francesca, Giotto. . . . I fancy that some old Chinese poet like Tu Fu, or Li Po, dreaming in the garden of the king . . . would have understood the beautifully serene art of Pamela Bianco, the new star in the artistic firmament, whose radiance lightens the murky light of our present day consciousness.
I pushed the pages aside.
Pamela Bianco, the new star in the artistic firmament.
My Pamela?
I sat for a long while gazing towards the cherry orchard, the mountains.
I picked up my pen.
My letter was quite candid. I felt that I could unburden myself to Jimmie.
Dearest Jimmie,
There is a general strike in Turin, and I got away just in time. Our communication is cut off, but letters arrive by military service for the time being. Heaven knows how long I shall be here!
I’m staying with some Italian friends up here in the beginning of the mountains—and although I am fairly miserable, I am calmed by the beauty here—all chestnut trees & vineyards and ivy-covered balconies.