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.