5 Treasured portrait
The arrival of the peddler was always a pleasant break in the daily monotony. For many seasons our part of town was covered by a little Italian woman, whom I called ‘Mrs. Yes-mam,’ because ‘yes ma’m’,’ ‘no ma’m’,’ punctuated every other phrase that rippled from her agile tongue, and it struck me as highly amusing, for I had no knowledge of English, and thought it a form of expletive, like Herra Cud. She was always welcome, even if our purchase was nothing more than a spool of thread or a paper of safety-pins for the latest baby. She was small, and extremely dark, with alert, black eyes that must once have been extremely fine, and heavy, raven hair that was as neatly arranged as wind and weather permitted. She wore bright cotton clothes in summer, green and red usually, the blouse set off with strings of coloured beads that dangled down her bosom, and there was always a little gold cross at her withered throat. The skirt was full, gathered into the waistband all around, and sometimes an apron of black sateen, with bias bands of red and green tape at the bottom, completed the garb. But what fascinated me were the big brass ear-rings that swung against her sallow cheeks as she bobbed up and down, displaying her wares.
Yes-mam carried an ingenious pack. It was made of oilcloth, and opened and shut like a tobacco pouch, by means of innumerable curtain rings and a stout linen cord. When she threw the pack to the floor, all the rings jangled gaily, and put one in an expectant mood. Yes-mam never made the mistake of opening the pack at once. She hovered above it like a protective Byzantine angel in a plate-glass window, waving her nubbed arms up and down like attenuated wings, and declaimed upon the weather, the gumbo, the latest plague, and hoped that the Holy Mother of God had kept all evil from our house.
When she opened the tantalizing pack it was done with a smart flourish: a quick pull on a string, and lo! the mysterious contents lay before you, and a delectable perfume assailed your nostrils. That perfume of the pack was something to remember. It was the democratic incense of coloured soaps, sachet bags, bottles of toilet water, hair tonic, and those now forgotten scented hearts, which the knowing maidens of the day wore in their bosoms. I remember them well, for mamma bought me one to wear round my neck at a church concert. It was made of some shiny, filigree stuff, and enclosed a purple waxy substance that smelled very pleasantly of English lavender. I wore it on a string of purple baby ribbon, and thought myself very fine indeed.
There were other luxuries in Yes-mam’s pack. Silk handkerchiefs, embroidered with butterflies and birds and exotic flowers of every hue. They were fine silk, and the workmanship such as one rarely sees to-day on a similar type of handkerchief. There were cheap ones, to be sure. Five- and ten-cent scraps of silk with gaudy cabbage roses in the corner. But sometimes Yes-mam displayed a square of ivory-coloured silk, beautiful as the petals of a rose, sewn with hair-like silks in the most delicate shades, which some skilled Chinese lady must have worked long hours to execute. There were shawls, too, in that mysterious pack, of soft wool and cashmere, and Bulgarian silk; cards of lace, both fine and coarse; crochet cottons; mending wool; aprons; and, of course, stockings of black lisle for women, and of stoutest cotton for children; mitts with rainbow tops: comforters for baby; spools of thread; and an assortment of tape, rick-rack braid, and kneedles and pins; with sometimes strings of rosaries at the bottom of the notions tray, completing the store.
We seldom had money to buy any of these alluring treasures, but Yes-mam never passed our house, for she was always sure of a cup of hot coffee and a welcome rest. If she happened to come on a day when papa was home, either too sick to work or on a half-day taken to make something for the house—a cupboard or chest, or simply to sole our shoes, the visit stretched to several cups, and all manner of confidences. Papa had a friendly interest in everybody. He could ask more questions, without offence, than any one I have ever known. In no time at all perfect strangers confessed their secret sorrows and dearest ambitions. Mamma always deplored this habit. If it were not downright impertinent, it was certainly insincere, she contended. Papa could not possibly be interested in the private lives of individuals he might never even see again, she thought. He could not possibly mean the flattering comforts he invented on the spur of the moment! But, to papa, wiser than she knew, the moment was supremely important, and the measure of sincerity and truth and good it brought about.
Yes-mam found papa home with lumbago one chilly autumn day. She was full of concern, and called upon the saints to exorcize the misery from papa’s back. Ah, she knew what a bad back was! Years with the pack, bowing and scraping at inhospitable doors, put a crink in the spine and aches like dagger-thrusts in the old bones. ‘Poor woman! Poor woman!’ papa sympathized. It was curious how fate tricked one, he said. Very curious! For, of course, it was easy to see that Yes-mam had not always been a slave of the pack—a handsome woman like she.
Yes-mam lifted her hands heavenwards. The signor said the truth. There had been better days in the vineyards of Italy. Sunny skies, sunny dreams—but always there was some one to care for. First, the little brothers and sisters. Then, the old parents. And a girl’s heart gets her into trouble. Her particular trouble was a good-for-nothing husband. But that was past and done. The signor must understand she was not complaining. Life was hard, for a peddler, to be sure, but she had her little shack down where the river sang to the willows all night through. No, no, she was not complaining. There was nothing much troubling her now, except the wretched behaviour of her sewing-machine. The devil had it in a spell, to be sure, and not a stitch would it sew!
Now, that was too much! said papa. The devil must be taken down a peg. If the weather was clear to-morrow he would like to take a look at the bewitched piece of machinery.
Yes-mam called upon the saints to witness her gratitude to the signor for the generous thought. He with a bad back! Yes, if she ever forgot, she implored the holy ones to smite her on the spot. And in this exalted mood she whipped out a yellow silk handkerchief, which she hoped the bambino would accept without price—though it cost twenty cents.
That is how I came to visit Yes-mam’s shack, which perched like a lone, grey cormorant on the river bank at Point Douglas. While papa tinkered with the machine I had a lovely time playing with an enormous cat, and wondering what ailed the saints, whose painted faces gazed at me mournfully from a dozen faded prints on the walls. But there was one thing of beauty in that cluttered house: a little image of a woman, whose delicately sculptured face was as serene as a midsummer night. Who, of the heavenly company old Yes-mam implored, she represented, I never knew. I only know the impression she made upon my youthful imagination has remained through the years, lovely as a cameo cut from alabaster.
