CHAPTER VII
NATCHA-KEE-TAWARA
Mr. May and Alvina became almost inseparable, and Woodhouse buzzedwith scandal. Woodhouse could not believe that Mr. May wasabsolutely final in his horror of any sort of coming-on-ness in awoman. It could not believe that he was only _so_ fond of Alvinabecause she was like a sister to him, poor, lonely, harassed soulthat he was: a pure sister who really hadn't any body. For althoughMr. May was rather fond, in an epicurean way, of his own body, yetother people's bodies rather made him shudder. So that his grandutterance on Alvina was: "She's not physical, she's mental."
He even explained to her one day how it was, in his naive fashion.
"There are two kinds of friendships," he said, "physical and mental.The physical is a thing of the moment. Of cauce you quite _like_ theindividual, you remain quite nice with them, and so on,--to keep thething as decent as possible. It _is_ quite decent, so long as youkeep it so. But it is a thing of the moment. Which you know. It maylast a week or two, or a month or two. But you know from thebeginning it is going to end--quite finally--quite soon. You take itfor what it is. But it's so different with the mental friendships._They_ are lasting. They are eternal--if anything human (he saidyuman) ever is eternal, ever _can_ be eternal." He pressed his handstogether in an odd cherubic manner. He was quite sincere: if manever _can_ be quite sincere.
Alvina was quite content to be one of his mental and eternalfriends, or rather _friendships_--since she existed _in abstractu_as far as he was concerned. For she did not find him at allphysically moving. Physically he was not there: he was oddly anabsentee. But his naivete roused the serpent's tooth of her bitterirony.
"And your wife?" she said to him.
"Oh, my wife! Dreadful thought! _There_ I made the great mistake oftrying to find the two in one person! And _didn't_ I fall betweentwo stools! Oh dear, _didn't_ I? Oh, I fell between the two stoolsbeautifully, beautifully! And _then_--she nearly set the stools ontop of me. I thought I should never get up again. When I wasphysical, she was mental--Bernard Shaw and cold baths forsupper!--and when I was mental she was physical, and threw her armsround my neck. In the morning, mark you. Always in the morning, whenI was on the alert for business. Yes, invariably. What do you thinkof it? Could the devil himself have invented anything more trying?Oh dear me, don't mention it. Oh, what a time I had! Wonder I'malive. Yes, really! Although you smile."
Alvina did more than smile. She laughed outright. And yet sheremained good friends with the odd little man.
He bought himself a new, smart overcoat, that fitted his figure, anda new velour hat. And she even noticed, one day when he was curlinghimself up cosily on the sofa, that he had pale blue silk underwear,and purple silk suspenders. She wondered where he got them, and howhe afforded them. But there they were.
James seemed for the time being wrapt in hisundertaking--particularly in the takings part of it. He seemed forthe time being contented--or nearly so, nearly so. Certainly therewas money coming in. But then he had to pay off all he had borrowedto buy his erection and its furnishings, and a bulk of penniessublimated into a very small L.s.d. account, at the bank.
The Endeavour was successful--yes, it was successful. But notoverwhelmingly so. On wet nights Woodhouse did not care to traildown to Lumley. And then Lumley was one of those depressed, negativespots on the face of the earth which have no pull at all. In thatregion of sharp hills with fine hill-brows, and shallow, ratherdreary canal-valleys, it was the places on the hill-brows, likeWoodhouse and Hathersedge and Rapton which flourished, while thedreary places down along the canals existed only for work-places,not for life and pleasure. It was just like James to have plantedhis endeavour down in the stagnant dust and rust of potteries andfoundries, where no illusion could bloom.
He had dreamed of crowded houses every night, and of raised prices.But there was no probability of his being able to raise his prices.He had to figure lower than the Woodhouse Empire. He was second-ratefrom the start. His hope now lay in the tramway which was beingbuilt from Knarborough away through the country--a black countryindeed--through Woodhouse and Lumley and Hathersedge, to Rapton.When once this tramway-system was working, he would have a supply ofyouths and lasses always on tap, as it were. So he spread hisrainbow wings towards the future, and began to say:
"When we've got the trams, I shall buy a new machine and finerlenses, and I shall extend my premises."
Mr. May did not talk business to Alvina. He was terribly secretivewith respect to business. But he said to her once, in the early yearfollowing their opening:
"Well, how do you think we're doing, Miss Houghton?"
"We're not doing any better than we did at first, I think," shesaid.
"No," he answered. "No! That's true. That's perfectly true. But why?They seem to like the programs."
"I think they do," said Alvina. "I think they like them when they'rethere. But isn't it funny, they don't seem to want to come to them.I know they always talk as if we were second-rate. And they onlycome because they can't get to the Empire, or up to Hathersedge.We're a stop-gap. I know we are."
Mr. May looked down in the mouth. He cocked his blue eyes at her,miserable and frightened. Failure began to frighten him abjectly.
"Why do you think that is?" he said.
"I don't believe they like the turns," she said.
"But _look_ how they applaud them! _Look_ how pleased they are!"
"I know. I know they like them once they're there, and they seethem. But they don't come again. They crowd the Empire--and theEmpire is only pictures now; and it's much cheaper to run."
He watched her dismally.
"I can't believe they want nothing but pictures. I can't believethey want everything in the flat," he said, coaxing and miserable.He himself was not interested in the film. His interest was stillthe human interest in living performers and their living feats."Why," he continued, "they are ever so much more excited after agood turn, than after any film."
"I know they are," said Alvina. "But I don't believe they want to beexcited in that way."
"In what way?" asked Mr. May plaintively.
"By the things which the artistes do. I believe they're jealous."
"Oh nonsense!" exploded Mr. May, starting as if he had been shot.Then he laid his hand on her arm. "But forgive my rudeness! I don'tmean it, of _cauce_! But do you mean to say that these collier loutsand factory girls are jealous of the things the artistes do, becausethey could never do them themselves?"
"I'm sure they are," said Alvina.
"But I _can't_ believe it," said Mr. May, pouting up his mouth andsmiling at her as if she were a whimsical child. "What a low opinionyou have of human nature!"
"Have I?" laughed Alvina. "I've never reckoned it up. But I'm surethat these common people here are jealous if anybody does anythingor has anything they can't have themselves."
"I can't believe it," protested Mr. May. "Could they be so _silly_!And then why aren't they jealous of the extraordinary things whichare done on the film?"
"Because they don't see the flesh-and-blood people. I'm sure that'sit. The film is only pictures, like pictures in the _Daily Mirror_.And pictures don't have any feelings apart from their own feelings.I mean the feelings of the people who watch them. Pictures don'thave any life except in the people who watch them. And that's whythey like them. Because they make them feel that they areeverything."
"The pictures make the colliers and lasses feel that they themselvesare everything? But how? They identify themselves with the heroesand heroines on the screen?"
"Yes--they take it all to themselves--and there isn't anythingexcept themselves. I know it's like that. It's because they canspread themselves over a film, and they _can't_ over a livingperformer. They're up against the performer himself. And they hateit."
Mr. May watched her long and dismally.
"I _can't_ believe people are like that!--sane people!" he said."Why, to me the whole joy is in the living personality, the curious_personality_ of the artiste. Th
at's what I enjoy so much."
"I know. But that's where you're different from them."
"But _am_ I?"
"Yes. You're not as up to the mark as they are."
"Not up to the mark? What do you mean? Do you mean they are moreintelligent?"
"No, but they're more modern. You like things which aren't yourself.But they don't. They hate to admire anything that they can't take tothemselves. They hate anything that isn't themselves. And that's whythey like pictures. It's all themselves to them, all the time."
He still puzzled.
"You know I don't follow you," he said, a little mocking, as if shewere making a fool of herself.
"Because you don't know them. You don't know the common people. Youdon't know how conceited they are."
He watched her a long time.
"And you think we ought to cut out the variety, and give nothing butpictures, like the Empire?" he said.
"I believe it takes best," she said.
"And costs less," he answered. "But _then_! It's so dull. Oh my_word_, it's so dull. I don't think I could bear it."
"And our pictures aren't good enough," she said. "We should have toget a new machine, and pay for the expensive films. Our pictures doshake, and our films are rather ragged."
"But then, _surely_ they're good enough!" he said.
That was how matters stood. The Endeavour paid its way, and madejust a margin of profit--no more. Spring went on to summer, and thenthere was a very shadowy margin of profit. But James was not at alldaunted. He was waiting now for the trams, and building up hopessince he could not build in bricks and mortar.
The navvies were busy in troops along the Knarborough Road, and downLumley Hill. Alvina became quite used to them. As she went down thehill soon after six o'clock in the evening, she met them troopinghome. And some of them she liked. There was an outlawed look aboutthem as they swung along the pavement--some of them; and there was acertain lurking set of the head which rather frightened her becauseit fascinated her. There was one tall young fellow with a red faceand fair hair, who looked as if he had fronted the seas and thearctic sun. He looked at her. They knew each other quite well, inpassing. And he would glance at perky Mr. May. Alvina tried tofathom what the young fellow's look meant. She wondered what hethought of Mr. May.
She was surprised to hear Mr. May's opinion of the navvy.
"_He's_ a handsome young man, now!" exclaimed her companion oneevening as the navvies passed. And all three turned round, to findall three turning round. Alvina laughed, and made eyes. At thatmoment she would cheerfully have gone along with the navvy. She wasgetting so tired of Mr. May's quiet prance.
On the whole, Alvina enjoyed the cinema and the life it brought her.She accepted it. And she became somewhat vulgarized in her bearing.She was _declassee_: she had lost her class altogether. The otherdaughters of respectable tradesmen avoided her now, or spoke to heronly from a distance. She was supposed to be "carrying on" with Mr.May.
Alvina did not care. She rather liked it. She liked being_declassee_. She liked feeling an outsider. At last she seemed tostand on her own ground. She laughed to herself as she went back andforth from Woodhouse to Lumley, between Manchester House and thePleasure Palace. She laughed when she saw her father's theatre-noticesplastered about. She laughed when she saw his thrilling announcementsin the _Woodhouse Weekly_. She laughed when she knew that all theWoodhouse youths recognized her, and looked on her as one of their inferior entertainers. She was off the map: and she liked it.
For after all, she got a good deal of fun out of it. There was notonly the continual activity. There were the artistes. Every week shemet a new set of stars--three or four as a rule. She rehearsed withthem on Monday afternoons, and she saw them every evening, and twicea week at matinees. James now gave two performances eachevening--and he always had _some_ audience. So that Alvina hadopportunity to come into contact with all the odd people of theinferior stage. She found they were very much of a type: a littlefrowsy, a little flea-bitten as a rule, indifferent to ordinarymorality, and philosophical even if irritable. They were often veryirritable. And they had always a certain fund of callousphilosophy. Alvina did not _like_ them--you were not supposed,really, to get deeply emotional over them. But she found it amusingto see them all and know them all. It was so different fromWoodhouse, where everything was priced and ticketed. These peoplewere nomads. They didn't care a straw who you were or who youweren't. They had a most irritable professional vanity, and that wasall. It was most odd to watch them. They weren't very squeamish. Ifthe young gentlemen liked to peep round the curtain when the younglady was in her knickers: oh, well, she rather roundly told themoff, perhaps, but nobody minded. The fact that ladies wore knickersand black silk stockings thrilled nobody, any more than grease-paintor false moustaches thrilled. It was all part of the stock-in-trade.As for immorality--well, what did it amount to? Not a great deal.Most of the men cared far more about a drop of whiskey than aboutany more carnal vice, and most of the girls were good pals with eachother, men were only there to act with: even if the act was aprivate love-farce of an improper description. What's the odds? Youcouldn't get excited about it: not as a rule.
Mr. May usually took rooms for the artistes in a house down inLumley. When any one particular was coming, he would go to a ratherbetter-class widow in Woodhouse. He never let Alvina take any partin the making of these arrangements, except with the widow inWoodhouse, who had long ago been a servant at Manchester House, andeven now came in to do cleaning.
Odd, eccentric people they were, these entertainers. Most of themhad a streak of imagination, and most of them drank. Most of themwere middle-aged. Most of them had an abstracted manner; in ordinarylife, they seemed left aside, somehow. Odd, extraneous creatures,often a little depressed, feeling life slip away from them. Thecinema was killing them.
Alvina had quite a serious flirtation with a man who played a fluteand piccolo. He was about fifty years old, still handsome, andgrowing stout. When sober, he was completely reserved. When ratherdrunk, he talked charmingly and amusingly--oh, most charmingly.Alvina quite loved him. But alas, _how_ he drank! But what a charmhe had! He went, and she saw him no more.
The usual rather American-looking, clean-shaven, slightly pastyyoung man left Alvina quite cold, though he had an amiable and trulychivalrous _galanterie_. He was quite likeable. But so unattractive.Alvina was more fascinated by the odd fish: like the lady who didmarvellous things with six ferrets, or the Jap who was tattooed allover, and had the most amazing strong wrists, so that he could throwdown any collier, with one turn of the hand. Queer cuts these!--butjust a little bit beyond her. She watched them rather from adistance. She wished she could jump across the distance.Particularly with the Jap, who was almost quite naked, but clothedwith the most exquisite tattooing. Never would she forget the eaglethat flew with terrible spread wings between his shoulders, or thestrange mazy pattern that netted the roundness of his buttocks. Hewas not very large, but nicely shaped, and with no hair on hissmooth, tattooed body. He was almost blue in colour--that is, histattooing was blue, with pickings of brilliant vermilion: as forinstance round the nipples, and in a strange red serpent's-jaws overthe navel. A serpent went round his loins and haunches. He told herhow many times he had had blood-poisoning, during the process of histattooing. He was a queer, black-eyed creature, with a look ofsilence and toad-like lewdness. He frightened her. But when he wasdressed in common clothes, and was just a cheap, shoddy-lookingEuropean Jap, he was more frightening still. For his face--he wasnot tattooed above a certain ring low on his neck--was yellow andflat and basking with one eye open, like some age-old serpent. Shefelt he was smiling horribly all the time: lewd, unthinkable. Astrange sight he was in Woodhouse, on a sunny morning; ashabby-looking bit of riff-raff of the East, rather down at theheel. Who could have imagined the terrible eagle of his shoulders,the serpent of his loins, his supple, magic skin?
The summer passed again, and autumn. Winter was a better time forJames Houghton. The trams,
moreover, would begin to run in January.
He wanted to arrange a good program for the week when the tramsstarted. A long time ahead, Mr. May prepared it. The one item wasthe Natcha-Kee-Tawara Troupe. The Natcha-Kee-Tawara Troupe consistedof five persons, Madame Rochard and four young men. They were astrictly Red Indian troupe. But one of the young men, the GermanSwiss, was a famous yodeller, and another, the French Swiss, was agood comic with a French accent, whilst Madame and the German did ascreaming two-person farce. Their great turn, of course, was theNatcha-Kee-Tawara Red Indian scene.
The Natcha-Kee-Tawaras were due in the third week in January,arriving from the Potteries on the Sunday evening. When Alvina camein from Chapel that Sunday evening, she found her widow, Mrs.Rollings, seated in the living room talking with James, who had ananxious look. Since opening the Pleasure Palace James was lessregular at Chapel. And moreover, he was getting old and shaky, andSunday was the one evening he might spend in peace. Add that on thisparticular black Sunday night it was sleeting dismally outside, andJames had already a bit of a cough, and we shall see that he didright to stay at home.
Mrs. Rollings sat nursing a bottle. She was to go to the chemist forsome cough-cure, because Madame had got a bad cold. The chemist wasgone to Chapel--he wouldn't open till eight.
Madame and the four young men had arrived at about six. Madame, saidMrs. Rollings, was a little fat woman, and she was complaining allthe time that she had got a cold on her chest, laying her hand onher chest and trying her breathing and going "He-e-e-er! Herr!" tosee if she could breathe properly. She, Mrs. Rollings, had suggestedthat Madame should put her feet in hot mustard and water, but Madamesaid she must have something to clear her chest. The four young menwere four nice civil young fellows. They evidently liked Madame.Madame had insisted on cooking the chops for the young men. Sheherself had eaten one, but she laid her hand on her chest when sheswallowed. One of the young men had gone out to get her some brandy,and he had come back with half-a-dozen large bottles of Bass aswell.
Mr. Houghton was very much concerned over Madame's cold. He askedthe same questions again and again, to try and make sure how bad itwas. But Mrs. Rollings didn't seem quite to know. James wrinkled hisbrow. Supposing Madame could not take her part! He was most anxious.
"Do you think you might go across with Mrs. Rollings and see howthis woman is, Alvina?" he said to his daughter.
"I should think you'll never turn Alvina out on such a night," saidMiss Pinnegar. "And besides, it isn't right. Where is Mr. May? It'shis business to go."
"Oh!" returned Alvina. "_I_ don't mind going. Wait a minute, I'llsee if we haven't got some of those pastilles for burning. If it'svery bad, I can make one of those plasters mother used."
And she ran upstairs. She was curious to see what Madame and herfour young men were like.
With Mrs. Rollings she called at the chemist's back door, and thenthey hurried through the sleet to the widow's dwelling. It was notfar. As they went up the entry they heard the sound of voices. Butin the kitchen all was quiet. The voices came from the front room.
Mrs. Rollings tapped.
"Come in!" said a rather sharp voice. Alvina entered on the widow'sheels.
"I've brought you the cough stuff," said the widow. "And MissHuff'n's come as well, to see how you was."
Four young men were sitting round the table in their shirt-sleeves,with bottles of Bass. There was much cigarette smoke. By the fire,which was burning brightly, sat a plump, pale woman with dark brighteyes and finely-drawn eyebrows: she might be any age between fortyand fifty. There were grey threads in her tidy black hair. She wasneatly dressed in a well-made black dress with a small lace collar.There was a slight look of self-commiseration on her face. She had acigarette between her drooped fingers.
She rose as if with difficulty, and held out her plump hand, onwhich four or five rings showed. She had dropped the cigaretteunnoticed into the hearth.
"How do you do," she said. "I didn't catch your name." Madame'svoice was a little plaintive and plangent now, like a bronze reedmournfully vibrating.
"Alvina Houghton," said Alvina.
"Daughter of him as owns the thee-etter where you're goin' to act,"interposed the widow.
"Oh yes! Yes! I see. Miss Houghton. I didn't know how it was said.Huff-ton--yes? Miss Houghton. I've got a bad cold on my chest--"laying her plump hand with the rings on her plump bosom. "But let meintroduce you to my young men--" A wave of the plump hand, whoseforefinger was very slightly cigarette-stained, towards the table.
The four young men had risen, and stood looking at Alvina andMadame. The room was small, rather bare, with horse-hair andwhite-crochet antimacassars and a linoleum floor. The table also wascovered with a brightly-patterned American oil-cloth, shiny butclean. A naked gas-jet hung over it. For furniture, there were justchairs, arm-chairs, table, and a horse-hair antimacassar-ed sofa.Yet the little room seemed very full--full of people, young men withsmart waistcoats and ties, but without coats.
"That is Max," said Madame. "I shall tell you only their names, andnot their family names, because that is easier for you--"
In the meantime Max had bowed. He was a tall Swiss with almond eyesand a flattish face and a rather stiff, ramrod figure.
"And that is Louis--" Louis bowed gracefully. He was a SwissFrenchman, moderately tall, with prominent cheekbones and a wingof glossy black hair falling on his temple.
"And that is Geoffroi--Geoffrey--" Geoffrey made his bow--abroad-shouldered, watchful, taciturn man from Alpine France.
"And that is Francesco--Frank--" Francesco gave a faint curl of hislip, half smile, as he saluted her involuntarily in a militaryfashion. He was dark, rather tall and loose, with yellow-tawny eyes.He was an Italian from the south. Madame gave another look at him."He doesn't like his English name of Frank. You will see, he pulls aface. No, he doesn't like it. We call him Ciccio also--" But Cicciowas dropping his head sheepishly, with the same faint smile on hisface, half grimace, and stooping to his chair, wanting to sit down.
"These are my family of young men," said Madame. "We are drawn fromthree races, though only Ciccio is not of our mountains. Will youplease to sit down."
They all took their chairs. There was a pause.
"My young men drink a little beer, after their horrible journey. Asa rule, I do not like them to drink. But tonight they have a littlebeer. I do not take any myself, because I am afraid of inflamingmyself." She laid her hand on her breast, and took long, uneasybreaths. "I feel it. I feel it _here_." She patted her breast. "Itmakes me afraid for tomorrow. Will you perhaps take a glass of beer?Ciccio, ask for another glass--" Ciccio, at the end of the table,did not rise, but looked round at Alvina as if he presumed therewould be no need for him to move. The odd, supercilious curl of thelip persisted. Madame glared at him. But he turned the handsome sideof his cheek towards her, with the faintest flicker of a sneer.
"No, thank you. I never take beer," said Alvina hurriedly.
"No? Never? Oh!" Madame folded her hands, but her black eyes stilldarted venom at Ciccio. The rest of the young men fingered theirglasses and put their cigarettes to their lips and blew the smokedown their noses, uncomfortably.
Madame closed her eyes and leaned back a moment. Then her facelooked transparent and pallid, there were dark rings under her eyes,the beautifully-brushed hair shone dark like black glass above herears. She was obviously unwell. The young men looked at her, andmuttered to one another.
"I'm afraid your cold is rather bad," said Alvina. "Will you let metake your temperature?"
Madame started and looked frightened.
"Oh, I don't think you should trouble to do that," she said.
Max, the tall, highly-coloured Swiss, turned to her, saying:
"Yes, you must have your temperature taken, and then we s'll know,shan't we. I had a hundred and five when we were in Redruth."
Alvina had taken the thermometer from her pocket. Ciccio meanwhilemuttered something in French--evidently something rude--meant forMax. r />
"What shall I do if I can't work tomorrow!" moaned Madame, seeingAlvina hold up the thermometer towards the light. "Max, what shallwe do?"
"You will stay in bed, and we must do the White Prisoner scene,"said Max, rather staccato and official.
Ciccio curled his lip and put his head aside. Alvina went across toMadame with the thermometer. Madame lifted her plump hand and fendedoff Alvina, while she made her last declaration:
"Never--never have I missed my work, for a single day, for tenyears. Never. If I am going to lie abandoned, I had better die atonce."
"Lie abandoned!" said Max. "You know you won't do no such thing.What are you talking about?"
"Take the thermometer," said Geoffrey roughly, but with feeling.
"Tomorrow, see, you will be well. Quite certain!" said Louis. Madamemournfully shook her head, opened her mouth, and sat back withclosed eyes and the stump of the thermometer comically protrudingfrom a corner of her lips. Meanwhile Alvina took her plump whitewrist and felt her pulse.
"We can practise--" began Geoffrey.
"Sh!" said Max, holding up his finger and looking anxiously atAlvina and Madame, who still leaned back with the stump of thethermometer jauntily perking up from her pursed mouth, while herface was rather ghastly.
Max and Louis watched anxiously. Geoffrey sat blowing the smoke downhis nose, while Ciccio callously lit another cigarette, striking amatch on his boot-heel and puffing from under the tip of his ratherlong nose. Then he took the cigarette from his mouth, turned hishead, slowly spat on the floor, and rubbed his foot on his spit. Maxflapped his eyelids and looked all disdain, murmuring somethingabout "ein schmutziges italienisches Volk," whilst Louis, refusingeither to see or to hear, framed the word "chien" on his lips.
Then quick as lightning both turned their attention again to Madame.
Her temperature was a hundred and two.
"You'd better go to bed," said Alvina. "Have you eaten anything?"
"One little mouthful," said Madame plaintively.
Max sat looking pale and stricken, Louis had hurried forward to takeMadame's hand. He kissed it quickly, then turned aside his headbecause of the tears in his eyes. Geoffrey gulped beer in largethroatfuls, and Ciccio, with his head bent, was watching from underhis eyebrows.
"I'll run round for the doctor--" said Alvina.
"Don't! Don't do that, my dear! Don't you go and do that! I'm likelyto a temperature--"
"Liable to a temperature," murmured Louis pathetically.
"I'll go to bed," said Madame, obediently rising.
"Wait a bit. I'll see if there's a fire in the bedroom," saidAlvina.
"Oh, my dear, you are too good. Open the door for her, Ciccio--"
Ciccio reached across at the door, but was too late. Max hadhastened to usher Alvina out. Madame sank back in her chair.
"Never for ten years," she was wailing. "Quoi faire, ah, quoifaire! Que ferez-vous, mes pauvres, sans votre Kishwegin. Quevais-je faire, mourir dans un tel pays! La bonne demoiselle--labonne demoiselle--elle a du coeur. Elle pourrait aussi etre belle,s'il y avait un peu plus de chair. Max, liebster, schau ich sehrelend aus? Ach, oh jeh, oh jeh!"
"Ach nein, Madame, ach nein. Nicht so furchtbar elend," said Max.
"Manca il cuore solamente al Ciccio," moaned Madame. "Che naturapovera, senza sentimento--niente di bello. Ahime, che amico, cheragazzo duro, aspero--"
"Trova?" said Ciccio, with a curl of the lip. He looked, as hedropped his long, beautiful lashes, as if he might weep for allthat, if he were not bound to be misbehaving just now.
So Madame moaned in four languages as she posed pallid in herarm-chair. Usually she spoke in French only, with her young men. Butthis was an extra occasion.
"La pauvre Kishwegin!" murmured Madame. "Elle va finir au monde.Elle passe--la pauvre Kishwegin."
Kishwegin was Madame's Red Indian name, the name under which shedanced her Squaw's fire-dance.
Now that she knew she was ill, Madame seemed to become more ill. Herbreath came in little pants. She had a pain in her side. A feverishflush seemed to mount her cheek. The young men were all extremelyuncomfortable. Louis did not conceal his tears. Only Ciccio kept thethin smile on his lips, and added to Madame's annoyance and pain.
Alvina came down to take her to bed. The young men all rose, andkissed Madame's hand as she went out: her poor jewelled hand, thatwas faintly perfumed with eau de Cologne. She spoke an appropriategood-night, to each of them.
"Good-night, my faithful Max, I trust myself to you. Good-night,Louis, the tender heart. Good-night valiant Geoffrey. Ah Ciccio, donot add to the weight of my heart. Be good _braves_, all, bebrothers in one accord. One little prayer for poor Kishwegin.Good-night!"
After which valediction she slowly climbed the stairs, putting herhand on her knee at each step, with the effort.
"No--no," she said to Max, who would have followed to herassistance. "Do not come up. No--no!"
Her bedroom was tidy and proper.
"Tonight," she moaned, "I shan't be able to see that the boys'rooms are well in order. They are not to be trusted, no. They needan overseeing eye: especially Ciccio; especially Ciccio!"
She sank down by the fire and began to undo her dress.
"You must let me help you," said Alvina. "You know I have been anurse."
"Ah, you are too kind, too kind, dear young lady. I am a lonely oldwoman. I am not used to attentions. Best leave me."
"Let me help you," said Alvina.
"Alas, ahime! Who would have thought Kishwegin would need help. Idanced last night with the boys in the theatre in Leek: and tonightI am put to bed in--what is the name of this place, dear?--It seemsI don't remember it."
"Woodhouse," said Alvina.
"Woodhouse! Woodhouse! Is there not something called Woodlouse? Ibelieve. Ugh, horrible! Why is it horrible?"
Alvina quickly undressed the plump, trim little woman. She seemed sosoft. Alvina could not imagine how she could be a dancer on thestage, strenuous. But Madame's softness could flash into wildenergy, sudden convulsive power, like a cuttle-fish. Alvina brushedout the long black hair, and plaited it lightly. Then she got Madameinto bed.
"Ah," sighed Madame, "the good bed! The good bed! But cold--it is socold. Would you hang up my dress, dear, and fold my stockings?"
Alvina quickly folded and put aside the dainty underclothing. Queer,dainty woman, was Madame, even to her wonderful threadedblack-and-gold garters.
"My poor boys--no Kishwegin tomorrow! You don't think I need see apriest, dear? A priest!" said Madame, her teeth chattering.
"Priest! Oh no! You'll be better when we can get you warm. I thinkit's only a chill. Mrs. Rollings is warming a blanket--"
Alvina ran downstairs. Max opened the sitting-room door and stoodwatching at the sound of footsteps. His rather bony fists wereclenched beneath his loose shirt-cuffs, his eyebrows tragicallylifted.
"Is she much ill?" he asked.
"I don't know. But I don't think so. Do you mind heating theblanket while Mrs. Rollings makes thin gruel?"
Max and Louis stood heating blankets. Louis' trousers were cutrather tight at the waist, and gave him a female look. Max wasstraight and stiff. Mrs. Rollings asked Geoffrey to fill thecoal-scuttles and carry one upstairs. Geoffrey obediently went outwith a lantern to the coal-shed. Afterwards he was to carry up thehorse-hair arm-chair.
"I must go home for some things," said Alvina to Ciccio. "Will youcome and carry them for me?"
He started up, and with one movement threw away his cigarette. Hedid not look at Alvina. His beautiful lashes seemed to screen hiseyes. He was fairly tall, but loosely built for an Italian, withslightly sloping shoulders. Alvina noticed the brown, slenderMediterranean hand, as he put his fingers to his lips. It was a handsuch as she did not know, prehensile and tender and dusky. With anodd graceful slouch he went into the passage and reached for hiscoat.
He did not say a word, but held aloof as he walked with Alvina.
"I'm sorry for Madame," sai
d Alvina, as she hurried ratherbreathless through the night. "She does think for you men."
But Ciccio vouchsafed no answer, and walked with his hands in thepockets of his water-proof, wincing from the weather.
"I'm afraid she will never be able to dance tomorrow," said Alvina.
"You think she won't be able?" he said.
"I'm almost sure she won't."
After which he said nothing, and Alvina also kept silence till theycame to the black dark passage and encumbered yard at the back ofthe house.
"I don't think you can see at all," she said. "It's this way." Shegroped for him in the dark, and met his groping hand.
"This way," she said.
It was curious how light his fingers were in their clasp--almostlike a child's touch. So they came under the light from the windowof the sitting-room.
Alvina hurried indoors, and the young man followed.
"I shall have to stay with Madame tonight," she explained hurriedly."She's feverish, but she may throw it off if we can get her into asweat." And Alvina ran upstairs collecting things necessary. Cicciostood back near the door, and answered all Miss Pinnegar'sentreaties to come to the fire with a shake of the head and a slightsmile of the lips, bashful and stupid.
"But do come and warm yourself before you go out again," said MissPinnegar, looking at the man as he drooped his head in the distance.He still shook dissent, but opened his mouth at last.
"It makes it colder after," he said, showing his teeth in a slight,stupid smile.
"Oh well, if you think so," said Miss Pinnegar, nettled. Shecouldn't make heads or tails of him, and didn't try.
When they got back, Madame was light-headed, and talking excitedlyof her dance, her young men. The three young men were terrified.They had got the blankets scorching hot. Alvina smeared the plastersand applied them to Madame's side, where the pain was. What awhite-skinned, soft, plump child she seemed! Her pain meant a touchof pleurisy, for sure. The men hovered outside the door. Alvinawrapped the poor patient in the hot blankets, got a few spoonfuls ofhot gruel and whiskey down her throat, fastened her down in bed,lowered the light and banished the men from the stairs. Then she satdown to watch. Madame chafed, moaned, murmured feverishly. Alvinasoothed her, and put her hands in bed. And at last the poor dearbecame quiet. Her brow was faintly moist. She fell into a quietsleep, perspiring freely. Alvina watched her still, soothed her whenshe suddenly started and began to break out of the bedclothes,quieted her, pressed her gently, firmly down, folded her tight andmade her submit to the perspiration against which, in convulsivestarts, she fought and strove, crying that she was suffocating, shewas too hot, too hot.
"Lie still, lie still," said Alvina. "You must keep warm."
Poor Madame moaned. How she hated seething in the bath of her ownperspiration. Her wilful nature rebelled strongly. She would havethrown aside her coverings and gasped into the cold air, if Alvinahad not pressed her down with that soft, inevitable pressure.
So the hours passed, till about one o'clock, when the perspirationbecame less profuse, and the patient was really better, reallyquieter. Then Alvina went downstairs for a moment. She saw the lightstill burning in the front room. Tapping, she entered. There sat Maxby the fire, a picture of misery, with Louis opposite him, noddingasleep after his tears. On the sofa Geoffrey snored lightly, whileCiccio sat with his head on the table, his arms spread out, deadasleep. Again she noticed the tender, dusky Mediterranean hands, theslender wrists, slender for a man naturally loose and muscular.
"Haven't you gone to bed?" whispered Alvina. "Why?"
Louis started awake. Max, the only stubborn watcher, shook his headlugubriously.
"But she's better," whispered Alvina. "She's perspired. She'sbetter. She's sleeping naturally."
Max stared with round, sleep-whitened, owlish eyes, pessimistic andsceptical:
"Yes," persisted Alvina. "Come and look at her. But don't wake her,whatever you do."
Max took off his slippers and rose to his tall height. Louis, like ascared chicken, followed. Each man held his slippers in his hand.They noiselessly entered and peeped stealthily over the heapedbedclothes. Madame was lying, looking a little flushed and verygirlish, sleeping lightly, with a strand of black hair stuck to hercheek, and her lips lightly parted.
Max watched her for some moments. Then suddenly he straightenedhimself, pushed back his brown hair that was brushed up in theGerman fashion, and crossed himself, dropping his knee as before analtar; crossed himself and dropped his knee once more; and then athird time crossed himself and inclined before the altar. Then hestraightened himself again, and turned aside.
Louis also crossed himself. His tears burst out. He bowed and tookthe edge of a blanket to his lips, kissing it reverently. Then hecovered his face with his hand.
Meanwhile Madame slept lightly and innocently on.
Alvina turned to go. Max silently followed, leading Louis by thearm. When they got downstairs, Max and Louis threw themselves ineach other's arms, and kissed each other on either cheek, gravely,in Continental fashion.
"She is better," said Max gravely, in French.
"Thanks to God," replied Louis.
Alvina witnessed all this with some amazement. The men did not heedher. Max went over and shook Geoffrey, Louis put his hand onCiccio's shoulder. The sleepers were difficult to wake. The wakersshook the sleeping, but in vain. At last Geoffrey began to stir.But in vain Louis lifted Ciccio's shoulders from the table. The headand the hands dropped inert. The long black lashes lay motionless,the rather long, fine Greek nose drew the same light breaths, themouth remained shut. Strange fine black hair, he had, close as fur,animal, and naked, frail-seeming, tawny hands. There was a silverring on one hand.
Alvina suddenly seized one of the inert hands that slid on thetable-cloth as Louis shook the young man's shoulders. Tight shepressed the hand. Ciccio opened his tawny-yellowish eyes, thatseemed to have been put in with a dirty finger, as the saying goes,owing to the sootiness of the lashes and brows. He was quite drunkwith his first sleep, and saw nothing.
"Wake up," said Alvina, laughing, pressing his hand again.
He lifted his head once more, suddenly clasped her hand, his eyescame to consciousness, his hand relaxed, he recognized her, and hesat back in his chair, turning his face aside and lowering hislashes.
"Get up, great beast," Louis was saying softly in French, pushinghim as ox-drivers sometimes push their oxen. Ciccio staggered to hisfeet.
"She is better," they told him. "We are going to bed."
They took their candles and trooped off upstairs, each one bowing toAlvina as he passed. Max solemnly, Louis gallant, the other two dumband sleepy. They occupied the two attic chambers.
Alvina carried up the loose bed from the sofa, and slept on thefloor before the fire in Madame's room.
Madame slept well and long, rousing and stirring and settling offagain. It was eight o'clock before she asked her first question.Alvina was already up.
"Oh--alors--Then I am better, I am quite well. I can dance today."
"I don't think today," said Alvina. "But perhaps tomorrow."
"No, today," said Madame. "I can dance today, because I am quitewell. I am Kishwegin."
"You are better. But you must lie still today. Yes, really--you willfind you are weak when you try to stand."
Madame watched Alvina's thin face with sullen eyes.
"You are an Englishwoman, severe and materialist," she said.
Alvina started and looked round at her with wide blue eyes.
"Why?" she said. There was a wan, pathetic look about her, a sort ofheroism which Madame detested, but which now she found touching.
"Come!" said Madame, stretching out her plump jewelled hand. "Come,I am an ungrateful woman. Come, they are not good for you, thepeople, I see it. Come to me."
Alvina went slowly to Madame, and took the outstretched hand. Madamekissed her hand, then drew her down and kissed her on either cheek,gravely, as the young men had kissed each other.
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"You have been good to Kishwegin, and Kishwegin has a heart thatremembers. There, Miss Houghton, I shall do what you tell me.Kishwegin obeys you." And Madame patted Alvina's hand and nodded herhead sagely.
"Shall I take your temperature?" said Alvina.
"Yes, my dear, you shall. You shall bid me, and I shall obey."
So Madame lay back on her pillow, submissively pursing thethermometer between her lips and watching Alvina with black eyes.
"It's all right," said Alvina, as she looked at the thermometer."Normal."
"Normal!" re-echoed Madame's rather guttural voice. "Good! Well,then when shall I dance?"
Alvina turned and looked at her.
"I think, truly," said Alvina, "it shouldn't be before Thursday orFriday."
"Thursday!" repeated Madame. "You say Thursday?" There was a note ofstrong rebellion in her voice.
"You'll be so weak. You've only just escaped pleurisy. I can onlysay what I truly think, can't I?"
"Ah, you Englishwomen," said Madame, watching with black eyes. "Ithink you like to have your own way. In all things, to have your ownway. And over all people. You are so good, to have your own way.Yes, you good Englishwomen. Thursday. Very well, it shall beThursday. Till Thursday, then, Kishwegin does not exist."
And she subsided, already rather weak, upon her pillow again. Whenshe had taken her tea and was washed and her room was tidied, shesummoned the young men. Alvina had warned Max that she wantedMadame to be kept as quiet as possible this day.
As soon as the first of the four appeared, in his shirt-sleeves andhis slippers, in the doorway, Madame said:
"Ah, there you are, my young men! Come in! Come in! It is notKishwegin addresses you. Kishwegin does not exist till Thursday, asthe English demoiselle makes it." She held out her hand, faintlyperfumed with eau de Cologne--the whole room smelled of eau deCologne--and Max stooped his brittle spine and kissed it. Shetouched his cheek gently with her other hand.
"My faithful Max, my support."
Louis came smiling with a bunch of violets and pinky anemones. Helaid them down on the bed before her, and took her hand, bowing andkissing it reverently.
"You are better, dear Madame?" he said, smiling long at her.
"Better, yes, gentle Louis. And better for thy flowers, chivalricheart." She put the violets and anemones to her face with bothhands, and then gently laid them aside to extend her hand toGeoffrey.
"The good Geoffrey will do his best, while there is no Kishwegin?"she said as he stooped to her salute.
"Bien sur, Madame."
"Ciccio, a button off thy shirt-cuff. Where is my needle?" Shelooked round the room as Ciccio kissed her hand.
"Did you want anything?" said Alvina, who had not followed theFrench.
"My needle, to sew on this button. It is there, in the silk bag."
"I will do it," said Alvina.
"Thank you."
While Alvina sewed on the button, Madame spoke to her young men,principally to Max. They were to obey Max, she said, for he wastheir eldest brother. This afternoon they would practise well thescene of the White Prisoner. Very carefully they must practise, andthey must find some one who would play the young squaw--for in thisscene she had practically nothing to do, the young squaw, but justsit and stand. Miss Houghton--but ah, Miss Houghton must play thepiano, she could not take the part of the young squaw. Some otherthen.
While the interview was going on, Mr. May arrived, full of concern.
"Shan't we have the procession!" he cried.
"Ah, the procession!" cried Madame.
The Natcha-Kee-Tawara Troupe upon request would signalize its entryinto any town by a procession. The young men were dressed as Indian_braves_, and headed by Kishwegin they rode on horseback through themain streets. Ciccio, who was the crack horseman, having served avery well-known horsey Marchese in an Italian cavalry regiment, dida bit of show riding.
Mr. May was very keen on the procession. He had the horses inreadiness. The morning was faintly sunny, after the sleet and badweather. And now he arrived to find Madame in bed and the young menholding council with her.
"How _very_ unfortunate!" cried Mr. May. "How _very_ unfortunate!"
"Dreadful! Dreadful!" wailed Madame from the bed.
"But can't we do _anything_?"
"Yes--you can do the White Prisoner scene--the young men can dothat, if you find a dummy squaw. Ah, I think I must get up afterall."
Alvina saw the look of fret and exhaustion in Madame's face.
"Won't you all go downstairs now?" said Alvina. "Mr. Max knows whatyou must do."
And she shooed the five men out of the bedroom.
"I _must_ get up. I won't dance. I will be a dummy. But I must bethere. It is too dre-eadful, too dre-eadful!" wailed Madame.
"Don't take any notice of them. They can manage by themselves. Menare such babies. Let them carry it through by themselves."
"Children--they are all children!" wailed Madame. "All children! Andso, what will they do without their old _gouvernante_? My poor_braves_, what will they do without Kishwegin? It is too dreadful,too dre-eadful, yes. The poor Mr. May--so _disappointed_."
"Then let him _be_ disappointed," cried Alvina, as she forciblytucked up Madame and made her lie still.
"You are hard! You are a hard Englishwoman. All alike. All alike!"Madame subsided fretfully and weakly. Alvina moved softly about.And in a few minutes Madame was sleeping again.
Alvina went downstairs. Mr. May was listening to Max, who wastelling in German all about the White Prisoner scene. Mr. May hadspent his boyhood in a German school. He cocked his head on oneside, and, laying his hand on Max's arm, entertained him in oddGerman. The others were silent. Ciccio made no pretence oflistening, but smoked and stared at his own feet. Louis and Geoffreyhalf understood, so Louis nodded with a look of deep comprehension,whilst Geoffrey uttered short, snappy "Ja!--Ja!--Doch!--Eben!"rather irrelevant.
"I'll be the squaw," cried Mr. May in English, breaking off andturning round to the company. He perked up his head in an odd,parrot-like fashion. "_I'll_ be the squaw! What's her name?Kishwegin? I'll be Kishwegin." And he bridled and beamedself-consciously.
The two tall Swiss looked down on him, faintly smiling. Ciccio,sitting with his arms on his knees on the sofa, screwed round hishead and watched the phenomenon of Mr. May with inscrutable,expressionless attention.
"Let us go," said Mr. May, bubbling with new importance. "Let us goand rehearse _this morning_, and let us do the procession thisafternoon, when the colliers are just coming home. There! What?Isn't that exactly the idea? Well! Will you be ready at once,_now_?"
He looked excitedly at the young men. They nodded with slow gravity,as if they were already _braves_. And they turned to put on theirboots. Soon they were all trooping down to Lumley, Mr. May prancinglike a little circus-pony beside Alvina, the four young men rollingahead.
"What do you think of it?" cried Mr. May. "We've saved thesituation--what? Don't you think so? Don't you think we cancongratulate ourselves."
They found Mr. Houghton fussing about in the theatre. He was ontenterhooks of agitation, knowing Madame was ill.
Max gave a brilliant display of yodelling.
"But I must _explain_ to them," cried Mr. May. "I must _explain_ tothem what yodel means."
And turning to the empty theatre, he began, stretching forth hishand.
"In the high Alps of Switzerland, where eternal snows and glaciersreign over luscious meadows full of flowers, if you should chance toawaken, as I have done, in some lonely wooden farm amid the mountainpastures, you--er--you--let me see--if you--no--if you should chanceto _spend the night_ in some lonely wooden farm, amid the uplandpastures, dawn will awake you with a wild, inhuman song, you willopen your eyes to the first gleam of icy, eternal sunbeams, yourears will be ringing with weird singing, that has no words and nomeaning, but sounds as if some wild and icy god were warbling tohimself as he wandered among the peaks of dawn. You look forthacross the flowers to the blu
e snow, and you see, far off, a smallfigure of a man moving among the grass. It is a peasant singing hismountain song, warbling like some creature that lifted up its voiceon the edge of the eternal snows, before the human race began--"
During this oration James Houghton sat with his chin in his hand,devoured with bitter jealousy, measuring Mr. May's eloquence. Andthen he started, as Max, tall and handsome now in Tyrolese costume,white shirt and green, square braces, short trousers of chamoisleather stitched with green and red, firm-planted naked knees, nakedankles and heavy shoes, warbled his native Yodel strains, a piercingand disturbing sound. He was flushed, erect, keen tempered andfierce and mountainous. There was a fierce, icy passion in the man.Alvina began to understand Madame's subjection to him.
Louis and Geoffrey did a farce dialogue, two foreigners at the samemoment spying a purse in the street, struggling with each other andprotesting they wanted to take it to the policeman, Ciccio, whostood solid and ridiculous. Mr. Houghton nodded slowly and gravely,as if to give his measured approval.
Then all retired to dress for the great scene. Alvina practised themusic Madame carried with her. If Madame found a good pianist, shewelcomed the accompaniment: if not, she dispensed with it.
"Am I all right?" said a smirking voice.
And there was Kishwegin, dusky, coy, with long black hair and ashort chamois dress, gaiters and moccasins and bare arms: _so_ coy,and _so_ smirking. Alvina burst out laughing.
"But shan't I do?" protested Mr. May, hurt.
"Yes, you're wonderful," said Alvina, choking. "But I _must_ laugh."
"But why? Tell me why?" asked Mr. May anxiously. "Is it my_appearance_ you laugh at, or is it only _me_? If it's me I don'tmind. But if it's my appearance, tell me so."
Here an appalling figure of Ciccio in war-paint strolled on to thestage. He was naked to the waist, wore scalp-fringed trousers, wasdusky-red-skinned, had long black hair and eagle's feathers--onlytwo feathers--and a face wonderfully and terribly painted withwhite, red, yellow, and black lines. He was evidently pleased withhimself. His curious soft slouch, and curious way of lifting his lipfrom his white teeth, in a sort of smile, was very convincing.
"You haven't got the girdle," he said, touching Mr. May's plumpwaist--"and some flowers in your hair."
Mr. May here gave a sharp cry and a jump. A bear on its hind legs,slow, shambling, rolling its loose shoulders, was stretching a pawtowards him. The bear dropped heavily on four paws again, and alaugh came from its muzzle.
"You won't have to dance," said Geoffrey out of the bear.
"Come and put in the flowers," said Mr. May anxiously, to Alvina.
In the dressing-room, the dividing-curtain was drawn. Max, indeerskin trousers but with unpainted torso looked very white andstrange as he put the last touches of war-paint on Louis' face. Heglanced round at Alvina, then went on with his work. There was asort of nobility about his erect white form and stiffly-carriedhead, the semi-luminous brown hair. He seemed curiously superior.
Alvina adjusted the maidenly Mr. May. Louis arose, a _brave_ likeCiccio, in war-paint even more hideous. Max slipped on a tatteredhunting-shirt and cartridge belt. His face was a little darkened. Hewas the white prisoner.
They arranged the scenery, while Alvina watched. It was soon done. Aback cloth of tree-trunks and dark forest: a wigwam, a fire, and acradle hanging from a pole. As they worked, Alvina tried in vain todissociate the two _braves_ from their war-paint. The lines weredrawn so cleverly that the grimace of ferocity was fixed andhorrible, so that even in the quiet work of scene-shifting Louis'stiffish, female grace seemed full of latent cruelty, whilstCiccio's more muscular slouch made her feel she would not trust himfor one single moment. Awful things men were, savage, cruel,underneath their civilization.
The scene had its beauty. It began with Kishwegin alone at the doorof the wigwam, cooking, listening, giving an occasional push to thehanging cradle, and, if only Madame were taking the part, crooningan Indian cradle-song. Enter the _brave_ Louis with his whiteprisoner, Max, who has his hands bound to his side. Kishwegingravely salutes her husband--the bound prisoner is seated by thefire--Kishwegin serves food, and asks permission to feed theprisoner. The _brave_ Louis, hearing a sound, starts up with his bowand arrow. There is a dumb scene of sympathy between Kishwegin andthe prisoner--the prisoner wants his bonds cut. Re-enter the _brave_Louis--he is angry with Kishwegin--enter the _brave_ Ciccio haulinga bear, apparently dead. Kishwegin examines the bear, Ciccioexamines the prisoner. Ciccio tortures the prisoner, makes himstand, makes him caper unwillingly. Kishwegin swings the cradle. Theprisoner is tripped up--falls, and cannot rise. He lies near thefallen bear. Kishwegin carries food to Ciccio. The two _braves_converse in dumb show, Kishwegin swings the cradle and croons. Themen rise once more and bend over the prisoner. As they do so, thereis a muffled roar. The bear is sitting up. Louis swings round, andat the same moment the bear strikes him down. Ciccio springs forwardand stabs the bear, then closes with it. Kishwegin runs and cuts theprisoner's bonds. He rises, and stands trying to lift his numbed andpowerless arms, while the bear slowly crushes Ciccio, and Kishweginkneels over her husband. The bear drops Ciccio lifeless, and turnsto Kishwegin. At that moment Max manages to kill the bear--he takesKishwegin by the hand and kneels with her beside the dead Louis.
It was wonderful how well the men played their different parts. ButMr. May was a little too frisky as Kishwegin. However, it would do.
Ciccio got dressed as soon as possible, to go and look at the horseshired for the afternoon procession. Alvina accompanied him, Mr. Mayand the others were busy.
"You know I think it's quite wonderful, your scene," she said toCiccio.
He turned and looked down at her. His yellow, dusky-set eyes restedon her good-naturedly, without seeing her, his lip curled in aself-conscious, contemptuous sort of smile.
"Not without Madame," he said, with the slow, half-sneering, stupidsmile. "Without Madame--" he lifted his shoulders and spread hishands and tilted his brows--"fool's play, you know."
"No," said Alvina. "I think Mr. May is good, considering. What doesMadame _do_?" she asked a little jealously.
"Do?" He looked down at her with the same long, half-sardonic lookof his yellow eyes, like a cat looking casually at a bird whichflutters past. And again he made his shrugging motion. "She does itall, really. The others--they are nothing--what they are Madame hasmade them. And now they think they've done it all, you see. You see,that's it."
"But how has Madame made it all? Thought it out, you mean?"
"Thought it out, yes. And then _done_ it. You should see herdance--ah! You should see her dance round the bear, when I bring himin! Ah, a beautiful thing, you know. She claps her hand--" AndCiccio stood still in the street, with his hat cocked a little onone side, rather common-looking, and he smiled along his fine noseat Alvina, and he clapped his hands lightly, and he tilted hiseyebrows and his eyelids as if facially he were imitating a dance,and all the time his lips smiled stupidly. As he gave a littleassertive shake of his head, finishing, there came a great yell oflaughter from the opposite pavement, where a gang of pottery lasses,in aprons all spattered with grey clay, and hair and boots and skinspattered with pallid spots, had stood to watch. The girls oppositeshrieked again, for all the world like a gang of grey baboons.Ciccio turned round and looked at them with a sneer along his nose.They yelled the louder. And he was horribly uncomfortable, walkingthere beside Alvina with his rather small and effeminately-shodfeet.
"How stupid they are," said Alvina. "I've got used to them."
"They should be--" he lifted his hand with a sharp, viciousmovement--"_smacked_," he concluded, lowering his hand again.
"Who is going to do it?" said Alvina.
He gave a Neapolitan grimace, and twiddled the fingers of one handoutspread in the air, as if to say: "There you are! You've got tothank the fools who've failed to do it."
"Why do you all love Madame so much?" Alvina asked.
"How, love?" he said, making a little
grimace. "We like her--we loveher--as if she were a mother. You say _love_--" He raised hisshoulders slightly, with a shrug. And all the time he looked down atAlvina from under his dusky eyelashes, as if watching her sideways,and his mouth had the peculiar, stupid, self-conscious, half-jeeringsmile. Alvina was a little bit annoyed. But she felt that a greatinstinctive good-naturedness came out of him, he was self-consciousand constrained, knowing she did not follow his language of gesture.For him, it was not yet quite natural to express himself in speech.Gesture and grimace were instantaneous, and spoke worlds of things,if you would but accept them.
But certainly he was stupid, in her sense of the word. She couldhear Mr. May's verdict of him: "Like a child, you know, just ascharming and just as tiresome and just as stupid."
"Where is your home?" she asked him.
"In Italy." She felt a fool.
"Which part?" she insisted.
"Naples," he said, looking down at her sideways, searchingly.
"It must be lovely," she said.
"Ha--!" He threw his head on one side and spread out his hands, asif to say--"What do you want, if you don't find Naples lovely."
"I should like to see it. But I shouldn't like to die," she said.
"What?"
"They say 'See Naples and die,'" she laughed.
He opened his mouth, and understood. Then he smiled at her directly.
"You know what that means?" he said cutely. "It means see Naples anddie afterwards. Don't die _before_ you've seen it." He smiled with aknowing smile.
"I see! I see!" she cried. "I never thought of that."
He was pleased with her surprise and amusement.
"Ah Naples!" he said. "She is lovely--" He spread his hand acrossthe air in front of him--"The sea--and Posilippo--and Sorrento--andCapri--Ah-h! You've never been out of England?"
"No," she said. "I should love to go."
He looked down into her eyes. It was his instinct to say at once hewould take her.
"You've seen nothing--nothing," he said to her.
"But if Naples is so lovely, how could you leave it?" she asked.
"What?"
She repeated her question. For answer, he looked at her, held outhis hand, and rubbing the ball of his thumb across the tips of hisfingers, said, with a fine, handsome smile:
"Pennies! Money! You can't earn money in Naples. Ah, Naples isbeautiful, but she is poor. You live in the sun, and you earnfourteen, fifteen pence a day--"
"Not enough," she said.
He put his head on one side and tilted his brows, as if to say "Whatare you to do?" And the smile on his mouth was sad, fine, andcharming. There was an indefinable air of sadness or wistfulnessabout him, something so robust and fragile at the same time, thatshe was drawn in a strange way.
"But you'll go back?" she said.
"Where?"
"To Italy. To Naples."
"Yes, I shall go back to Italy," he said, as if unwilling to commithimself. "But perhaps I shan't go back to Naples."
"Never?"
"Ah, never! I don't say never. I shall go to Naples, to see mymother's sister. But I shan't go to live--"
"Have you a mother and father?"
"I? No! I have a brother and two sisters--in America. Parents, none.They are dead."
"And you wander about the world--" she said.
He looked at her, and made a slight, sad gesture, indifferent also.
"But you have Madame for a mother," she said.
He made another gesture this time: pressed down the corners of hismouth as if he didn't like it. Then he turned with the slow, finesmile.
"Does a man want two mothers? Eh?" he said, as if he posed aconundrum.
"I shouldn't think so," laughed Alvina.
He glanced at her to see what she meant, what she understood.
"My mother is dead, see!" he said. "Frenchwomen--Frenchwomen--theyhave their babies till they are a hundred--"
"What do you mean?" said Alvina, laughing.
"A Frenchman is a little man when he's seven years old--and if hismother comes, he is a little baby boy when he's seventy. Do you knowthat?"
"I _didn't_ know it," said Alvina.
"But now--you do," he said, lurching round a corner with her.
They had come to the stables. Three of the horses were there,including the thoroughbred Ciccio was going to ride. He stood andexamined the beasts critically. Then he spoke to them with strangesounds, patted them, stroked them down, felt them, slid his handdown them, over them, under them, and felt their legs.
Then, he looked up from stooping there under the horses, with along, slow look of his yellow eyes, at Alvina. She feltunconsciously flattered. His long, yellow look lingered, holding hereyes. She wondered what he was thinking. Yet he never spoke. Heturned again to the horses. They seemed to understand him, to prickup alert.
"This is mine," he said, with his hand on the neck of the oldthoroughbred. It was a bay with a white blaze.
"I think he's nice," she said. "He seems so sensitive."
"In England," he answered suddenly, "horses live a long time,because they _don't_ live--never alive--see? In Englandrailway-engines are alive, and horses go on wheels." He smiled intoher eyes as if she understood. She was a trifle nervous as he smiledat her from out of the stable, so yellow-eyed and half-mysterious,derisive. Her impulse was to turn and go away from the stable. But adeeper impulse made her smile into his face, as she said to him:
"They like you to touch them."
"Who?" His eyes kept hers. Curious how _dark_ they seemed, with onlya yellow ring of pupil. He was looking right into her, beyond herusual self, impersonal.
"The horses," she said. She was afraid of his long, cat-like look.Yet she felt convinced of his ultimate good-nature. He seemed to herto be the only passionately good-natured man she had ever seen. Shewatched him vaguely, with strange vague trust, implicit belief inhim. In him--in what?
That afternoon the colliers trooping home in the winter afternoonwere rejoiced with a spectacle: Kishwegin, in her deerskin, fringedgaiters and fringed frock of deerskin, her long hair down her back,and with marvellous cloths and trappings on her steed, ridingastride on a tall white horse, followed by Max in chieftain's robesand chieftain's long head-dress of dyed feathers, then by the othersin war-paint and feathers and brilliant Navajo blankets. Theycarried bows and spears. Ciccio was without his blanket, naked tothe waist, in war-paint, and brandishing a long spear. He dashed upfrom the rear, saluted the chieftain with his arm and his spear onhigh as he swept past, suddenly drew up his rearing steed, andtrotted slowly back again, making his horse perform its paces. Hewas extraordinarily velvety and alive on horseback.
Crowds of excited, shouting children ran chattering along thepavements. The colliers, as they tramped grey and heavy, in anintermittent stream uphill from the low grey west, stood on thepavement in wonder as the cavalcade approached and passed, jinglingthe silver bells of its trappings, vibrating the wonderful coloursof the barred blankets and saddle cloths, the scarlet wool of theaccoutrements, the bright tips of feathers. Women shrieked asCiccio, in his war-paint, wheeled near the pavement. Childrenscreamed and ran. The colliers shouted. Ciccio smiled in histerrifying war-paint, brandished his spear and trotted softly, likea flower on its stem, round to the procession.
Miss Pinnegar and Alvina and James Houghton had come round intoKnarborough Road to watch. It was a great moment. Looking along theroad they saw all the shopkeepers at their doors, the pavementseager. And then, in the distance, the white horse jingling itstrappings of scarlet hair and bells, with the dusky Kishweginsitting on the saddle-blanket of brilliant, lurid stripes, sittingimpassive and all dusky above that intermittent flashing of colour:then the chieftain, dark-faced, erect, easy, swathed in a whiteblanket, with scarlet and black stripes, and all his strange crestof white, tip-dyed feathers swaying down his back: as he came nearerone saw the wolfskin and the brilliant moccasins against the blacksides of his horse; Louis and Goeffrey followed, lurid, horrid in
the face, wearing blankets with stroke after stroke of blazingcolour upon their duskiness, and sitting stern, holding theirspears: lastly, Ciccio, on his bay horse with a green seat,flickering hither and thither in the rear, his feathers swaying, hishorse sweating, his face ghastlily smiling in its war-paint. So theyadvanced down the grey pallor of Knarborough Road, in the latewintry afternoon. Somewhere the sun was setting, and far overheadwas a flush of orange.
"Well I never!" murmured Miss Pinnegar. "Well I never!"
The strange savageness of the striped Navajo blankets seemed to herunsettling, advancing down Knarborough Road: she examined Kishwegincuriously.
"Can you _believe_ that that's Mr. May--he's exactly like a girl.Well, well--it makes you wonder what is and what isn't. But _aren't_they good? What? Most striking. Exactly like Indians. You can'tbelieve your eyes. My word what a terrifying race they--" Here sheuttered a scream and ran back clutching the wall as Ciccio sweptpast, brushing her with his horse's tail, and actually swinging hisspear so as to touch Alvina and James Houghton lightly with the buttof it. James too started with a cry, the mob at the corner screamed.But Alvina caught the slow, mischievous smile as the painted horrorshowed his teeth in passing; she was able to flash back an excitedlaugh. She felt his yellow-tawny eyes linger on her, in that onesecond, as if negligently.
"I call that too much!" Miss Pinnegar was crying, thoroughly upset."Now that was unnecessary! Why it was enough to scare one to death.Besides, it's dangerous. It ought to be put a stop to. I don'tbelieve in letting these show-people have liberties."
The cavalcade was slowly passing, with its uneasy horses and itsflare of striped colour and its silent riders. Ciccio was trottingsoftly back, on his green saddle-cloth, suave as velvet, his dusky,naked torso beautiful.
"Eh, you'd think he'd get his death," the women in the crowd weresaying.
"A proper savage one, that. Makes your blood run cold--"
"Ay, an' a man for all that, take's painted face for what's worth. Atidy man, _I_ say."
He did not look at Alvina. The faint, mischievous smile uncoveredhis teeth. He fell in suddenly behind Geoffrey, with a jerk of hissteed, calling out to Geoffrey in Italian.
It was becoming cold. The cavalcade fell into a trot, Mr. Mayshaking rather badly. Ciccio halted, rested his lance against alamp-post, switched his green blanket from beneath him, flung itround him as he sat, and darted off. They had all disappeared overthe brow of Lumley Hill, descending. He was gone too. In the wintrytwilight the crowd began, lingeringly, to turn away. And in somestrange way, it manifested its disapproval of the spectacle: asgrown-up men and women, they were a little bit insulted by such ashow. It was an anachronism. They wanted a direct appeal to themind. Miss Pinnegar expressed it.
"Well," she said, when she was safely back in Manchester House, withthe gas lighted, and as she was pouring the boiling water into thetea-pot, "You may say what you like. It's interesting in a way, justto show what savage Red-Indians were like. But it's childish. It'sonly childishness. I can't understand, myself, how people can go onliking shows. Nothing happens. It's not like the cinema, where yousee it all and take it all in at once; you _know_ everything at aglance. You don't know anything by looking at these people. You knowthey're only men dressed up, for money. I can't see why you shouldencourage it. I don't hold with idle show-people, parading round, Idon't, myself. I like to go to the cinema once a week. It'sinstruction, you take it all in at a glance, all you need to know,and it lasts you for a week. You can get to know everything aboutpeople's actual lives from the cinema. I don't see why you wantpeople dressing up and showing off."
They sat down to their tea and toast and marmalade, during thisharangue. Miss Pinnegar was always like a douche of cold water toAlvina, bringing her back to consciousness after a deliciousexcitement. In a minute Madame and Ciccio and all seemed to becomeunreal--the actual unrealities: while the ragged dithering picturesof the film were actual, real as the day. And Alvina was always putout when this happened. She really hated Miss Pinnegar. Yet she hadnothing to answer. They _were_ unreal, Madame and Ciccio and therest. Ciccio was just a fantasy blown in on the wind, to blow awayagain. The real, permanent thing was Woodhouse, the _semper idem_Knarborough Road, and the unchangeable grubby gloom of ManchesterHouse, with the stuffy, padding Miss Pinnegar, and her father, whosefingers, whose very soul seemed dirty with pennies. These were thesolid, permanent fact. These were life itself. And Ciccio, splashingup on his bay horse and green cloth, he was a mountebank and anextraneous nonentity, a coloured old rag blown down the KnarboroughRoad into Limbo. Into Limbo. Whilst Miss Pinnegar and her father satfrowsily on for ever, eating their toast and cutting off the crust,and sipping their third cup of tea. They would never blowaway--never, never. Woodhouse was there to eternity. And theNatcha-Kee-Tawara Troupe was blowing like a rag of old paper intoLimbo. Nothingness! Poor Madame! Poor gallant histrionic Madame! Thefrowsy Miss Pinnegar could crumple her up and throw her down theutilitarian drain, and have done with her. Whilst Miss Pinnegarlived on for ever.
This put Alvina into a sharp temper.
"Miss Pinnegar," she said. "I do think you go on in the mostunattractive way sometimes. You're a regular spoil-sport."
"Well," said Miss Pinnegar tartly. "I don't approve of your way ofsport, I'm afraid."
"You can't disapprove of it as much as I hate your spoil-sportexistence," said Alvina in a flare.
"Alvina, are you mad!" said her father.
"Wonder I'm not," said Alvina, "considering what my life is."