Complete Works of D.H. Lawrence

by D. H. Lawrence

  “Te voila donc!” she said, without expression. “Allons boire un café, hé? Let us go and drink some coffee.” She had now put an inflection of tenderness into her voice. But her eyes were black with anger. Ciccio smiled slowly, the slow, fine, stupid smile, and turned to walk alongside.

  Madame said nothing as they went. Geoffrey passed on his bicycle, calling out that he would go straight to Woodhouse.

  When the three sat with their cups of coffee, Madame pushed up her veil just above her eyes, so that it was a black band above her brows. Her face was pale and full like a child’s, but almost stonily expressionless, her eyes were black and inscrutable. She watched both Ciccio and Alvina with her black, inscrutable looks.

  “Would you like also biscuits with your coffee, the two of you?” she said, with an amiable intonation which her strange black looks belied.

  “Yes,” said Alvina. She was a little flushed, as if defiant, while Ciccio sat sheepishly, turning aside his ducked head, the slow, stupid, yet fine smile on his lips.

  “And no more trouble with Max, hein? — you Ciccio?” said Madame, still with the amiable intonation and the same black, watching eyes. “No more of these stupid scenes, hein? What? Do you answer me.

  “No more from me,” he said, looking up at her with a narrow, catlike look in his derisive eyes.

  “Ho? No? No more? Good then! It is good! We are glad, aren’t we, Miss Houghton, that Ciccio has come back and there are to be no more rows? — hein? — aren’t we?”

  “_I’m_ awfully glad,” said Alvina.

  “Awfully glad — yes — awfully glad! You hear, you Ciccio. And you remember another time. What? Don’t you? Hé”

  He looked up at her, the slow, derisive smile curling his lips. “Sure,” he said slowly, with subtle intonation.

  “Yes. Good! Well then! Well then! We are all friends. We are all friends, aren’t we, all the Natcha-Kee-Tawaras? Hé? What you think? What you say?”

  “Yes,” said Ciccio, again looking up at her with his yellow, glinting eyes.

  “All right! All right then! It is all right — forgotten — ” Madame sounded quite frank and restored. But the sullen watchfulness in her eyes, and the narrowed look in Ciccio’s, as he glanced at her, showed another state behind the obviousness of the words. “And Miss Houghton is one of us! Yes? She has united us once more, and so she has become one of us.” Madame smiled strangely from her blank, round white face.

  “I should love to be one of the Natcha-Kee-Tawaras,” said Alvina.

  “Yes — well — why not? Why not become one? Why not? What you say, Ciccio? You can play the piano, perhaps do other things. Perhaps better than Kishwégin. What you say, Ciccio, should she not join us? Is she not one of us?”

  He smiled and showed his teeth but did not answer.

  “Well, what is it? Say then? Shall she not?”

  “Yes,” said Ciccio, unwilling to commit himself.

  “Yes, so I say! So I say. Quite a good idea! We will think of it, and speak perhaps to your father, and you shall come! Yes.”

  So the two women returned to Woodhouse by the tram-car, while Ciccio rode home on his bicycle. It was surprising how little Madame and Alvina found to say to one another.

  Madame effected the reunion of her troupe, and all seemed pretty much as before. She had decided to dance the next night, the Saturday night. On Sunday the party would leave for Warsall, about thirty miles away, to fulfil their next engagement.

  That evening Ciccio, whenever he had a moment to spare, watched Alvina. She knew it. But she could not make out what his watching meant. In the same way he might have watched a serpent, had he found one gliding in the theatre. He looked at her sideways, furtively, but persistently. And yet he did not want to meet her glance. He avoided her, and watched her. As she saw him standing, in his negligent, muscular, slouching fashion, with his head dropped forward, and his eyes sideways, sometimes she disliked him. But there was a sort of finesse about his face. His skin was delicately tawny, and slightly lustrous. The eyes were set in so dark, that one expected them to be black and flashing. And then one met the yellow pupils, sulphureous and remote. It was like meeting a lion. His long, fine nose, his rather long, rounded chin and curling lips seemed refined through ages of forgotten culture. He was waiting: silent there, with something muscular and remote about his very droop, he was waiting. What for? Alvina could not guess. She wanted to meet his eye, to have an open understanding with him. But he would not. When she went up to talk to him, he answered in his stupid fashion, with a smile of the mouth and no change of the eyes, saying nothing at all. Obstinately he held away from her. When he was in his war-paint, for one moment she hated his muscular, handsome, downward-drooping torso: so stupid and full. The fine sharp uprightness of Max seemed much finer, clearer, more manly. Ciccio’s velvety, suave heaviness, the very heave of his muscles, so full and softly powerful, sickened her.

  She flashed away angrily on her piano. Madame, who was dancing Kishwégin on the last evening, cast sharp glances at her. Alvina had avoided Madame as Ciccio had avoided Alvina — elusive and yet conscious, a distance, and yet a connection.

  Madame danced beautifully. No denying it, she was an artist. She became something quite different: fresh, virginal, pristine, a magic creature flickering there. She was infinitely delicate and attractive. Her braves became glamorous and heroic at once, and magically she cast her spell over them. It was all very well for Alvina to bang the piano crossly. She could not put out the glow which surrounded Kishwégin and her troupe. Ciccio was handsome now: without war-paint, and roused, fearless and at the same time suggestive, a dark, mysterious glamour on his face, passionate and remote. A stranger — and so beautiful. Alvina flashed at the piano, almost in tears. She hated his beauty. It shut her apart. She had nothing to do with it.

  Madame, with her long dark hair hanging in finely-brushed tresses, her cheek burning under its dusky stain, was another creature. How soft she was on her feet. How humble and remote she seemed, as across a chasm from the men. How submissive she was, with an eternity of inaccessible submission. Her hovering dance round the dead bear was exquisite: her dark, secretive curiosity, her admiration of the massive, male strength of the creature, her quivers of triumph over the dead beast, her cruel exultation, and her fear that he was not really dead. It was a lovely sight, suggesting the world’s morning, before Eve had bitten any white-fleshed apple, whilst she was still dusky, dark-eyed, and still. And then her stealthy sympathy with the white prisoner! Now indeed she was the dusky Eve tempted into knowledge. Her fascination was ruthless. She kneeled by the dead brave, her husband, as she had knelt by the bear: in fear and admiration and doubt and exultation. She gave him the least little push with her foot. Dead meat like the bear! And a flash of delight went over her, that changed into a sob of mortal anguish. And then, flickering, wicked, doubtful, she watched Ciccio wrestling with the bear.

  She was the clue to all the action, was Kishwégin. And her dark braves seemed to become darker, more secret, malevolent, burning with a cruel fire, and at the same time wistful, knowing their end. Ciccio laughed in a strange way, as he wrestled with the bear, as he had never laughed on the previous evenings. The sound went out into the audience, a soft, malevolent, derisive sound. And when the bear was supposed to have crushed him, and he was to have fallen, he reeled out of the bear’s arms and said to Madame, in his derisive voice:

  “Vivo sempre, Madame.” And then he fell.

  Madame stopped as if shot, hearing his words: “I am still alive, Madame.” She remained suspended motionless, suddenly wilted. Then all at once her hand went to her mouth with a scream:

  “The Bear!”

  So the scene concluded itself. But instead of the tender, half-wistful triumph of Kishwégin, a triumph electric as it should have been when she took the white man’s hand and kissed it, there was a doubt, a hesitancy, a nullity, and Max did not quite know what to do.

  After the performance, neither Madame nor Max
dared say anything to Ciccio about his innovation into the play. Louis felt he had to speak — it was left to him.

  “I say, Cic’ — ” he said, “why did you change the scene? It might have spoiled everything if Madame wasn’t such a genius. Why did you say that?”

  “Why,” said Ciccio, answering Louis’ French in Italian, “I am tired of being dead, you see.”

  Madame and Max heard in silence.

  When Alvina had played God Save the King she went round behind the stage. But Ciccio and Geoffrey had already packed up the property, and left. Madame was talking to James Houghton. Louis and Max were busy together. Mr. May came to Alvina.

  “Well,” he said. “That closes another week. I think we’ve done very well, in face of difficulties, don’t you?”

  “Wonderfully,” she said.

  But poor Mr. May spoke and looked pathetically. He seemed to feel forlorn. Alvina was not attending to him. Her eye was roving. She took no notice of him.

  Madame came up.

  “Well, Miss Houghton,” she said, “time to say good-bye, I suppose.”

  “How do you feel after dancing?” asked Alvina.

  “Well — not so strong as usual — but not so bad, you know. I shall be all right — thanks to you. I think your father is more ill than I. To me he looks very ill.”

  “Father wears himself away,” said Alvina.

  “Yes, and when we are no longer young, there is not so much to wear. Well, I must thank you once more — ”

  “What time do you leave in the morning?”

  “By the train at half-past ten. If it doesn’t rain, the young men will cycle — perhaps all of them. Then they will go when they like — ”

  “I will come round to say good-bye — ” said Alvina.

  “Oh no — don’t disturb yourself — ”

  “Yes, I want to take home the things — the kettle for the bronchitis, and those things — ”

  “Oh thank you very much — but don’t trouble yourself. I will send Ciccio with them — or one of the others — ”

  “I should like to say good-bye to you all,” persisted Alvina. Madame glanced round at Max and Louis.

  “Are we not all here? No. The two have gone. No! Well! Well what time will you come?”

  “About nine?”

  “Very well, and I leave at ten. Very well. Then au revoir till the morning. Good-night.”

  “Good-night,” said Alvina. Her colour was rather flushed.

  She walked up with Mr. May, and hardly noticed he was there. After supper, when James Houghton had gone up to count his pennies, Alvina said to Miss Pinnegar:

  “Don’t you think father looks rather seedy, Miss Pinnegar?”

  “I’ve been thinking so a long time,” said Miss Pinnegar tartly. “What do you think he ought to do?”

  “He’s killing himself down there, in all weathers and freezing in that box-office, and then the bad atmosphere. He’s killing himself, that’s all.”

  “What can we do?”

  “Nothing so long as there’s that place down there. Nothing at all.” Alvina thought so too. So she went to bed.

  She was up in time, and watching the clock. It was a grey morning, but not raining. At five minutes to nine, she hurried off to Mrs. Rollings. In the back yard the bicycles were out, glittering and muddy according to their owners. Ciccio was crouching mending a tire, crouching balanced on his toes, near the earth. He turned like a quick-eared animal glancing up as she approached, but did not rise.

  “Are you getting ready to go?” she said, looking down at him. He screwed his head round to her unwillingly, upside down, his chin tilted up at her. She did not know him thus inverted. Her eyes rested on his face, puzzled. His chin seemed so large, aggressive. He was a little bit repellent and brutal, inverted. Yet she continued:

  “Would you help me to carry back the things we brought for Madame?”

  He rose to his feet, but did not look at her. He was wearing broken cycling shoes. He stood looking at his bicycle tube.

  “Not just yet,” she said. “I want to say good-bye to Madame. Will you come in half an hour?”

  “Yes, I will come,” he said, still watching his bicycle tube, which sprawled nakedly on the floor. The forward drop of his head was curiously beautiful to her, the straight, powerful nape of the neck, the delicate shape of the back of the head, the black hair. The way the neck sprang from the strong, loose shoulders was beautiful. There was something mindless but intent about the forward reach of his head. His face seemed colourless, neutral-tinted and expressionless.

  She went indoors. The young men were moving about making preparations.

  “Come upstairs, Miss Houghton!” called Madame’s voice from above. Alvina mounted, to find Madame packing.

  “It is an uneasy moment, when we are busy to move,” said Madame, looking up at Alvina as if she were a stranger.

  “I’m afraid I’m in the way. But I won’t stay a minute.”

  “Oh, it is all right. Here are the things you brought — ” Madame indicated a little pile — ”and thank you very much, very much. I feel you saved my life. And now let me give you one little token of my gratitude. It is not much, because we are not millionaires in the Natcha-Kee-Tawara. Just a little remembrance of our troublesome visit to Woodhouse.”

  She presented Alvina with a pair of exquisite bead moccasins, woven in a weird, lovely pattern, with soft deerskin soles and sides.

  “They belong to Kishwégin, so it is Kishwégin who gives them to you, because she is grateful to you for saving her life, or at least from a long illness.”

  “Oh — but I don’t want to take them — ” said Alvina.

  “You don’t like them? Why?”

  “I think they’re lovely, lovely! But I don’t want to take them from you — ”

  “If I give them, you do not take them from me. You receive them. He?” And Madame pressed back the slippers, opening her plump jewelled hands in a gesture of finality.

  “But I don’t like to take these,” said Alvina. “I feel they belong to Natcha-Kee-Tawara. And I don’t want to rob Natcha-Kee-Tawara, do I? Do take them back.”

  “No, I have given them. You cannot rob Natcha-Kee-Tawara in taking a pair of shoes — impossible!”

  “And I’m sure they are much too small for me.”

  “Ha!” exclaimed Madame. “It is that! Try.”

  “I know they are,” said Alvina, laughing confusedly.

  She sat down and took off her own shoe. The moccasin was a little too short — just a little. But it was charming on the foot, charming.

  “Yes,” said Madame. “It is too short. Very well. I must find you something else.”

  “Please don’t,” said Alvina. “Please don’t find me anything. I don’t want anything. Please!”

  “What?” said Madame, eyeing her closely. “You don’t want? Why? You don’t want anything from Natcha-Kee-Tawara, or from Kishwégin? He? From which?”

  “Don’t give me anything, please,” said Alvina.

  “All right! All right then. I won’t. I won’t give you anything. I can’t give you anything you want from Natcha-Kee-Tawara.”

  And Madame busied herself again with the packing.

  “I’m awfully sorry you are going,” said Alvina.

  “Sorry? Why? Yes, so am I sorry we shan’t see you any more. Yes, so I am. But perhaps we shall see you another time — he? I shall send you a post-card. Perhaps I shall send one of the young men on his bicycle, to bring you something which I shall buy for you. Yes? Shall I?”

  “Oh! I should be awfully glad — but don’t buy — ” Alvina checked herself in time. “Don’t buy anything. Send me a little thing from Natcha-Kee-Tawara. I love the slippers — ”

  “But they are too small,” said Madame, who had been watching her with black eyes that read every motive. Madame too had her avaricious side, and was glad to get back the slippers. “Very well — very well, I will do that. I will send you some small thing from Natcha-K
ee-Tawara, and one of the young men shall bring it. Perhaps Ciccio? Hé?”

  “Thank you so much,” said Alvina, holding out her hand. “Goodbye. I’m so sorry you’re going.”

  “Well — well! We are not going so very far. Not so very far. Perhaps we shall see each other another day. It may be. Good-bye!”

  Madame took Alvina’s hand, and smiled at her winsomely all at once, kindly, from her inscrutable black eyes. A sudden unusual kindness. Alvina flushed with surprise and a desire to cry.

  “Yes. I am sorry you are not with Natcha-Kee-Tawara. But we shall see. Good-bye. I shall do my packing.”

  Alvina carried down the things she had to remove. Then she went to say good-bye to the young men, who were in various stages of their toilet. Max alone was quite presentable.

  Ciccio was just putting on the outer cover of his front tire. She watched his brown thumbs press it into place. He was quick and sure, much more capable, and even masterful, than you would have supposed, seeing his tawny Mediterranean hands. He spun the wheel round, patting it lightly.

  “Is it finished?”

  “Yes, I think.” He reached his pump and blew up the tire. She watched his softly-applied force. What physical, muscular force there was in him. Then he swung round the bicycle, and stood it again on its wheels. After which he quickly folded his tools.

  “Will you come now?” she said.

  He turned, rubbing his hands together, and drying them on an old cloth. He went into the house, pulled on his coat and his cap, and picked up the things from the table.

  “Where are you going?” Max asked.

  Ciccio jerked his head towards Alvina.

  “Oh, allow me to carry them, Miss Houghton. He is not fit — ” said Max.

  True, Ciccio had no collar on, and his shoes were burst.

  “I don’t mind,” said Alvina hastily. “He knows where they go. He brought them before.”

  “But I will carry them. I am dressed. Allow me — ” and he began to take the things. “You get dressed, Ciccio.”