The Call of the Blood

R >> Robert Smythe Hichens >> The Call of the Blood

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29 | 30 | 31 | 32

It was crowded with men and women, was rather dark and very hot. In a
corner there was a grinding organ, whose handle was turned by a
perspiring man in a long, woollen cap. Beside him, hunched up on a
window-sill, was a shepherd boy who accompanied the organ upon a flute of
reed. Round the walls stood a throng of gazers, and in the middle of the
floor the dancers performed vigorously, dancing now a polka, now a waltz,
now a mazurka, now an elaborate country dance in which sixteen or twenty
people took part, now a tarantella, called by many of the contadini "La
Fasola." No sooner had they entered the room than Gaspare gently but
firmly placed his arm round his padrone's waist, took his left hand and
began to turn him about in a slow waltz, while Amedeo followed the
example given with Maddalena. Round and round they went among the other
couples. The organ in the corner ground out a wheezy tune. The reed-flute
of the shepherd boy twittered, as perhaps, long ago, on the great
mountain that looked down in the night above the village, a similar flute
twittered from the woods to Empedocles climbing upward for the last time
towards the plume of smoke that floated from the volcano. And then Amedeo
and Gaspare danced together and Maurice's arm was about the waist of
Maddalena.

It was the first time that he had danced with her, and the mutual act
seemed to him to increase their intimacy, to carry them a step forward in
this short and curious friendship which was now, surely, very close to
its end. They did not speak as they danced. Maddalena's face was very
solemn, like the face of one taking part in an important ceremonial. And
Maurice, too, felt serious, even sad. The darkness and heat of the room,
the melancholy with which all the tunes of a grinding organ seem
impregnated, the complicated sounds from the fair outside, from which now
and again the voices of the Roman ice-venders detached themselves, even
the tapping of the heavy boots of the dancers upon the floor of
brick--all things in this hour moved him to a certain dreariness of the
spirit which was touched with sentimentality. This fair day was coming to
an end. He felt as if everything were coming to an end.

Every dog has his day. The old saying came to his mind. "Every dog has
his day--and mine is over."

He saw in the dimness of the room the face of Hermione at the railway
carriage window. It was the face of one on the edge of some great
beginning. But she did not know. Hermione did not know.

The dance was over. Another was formed, a country dance. Again Maurice
was Maddalena's partner. Then came "La Fasola," in which Amedeo proudly
showed forth his well-known genius and Gaspare rivalled him. But Maurice
thought it was not like the tarantella upon the terrace before the house
of the priest. The brilliancy, the gayety of that rapture in the sun were
not present here among farewells. A longing to be in the open air under
the stars came to him, and when at last the grinding organ stopped he
said to Gaspare:

"I'm going outside. You'll find me there when you've finished dancing."

"Va bene, signorino. In a quarter of an hour the fireworks will be
beginning."

"And then we must start off at once."

"Si, signore."

The organ struck up again and Amedeo took hold of Gaspare by the waist.

"Maddalena, come out with me."

She followed him. She was tired. Festivals were few in her life, and the
many excitements of this long day had told upon her, but her fatigue was
the fatigue of happiness. They sat down on a wooden bench set against the
outer wall of the house. No one else was sitting there, but many people
were passing to and fro, and they could see the lamps round the "Musica
Leoncavallo," and hear it fighting and conquering the twitter of the
shepherd boy's flute and the weary wheezing of the organ within the
house. A great, looming darkness rising towards the stars dominated the
humming village. Etna was watching over the last glories of the fair.

"Have you been happy to-day, Maddalena?" Maurice asked.

"Si, signore, very happy. And you?"

He did not answer.

"It will all be very different to-morrow," he said.

He was trying to realize to-morrow, but he could not.

"We need not think of to-morrow," Maddalena said.

She arranged her skirt with her hands, and crossed one foot over the
other.

"Do you always live for the day?" Maurice asked her.

She did not understand him.

"I do not want to think of to-morrow," she said. "There will be no fair
then."

"And you would like always to be at the fair?"

"Si, signore, always."

There was a great conviction in her simple statement.

"And you, signorino?"

She was curious about him to-night.

"I don't know what I should like," he said.

He looked up at the great darkness of Etna, and again a longing came to
him to climb up, far up, into those beech forests that looked towards the
Isles of Lipari. He wanted greater freedom. Even the fair was prison.

"But I think," he said, after a pause--"I think I should like to carry
you off, Maddalena, up there, far up on Etna."

He remembered his feeling when he had put his arms round her in the
dance. It had been like putting his arms round ignorance that wanted to
be knowledge. Who would be Maddalena's teacher? Not he. And yet he had
almost intended to have his revenge upon Salvatore.

"Shall we go now?" he said. "Shall we go off to Etna, Maddalena?"

"Signorino!"

She gave a little laugh.

"We must go home after the fireworks."

"Why should we? Why should we not take the donkeys now? Gaspare is
dancing. Your father is playing cards. No one would notice. Shall we?
Shall we go now and get the donkeys, Maddalena?"

But she replied:

"A girl can only go like that with a man when she is married."

"That's not true," he said. "She can go like that with a man she loves."

"But then she is wicked, and the Madonna will not hear her when she
prays, signorino."

"Wouldn't you do anything for a man you really loved? Wouldn't you forget
everything? Wouldn't you forget even the Madonna?"

She looked at him.

"Non lo so."

It seemed to him that he was answered.

"Wouldn't you forget the Madonna for me?" he whispered, leaning towards
her.

There was a loud report close to them, a whizzing noise, a deep murmur
from the crowd, and in the clear sky above Etna the first rocket burst,
showering down a cataract of golden stars, which streamed towards the
earth, leaving trails of fire behind them.

The sound of the grinding organ and of the shepherd boy's flute ceased in
the dancing-room, and the crowd within rushed out into the market-place.

"Signorino! Signorino! Come with me! We cannot see properly here! I know
where to go. There will be wheels of fire, and masses of flowers, and a
picture of the Regina Margherita. Presto! Presto!"

Gaspare had hold of Maurice by the arm.

"E' finito!" Maurice murmured.

It seemed to him that the last day of his wild youth was at an end.

"E' finito!" he repeated.

But there was still an hour.

And who can tell what an hour will bring forth?

XVII

It was nearly two o'clock in the morning when Maurice and Gaspare said
good-bye to Maddalena and her father on the road by Isola Bella.
Salvatore had left the three donkeys at Cattaro, and had come the rest of
the way on foot, while Maddalena rode Gaspare's beast.

"The donkey you bought is for Maddalena," Maurice had said to him.

And the fisherman had burst into effusive thanks. But already he had his
eye on a possible customer in Cattaro. As soon as the Inglese had gone
back to his own country the donkey would be resold at a good price. What
did a fisherman want with donkeys, and how was an animal to be stabled on
the Sirens' Isle? As soon as the Inglese was gone, Salvatore meant to put
a fine sum of money into his pocket.

"Addio, signorino!" he said, sweeping off his hat with the wild,
half-impudent gesture that was peculiar to him. "I kiss your hand and I
kiss the hand of your signora."

He bent down his head as if he were going to translate the formal phrase
into an action, but Maurice drew back.

"Addio, Salvatore," he said.

His voice was low.

"Addio, Maddalena!" he added.

She murmured something in reply. Salvatore looked keenly from one to the
other.

"Are you tired, Maddalena?" he asked, with a sort of rough suspicion.

"Si," she answered.

She followed him slowly across the railway line towards the sea, while
Maurice and Gaspare turned their donkeys' heads towards the mountain.

They rode upward in silence. Gaspare was sleepy. His head nodded loosely
as he rode, but his hands never let go their careful hold of the clock.
Round about him his many purchases were carefully disposed, fastened
elaborately to the big saddle. The roses, faded now, were still above his
ears. Maurice rode behind. He was not sleepy. He felt as if he would
never sleep again.

As they drew nearer to the house of the priest, Gaspare pulled himself
together with an effort, half-turned on his donkey, and looked round at
his padrone.

"Signorino!"

"Si."

"Do you think the signora will be asleep?"

"I don't know. I suppose so."

The boy looked wise.

"I do not think so," he said, firmly.

"What--at three o'clock in the morning!"

"I think the signora will be on the terrace watching for us."

Maurice's lips twitched.

"Chi lo sa?" he replied.

He tried to speak carelessly, but where was his habitual carelessness of
spirit, his carelessness of a boy now? He felt that he had lost it
forever, lost it in that last hour of the fair.

"Signorino!"

"Well?"

"Where were you and Maddalena when I was helping with the fireworks?"

"Close by."

"Did you see them all? Did you see the Regina Margherita?"

"Si."

"I looked round for you, but I could not see you."

"There was such a crowd and it was dark."

"Yes. Then you were there, where I left you?"

"We may have moved a little, but we were not far off."

"I cannot think why I could not find you when the fireworks were over."

"It was the crowd. I thought it best to go to the stable without
searching for you. I knew you and Salvatore would be there."

The boy was silent for a moment. Then he said:

"Salvatore was very angry when he saw me come into the stable without
you."

"Why?"

"He said I ought not to have left my padrone."

"And what did you say?"

"I told him I would not be spoken to by him. If you had not come in just
then I think there would have been a baruffa. Salvatore is a bad man, and
always ready with his knife. And he had been drinking."

"He was quiet enough coming home."

"I do not like his being so quiet."

"What does it matter?"

Again there was a pause. Then Gaspare said:

"Now that the signora has come back we shall not go any more to the Casa
delle Sirene, shall we?"

"No, I don't suppose we shall go any more."

"It is better like that, signorino. It is much better that we do not go."

Maurice said nothing.

"We have been there too often," added Gaspare. "I am glad the signora has
come back. I am sorry she ever went away."

"It was not our fault that she went," Maurice said, in a hard voice like
that of a man trying to justify something, to defend himself against some
accusation. "We did not want the signora to go."

"No, signore."

Gaspare's voice sounded almost apologetic. He was a little startled by
his padrone's tone.

"It was a pity she went," he continued. "The poor signora----"

"Why is it such a pity?" Maurice interrupted, almost roughly, almost
suspiciously. "Why do you say 'the poor signora'?"

Gaspare stared at him with open surprise.

"I only meant----"

"The signora wished to go to Africa. She decided for herself. There is no
reason to call her the poor signora."

"No, signore."

The boy's voice recalled Maurice to prudence.

"It was very good of her to go," he said, more quietly. "Perhaps she has
saved the life of the sick signore by going."

"Si, signore."

Gaspare said no more, but as they rode up, drawing ever nearer to the
bare mountain-side and the house of the priest, Maurice's heart
reiterated the thought of the boy. Why had Hermione ever gone? What a
madness it had all been, her going, his staying! He knew it now for a
madness, a madness of the summer, of the hot, the burning south. In this
terrible quiet of the mountains, without the sun, without the laughter
and the voices and the movement of men, he understood that he had been
mad, that there had been something in him, not all himself, which had run
wild, despising restraint. And he had known that it was running wild, and
he had thought to let it go just so far and no farther. He had set a
limit of time to his wildness and its deeds. And he had set another
limit. Surely he had. He had not ever meant to go too far. And then, just
when he had said to himself "E' finito!" the irrevocable was at hand, the
moment of delirium in which all things that should have been remembered
were forgotten. What had led him? What spirit of evil? Or had he been
led at all? Had not he rather deliberately forced his way to the tragic
goal whither, through all these sunlit days, these starry nights, his
feet had been tending?

He looked upon himself as a man looks upon a stranger whom he has seen
commit a crime which he could never have committed. Mentally he took
himself into custody, he tried, he condemned himself. In this hour of
acute reaction the cool justice of the Englishman judged the passionate
impulse of the Sicilian, even marvelled at it, and the heart of the
dancing Faun cried: "What am I--what am I really?" and did not find the
answer.

"Signorino?"

"Yes, Gaspare."

"When we get to that rock we shall see the house."

"I know."

How eagerly he had looked upward to the little white house on the
mountain on that first day in Sicily, with what joy of anticipation, with
what an exquisite sense of liberty and of peace! The drowsy wail of the
"Pastorale" had come floating down to him over the olive-trees almost
like a melody that stole from paradise. But now he dreaded the turn of
the path. He dreaded to see the terrace wall, the snowy building it
protected. And he felt as if he were drawing near to a terror, and as if
he could not face it, did not know how to face it.

"Signorino, there is no light! Look!"

"The signora and Lucrezia must be asleep at this hour."

"If they are, what are we to do? Shall we wake them?"

"No, no."

He spoke quickly, in hope of a respite.

"We will wait--we will not disturb them."

Gaspare looked down at the parcel he was holding with such anxious care.

"I would like to play the 'Tre Colori,'" he said. "I would like the
first thing the signora hears when she wakes to be the 'Tre Colori.'"

"Hush! We must be very quiet."

The noise made on the path by the tripping feet of the donkeys was almost
intolerable to him. It must surely wake the deepest sleeper. They were
now on the last ascent where the mountain-side was bare. Some stones
rattled downward, causing a sharp, continuous sound. It was answered by
another sound, which made both Gaspare and Maurice draw rein and pull up.

As on that first day in Sicily Maurice had been welcomed by the
"Pastorale," so he was welcomed by it now. What an irony that was to him!
For an instant his lips curved in a bitter smile. But the smile died away
as he realized things, and a strange sadness took hold of his heart. For
it was not the ceramella that he heard in this still hour, but a piano
played softly, monotonously, with a dreamy tenderness that made it surely
one with the tenderness of the deep night. And he knew that Hermione had
been watching, that she had heard him coming, that this was her welcome,
a welcome from the depths of her pure, true heart. How much the music
told him! How clearly it spoke to him! And how its caress flagellated his
bare soul! Hermione had returned expectant of welcome and had found
nothing, and instead of coming out upon the terrace, instead of showing
surprise, vexation, jealous curiosity, of assuming the injured air that
even a good woman can scarcely resist displaying in a moment of acute
disappointment, she sent forth this delicate salutation to him from afar,
the sweetest that she knew, the one she herself loved best.

Tears came into his eyes as he listened. Then he shut his eyes and said
to himself, shuddering:

"Oh, you beast! You beast!"

"It is the signora!" said Gaspare, turning round on his donkey. "She does
not know we are here, and she is playing to keep herself awake."

He looked down at his clock, and his eyes began to shine.

"I am glad the signora is awake!" he said. "Signorino, let us get off the
donkeys and leave them at the arch, and let us go in without any noise."

"But perhaps the signora knows that we are here," Maurice said.

Directly he had heard the music he had known that Hermione was aware of
their approach.

"No, no, signore. I am sure she does not, or she would have come out to
meet us. Let us leave the donkeys!"

He sprang off softly. Mechanically, Maurice followed his example.

"Now, signore!"

The boy took him by the hand and led him on tiptoe to the terrace, making
him crouch down close to the open French window. The "Pastorale" was
louder here. It never ceased, but returned again and again with the
delicious monotony that made it memorable and wove a spell round those
who loved it. As he listened to it, Maurice fancied he could hear the
breathing of the player, and he felt that she was listening, too,
listening tensely for footsteps on the terrace.

Gaspare looked up at him with bright eyes. The boy's whole face was alive
with a gay and mischievous happiness, as he turned the handle at the back
of his clock slowly, slowly, till at last it would turn no more. Then
there tinkled forth to join the "Pastorale" the clear, trilling melody of
the "Tre Colori."

The music in the room ceased abruptly. There was a rustling sound as the
player moved. Then Hermione's voice, with something trembling through it
that was half a sob, half a little burst of happy laughter, called out:

"Gaspare, how dare you interrupt my concert?"

"Signora! Signora!" cried Gaspare, and, springing up, he darted into the
sitting-room.

But Maurice, though he lifted himself up quickly, stood where he was with
his hand set hard against the wall of the house. He heard Gaspare kiss
Hermione's hand. Then he heard her say:

"But, but, Gaspare----"

He took his hand from the wall with an effort. His feet seemed glued to
the ground, but at last he was in the room.

"Hermione!" he said.

"Maurice!"

He felt her strong hands, strong and yet soft like all the woman, on his.

"Cento di questi giorni!" she said. "Ah, but it is better than all the
birthdays in the world!"

He wanted to kiss her--not to please her, but for himself he wanted to
kiss her--but he dared not. He felt that if his lips were to touch
hers--she must know. To excuse his avoidance of the natural greeting he
looked at Gaspare.

"I know!" she whispered. "You haven't forgotten!"

She was alluding to that morning on the terrace when he came up from the
fishing. They loosed their hands. Gaspare set the clock playing again.

"What a beauty!" Hermione said, glad to hide her emotion for a moment
till she and Maurice could be alone. "What a marvel! Where did you find
it, Gaspare--at the fair?"

"Si, signora!"

Solemnly he handed it, still playing brightly, to his padrona, just a
little reluctantly, perhaps, but very gallantly.

"It is for you, signora."

"A present--oh, Gaspare!"

Again her voice was veiled. She put out her hand and touched the boy's
hand.

"Grazie! How sweetly it plays! You thought of me!"

There was a silence till the tune was finished. Then Maurice said:

"Hermione, I don't know what to say. That we should be at the fair the
day you arrived! Why--why didn't you tell me? Why didn't you write?"

"You didn't know, then!"

The words came very quickly, very eagerly.

"Know! Didn't Lucrezia tell you that we had no idea?"

"Poor Lucrezia! She's in a dreadful condition. I found her in the
village."

"No!" Maurice cried, thankful to turn the conversation from himself,
though only for an instant. "I specially told her to stay here. I
specially----"

"Well, but, poor thing, as you weren't expecting me! But I wrote,
Maurice, I wrote a letter telling you everything, the hour we were
coming--"

"It's Don Paolo!" exclaimed Gaspare, angrily. "He hides away the letters.
He lets them lie sometimes in his office for months. To-morrow I will go
and tell him what I think; I will turn out every drawer."

"It is too bad!" Maurice said.

"Then you never had it?"

"Hermione"--he stared at the open door--"you think we should have gone to
the fair if----"

"No, no, I never thought so. I only wondered. It all seemed so strange."

"It is too horrible!" Maurice said, with heavy emphasis. "And Artois--no
rooms ready for him! What can he have thought?"

"As I did, that there had been a mistake. What does it matter now? Just
at the moment I was dreadfully--oh, dreadfully disappointed. I saw
Gaspare at the fair. And you saw me, Gaspare?"

"Si, signora. I ran all the way to the station, but the train had gone."

"But I didn't see you, Maurice. Where were you?"

Gaspare opened his lips to speak, but Maurice did not give him time.

"I was there, too, in the fair."

"But of course you weren't looking at the train?"

"Of course not. And when Gaspare told me, it was too late to do anything.
We couldn't get back in time, and the donkeys were tired, and so----"

"Oh, I'm glad you didn't hurry back. What good would it have done then?"

There was a touch of constraint in her voice.

"You must have thought I should be in bed."

"Yes, we did."

"And so I ought to be now. I believe I am tremendously tired, but--but
I'm so tremendously something else that I hardly know."

The constraint had gone.

"The signora is happy because she is back in my country," Gaspare
remarked, with pride and an air of shrewdness.

He nodded his head. The faded roses shook above his ears. Hermione smiled
at him.

"He knows all about it," she said. "Well, if we are ever to go to
bed----"

Gaspare looked from her to his padrone.

"Buona notte, signora," he said, gravely. "Buona notte, signorino. Buon
riposo!"

"Buon riposo!" echoed Hermione. "It is blessed to hear that again. I do
love the clock, Gaspare."

The boy beamed at her and went reluctantly away to find the donkeys. At
that moment Maurice would have given almost anything to keep him. He
dreaded unspeakably to be alone with Hermione. But it had to be. He must
face it. He must seem natural, happy.

"Shall I put the clock down?" he asked.

He went to her, took the clock, carried it to the writing-table, and put
it down.

"Gaspare was so happy to bring it to you."

He turned. He felt desperate. He came to Hermione and put out his hands.

"I feel so bad that we weren't here," he said.

"That is it!"

There was a sound of deep relief in her voice. Then she had been puzzled
by his demeanor! He must be natural; but how? It seemed to him as if
never in all his life could he have felt innocent, careless, brave. Now
he was made of cowardice. He was like a dog that crawls with its belly to
the floor. He got hold of Hermione's hands.

"I feel--I feel horribly, horribly bad!"

Speaking the absolute truth, his voice was absolutely sincere, and he
deceived her utterly.

"Maurice," she said, "I believe it's upset you so much that--that you are
shy of me."

She laughed happily.

"Shy--of me!"

He tried to laugh, too, and kissed her abruptly, awkwardly. All his
natural grace was gone from him. But when he kissed her she did not know
it; her lips clung to his with a tender passion, a fealty that terrified
him.

"She must know!" he thought. "She must feel the truth. My lips must tell
it to her."

And when at last they drew away from each other his eyes asked her
furiously a question, asked it of her eyes.

"What is it, Maurice?"

He said nothing. She dropped her eyes and reddened slowly, till she
looked much younger than usual, strangely like a girl.

"You haven't--you haven't----"

There was a sound of reserve in her voice, and yet a sound of triumph,
too. She looked up at him again.

"Do you guess that I have something to tell you?" she said, slowly.

"Something to tell me?" he repeated, dully.

He was so intent on himself, on his own evil-doing, that it seemed to him
as if everything must have some connection with it.

"Ah," she said, quickly; "no, I see you weren't."

"What is it?" he asked, but without real interest.

"I can't tell you now," she said.

Gaspare went by the window leading the donkeys.

"Buona notte, signora!"

It was a very happy voice.

"Buona notte, Gaspare. Sleep well."

Maurice caught at the last words.

"We must sleep," he said. "To-morrow we'll--we'll----"

"Tell each other everything. Yes, to-morrow!"

She put her arm through his.

"Maurice, if you knew how I feel!"

"Yes?" he said, trying to make his voice eager, buoyant. "Yes?"

"If you knew how I've been longing to be back! And so often I've thought
that I never should be here with you again, just in the way we were!"

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29 | 30 | 31 | 32