The whining Breton bagpipe droned in my ears; the dancers flew past; laughter and cries arose from the tables in the square where the curate of St. Julien stood, forefinger wagging, soundly rating an intoxicated but apologetic Breton in the costume of Faöuet.
I was tired — tired of it all; weary of costumes and strange customs, weary of strange tongues, of tinsel and mummers, and tarnished finery; sick of the sawdust and the rank stench of beasts — and the vagabond life — and the hopeless end of it all — the shabby end of a useless life — a death at last amid strangers! Soldiers in red breeches, peasants in embroidered jackets, strolling mountebanks all tinselled and rouged — they were all one to me.... I wanted my own land.... I wanted my own people.... I wanted to go home ... home! — and die, when my time came, under the skies I knew as a child,... under that familiar moon which once silvered my nursery windows....
I turned away across the bridge out into the dark road. Long before I came to the smoky, silent camp I heard the monotonous roaring of my lions, pacing their shadowy dens.
XVII
THE CIRCUS
A little after sunrise on the day set for our first performance, Speed sauntered into my dressing-room in excellent humor, saying that not only had the village of Paradise already filled up with the peasantry of Finistère and Morbihan, but every outlying hamlet from St. Julien to Pont Aven was overflowing; that many had even camped last night along the roadside; in short, that the country was unmistakably aroused to the importance of the Anti-Prussian Republican circus and the Flying Mermaid of Ker-Ys.
I listened to him almost indifferently, saying that I was very glad for the governor’s sake, and continued to wash a deep scratch on my left arm, using salt water to allay the irritation left by Aïcha’s closely pared claws — the vixen.
But the scratch had not poisoned me; I was in fine physical condition; rehearsals had kept us all in trim; our animals, too, were in good shape; and the machinery started without a creak when, an hour later, Byram himself opened the box-office at the tent-door and began to sell tickets to an immense crowd for the first performance, which was set for two o’clock that afternoon.
I had had an unpleasant hour’s work with the lions, during which Marghouz, a beast hitherto lazy and docile, had attempted to creep behind me. Again I had betrayed irritation; again the lions saw it, understood it, and remembered. Aïcha tore my sleeve; when I dragged Timour Melek’s huge jaws apart he endured the operation patiently, but as soon as I gave the signal to retire he sprang snarling to the floor, mane on end, and held his ground, just long enough to defy me. Poor devils! Who but I knew that they were right and I was wrong! Who but I understood what lack of freedom meant to the strong — meant to caged creatures, unrighteously deprived of liberty! Though born in captivity, wild things change nothing; they sleep by day, walk by night, follow as well as they can the instincts which a caged life cannot crush in them, nor a miserable, artificial existence obliterate.
They are right to resist.
I mentioned something of this to Speed as I was putting on my coat to go out, but he only scowled at me, saying: “Your usefulness as a lion-tamer is ended, my friend; you are a fool to enter that cage again, and I’m going to tell Byram.”
“Don’t spoil the governor’s pleasure now,” I said, irritably; “the old man is out there selling tickets with both hands, while little Griggs counts receipts in a stage whisper. Let him alone, Speed; I’m going to give it up soon, anyway — not now — not while the governor has a chance to make a little money; but soon — very soon. You are right; I can’t control anything now — not even myself. I must give up my lions, after all.”
“When?” said Speed.
“Soon — I don’t know. I’m tired — really tired. I want to go home.”
“Home! Have you one?” he asked, with a faint sneer of surprise.
“Yes; a rather extensive lodging, bounded east and west by two oceans, north by the lakes, south by the gulf. Landlord’s a relation — my Uncle Sam.” 282
“Are you really going home, Scarlett?” he asked, curiously.
“I have nothing to keep me here, have I?”
“Not unless you choose to settle down and ... marry.”
I looked at him; presently my face began to redden; and, “What do you mean?” I asked, angrily.
He replied, in a very mild voice, that he did not mean anything that might irritate me.
I said, “Speed, don’t mind my temper; I can’t seem to help it any more; something has changed me, something has gone wrong.”
“Perhaps something has gone right,” he mused, looking up at the flying trapeze, where Jacqueline swung dangling above the tank, watching us with sea-blue eyes.
After a moment’s thought I said: “Speed, what the devil do you mean by that remark?”
“Now you’re angry again,” he said, wearily.
“No, I’m not. Tell me what you mean.”
“Oh, what do you imagine I mean?” he retorted. “Do you think I’m blind? Do you suppose I’ve watched you all these years and don’t know you? Am I an ass, Scarlett? Be fair; am I?”
“No; not an ass,” I said.
“Then let me alone — unless you want plain speaking instead of a bray.”
“I do want it.”
“Which?”
“You know; go on.”
“Am I to tell you the truth?”
“As you interpret it — yes.”
“Very well, my friend; then, at your respectful request, I beg to inform you that you are in love with Madame de Vassart — and have been for months.”
I did not pretend surprise; I knew he was going to say it. Yet it enraged me that he should think it and say it.
“You are wrong,” I said, steadily.
“No, Scarlett; I am right.”
“You are wrong,” I repeated.
“Don’t say that again,” he retorted. “If you do not know it, you ought to. Don’t be unfair; don’t be cowardly. Face it, man! By Heaven, you’ve got to face it some time — here, yonder, abroad, on the ocean, at home — no matter where, you’ve got to face it some day and tell yourself the truth!”
His words hurt me for a moment; then, as I listened, that strange apathy once more began to creep over me. Was it really the truth he had told me? Was it? Well — and then? What meaning had it to me?... Of what help was it?... of what portent?... of what use?... What door did it unlock? Surely not the door I had closed upon myself so many years ago!
Something of my thoughts he may have divined as I stood brooding in the sunny tent, staring listlessly at my own shadow on the floor, for he laid his hand on my shoulder and said: “Surely, Scarlett, if happiness can be reborn in Paradise, it can be reborn here. I know you; I have known you for many years. And in all that time you have never fallen below my ideal!”
“What are you saying, Speed?” I asked, rousing from my lethargy to shake his hand from my shoulder.
“The truth. In all these years of intimacy, familiarity has never bred contempt in me; I am not your equal in anything; it does not hurt me to say so. I have watched you as a younger brother watches, lovingly, jealous yet proud of you, alert for a failing or a weakness which I never found — or, if I thought I found a flaw in you, knowing that it was but part of a character too strong, too generous for me to criticise.” 284
“Speed,” I said, astonished, “are you talking about me — about me — a mountebank — and a failure at that? You know I’m a failure — a nobody—” I hesitated, touched by his kindness. “Your loyalty to me is all I have. I wish it were true that I am such a man as you believe me to be.”
“It is true,” he said, almost sullenly. “If it were not, no man would say it of you — though a woman might. Listen to me, Scarlett. I tell you that a man shipwrecked on the world’s outer rocks — if he does not perish — makes the better pilot afterwards.”
“But ... I perished, Speed.”
“It is not true,” he said, violently; “bu
t you will if you don’t steer a truer course than you have. Scarlett, answer me!”
“Answer you? What?”
“Are you in love?”
“Yes,” I said.
He waited, looked up at me, then dropped his hands in his pockets and turned away toward the interior of the tent where Jacqueline, having descended from the rigging, stood, drawing her slim fingers across the surface of the water in the tank.
I walked out through the tent door, threading my way among the curious crowds gathered not only at the box-office, but even around the great tent as far as I could see. Byram hailed me with jovial abandon, perspiring in his shirt-sleeves, silk hat on the back of his head; little Grigg made one of his most admired grimaces and shook the heavy money-box at me; Horan waved his hat above his head and pointed at the throng with a huge thumb. I smiled at them all and walked on.
Cloud and sunshine alternated on that capricious November morning; the sea-wind was warm; the tincture of winter had gone. On that day, however, I saw wavering strings of wild ducks flying south; and the little hedge-birds of different kinds were already flocking amiably together in twittering bands that filled the leafless blackthorns on the cliffs; — true prophets, all, of that distant cold, gathering somewhere in the violet north.
I walked fast across the moors, as though I had a destination. And I had; yet when I understood it I sheered off, only to turn again and stare fascinated in the direction of the object that frightened me.
There it rose against the seaward cliffs, the little tower of Trécourt farm, sea-smitten and crusted, wind-worn, stained, gray as the lichened rocks scattered across the moorland. Over it the white gulls pitched and tossed in a windy sky; beyond crawled the ancient and wrinkled sea.
“It is a strange thing,” I said aloud, “to find love at the world’s edge.” I looked blindly across the gray waste. “But I have found it too late.”
The wind blew furiously; I heard the gulls squealing in the sky, the far thunder of the surf.
Then, looking seaward again, for the first time I noticed that the black cruiser was gone, that nothing now lay between the cliffs and the hazy headland of Groix save a sheet of lonely water spreading league on league to meet a flat, gray sky.
Why had the cruiser sailed? As I stood there, brooding, to my numbed ears the moor-winds bore a sound coming from a great distance — the sound of cannon — little, soft reports, all but inaudible in the wind and the humming undertone of the breakers. Yet I knew the sound, and turned my unquiet eyes to the sea, where nothing moved save the far crests of waves.
For a while I stood listening, searching the sea, until a voice hailed me, and I turned to find Kelly Eyre almost at my elbow. 286
“There is a man in the village haranguing the people,” he said, abruptly. “We thought you ought to know.”
“A man haranguing the people,” I repeated. “What of it?”
“Speed thinks the man is Buckhurst.”
“What!” I cried.
“There’s something else, too,” he said, soberly, and drew a telegram from his pocket.
I seized it, and studied the fluttering sheet:
“The governor of Lorient, on complaint of the mayor of Paradise, forbids the American exhibition, and orders the individual Byram to travel immediately to Lorient with his so-called circus, where a British steamship will transport the personnel, baggage, and animals to British territory. The mayor of Paradise will see that this order of expulsion is promptly executed.
“(Signed) Breteuil.
“Chief of Police.”
“Where did you get that telegram?” I asked.
“It’s a copy; the mayor came with it. Byram does not know about it.”
“Don’t let him know it!” I said, quickly; “this thing will kill him, I believe. Where is that fool of a mayor? Come on, Kelly! Stay close beside me.” And I set off at a swinging pace, down the hollow, out across the left bank of the little river, straight to the bridge, which we reached almost on a run.
“Look there!” cried my companion, as we came in sight of the square.
The square was packed with Breton peasants; near the fountain two cider barrels had been placed, a plank thrown across them, and on this plank stood a man holding a red flag.
The man was John Buckhurst.
When I came nearer I could see that he wore a red scarf across his breast; a little nearer and I could hear his passionless voice sounding; nearer still, I could distinguish every clear-cut word:
“Men of the sea, men of that ancient Armorica which, for a thousand years, has suffered serfdom, I come to you bearing no sword. You need none; you are free under this red flag I raise above you.”
He lifted the banner, shaking out the red folds.
“Yet if I come to you bearing no sword, I come with something better, something more powerful, something so resistless that, using it as your battle-cry, the world is yours!
“I come bearing the watchword of world-brotherhood — Peace, Love, Equality! I bear it from your battle-driven brothers, scourged to the battlements of Paris by the demons of a wicked government! I bear it from the devastated towns of the provinces, from your homeless brothers of Alsace and Lorraine.
“Peace, Love, Equality! All this is yours for the asking. The commune will be proclaimed throughout France; Paris is aroused, Lyons is ready, Bordeaux watches, Marseilles waits!
“You call your village Paradise — yet you starve here. Let this little Breton village be a paradise in truth — a shrine for future happy pilgrims who shall say: ‘Here first were sewn the seeds of the world’s liberty! Here first bloomed the perfect flower of universal brotherhood!”
He bent his sleek, gray head meekly, pausing as though in profound meditation. Suddenly he raised his head; his tone changed; a faint ring of defiance sounded under the smooth flow of words.
He began with a blasphemous comparison, alluding to the money-changers in the temple — a subtle appeal to righteous violence.
“It rests with us to cleanse the broad temple of our country and drive from it the thieves and traitors who enslave us! How can we do it? They are strong; we are weak. Ah, but are they truly strong? You say they have armies? Armies are composed of men. These men are your brothers, whipped forth to die — for what? For the pleasure of a few aristocrats. Who was it dragged your husbands and sons away from your arms, leaving you to starve? The governor of Lorient. Who is he? An aristocrat, paid to scourge your husbands and children to battle — paid, perhaps, by Prussia to betray them, too!”
A low murmur rose from the people. Buckhurst swept the throng with colorless eyes.
“Under the commune we will have peace. Why? Because there can be no hunger, no distress, no homeless ones where the wealth of all is distributed equally. We will have no wars, because there will be nothing to fight for. We will have no aristocrats where all must labor for the common good; where all land is equally divided; where love, equality, and brotherhood are the only laws—”
“Where’s the mayor?” I whispered to Eyre.
“In his house; Speed is with him.”
“Come on, then,” I said, pushing my way around the outskirts of the crowd to the mayor’s house.
The door was shut and the blinds drawn, but a knock brought Speed to the door, revolver in hand.
“Oh,” he said, grimly, “it’s time you arrived. Come in.”
The mayor was lying in his arm-chair, frightened, sulky, obstinate, his fat form swathed in a red sash.
“O-ho!” I said, sharply, “so you already wear the colors of the revolution, do you?”
“Dame, they tied it over my waistcoat,” he said, “and there are no gendarmes to help me arrest them—”
“Never mind that just now,” I interrupted; “what I want to know is why you wrote the governor of Lorient to expel our circus.” 289
“That’s my own affair,” he snapped; “besides, who said I wrote?”
“Idiot,” I said, “somebody paid you to do it.
Who was it?”
The mayor, hunched up in his chair, shut his mouth obstinately.
“Somebody paid you,” I repeated; “you would never have complained of us unless somebody paid you, because our circus is bringing money into your village. Come, my friend, that was easy to guess. Now let me guess again that Buckhurst paid you to complain of us.”
The mayor looked slyly at me out of the corner of his mottled eyes, but he remained mute.
“Very well,” said I; “when the troops from Lorient hear of this revolution in Paradise, they’ll come and chase these communards into the sea. And after that they’ll stand you up against a convenient wall and give you thirty seconds for absolution—”
“Stop!” burst out the mayor, struggling to his feet. “What am I to do? This gentleman, Monsieur Buckhurst, will slay me if I disobey him! Besides,” he added, with cowardly cunning, “they are going to do the same thing in Lorient, too — and everywhere — in Paris, in Bordeaux, in Marseilles — even in Quimperlé! And when all these cities are flying the red flag it won’t be comfortable for cities that fly the tricolor.” He began to bluster. “I’m mayor of Paradise, and I won’t be bullied! You get out of here with your circus and your foolish elephants! I haven’t any gendarmes just now to drive you out, but you had better start, all the same — before night.”
“Oh,” I said, “before night? Why before night?”
“Wait and see then,” he muttered. “Anyway, get out of my house — d’ ye hear?”
“We are going to give that performance at two o’clock this afternoon,” I said. “After that, another to-morrow at the same hour, and on every day at the same hour, as long as it pays. Do you understand?”
Works of Robert W Chambers Page 191