The Call of the Blood - Page 203/317

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.