REVERIES
Florence had not lost herself in the forest. Though she had not the
slightest notion what shore she stood on at the time she brought the
gypsy child back to life, she experienced little difficulty in finding
her way back to her cabin.
Two hours had not elapsed when once more she sat before her own fire,
drinking strong coffee and relating her adventure to Jeanne.
“But the poor gypsy child!” Jeanne exclaimed as she finished. “Out in
such weather. And after such an adventure!”
“Their camp must have been very near,” replied Florence. “And you know
well enough that the gypsies can arrange a cozy camp out of less than
nothing at all.”
“Oh yes, yes, surely that is so!” exclaimed the little French girl.
“But how unkind fate is.” Her tone changed. She became sad. “Here I am
pining my heart away for one look at some gypsy friends. And all I see is
three tiny twigs they have touched, their patteran, while you, who care
so little, meet them at every turn.”
“When the storm is over,” Florence sought to console her, “we will row
over to that island where we saw their camp. Perhaps they are still
there.”
“They will not be.” Jeanne refused to be comforted. “Always they are on
the move. When one meets them, the proper thing to say is, ‘Where do you
come from to-day? Where do you go to-morrow?’
“How strange these gypsies are!” Jeanne mused after a moment of silence.
“Always they are on islands and on points of land where there are no
roads. They travel by water. Water gypsies. How quite novel that is! And
yet, in southern France there are some such people. There are villages
where all the fisher-folk are gypsies. Brave and daring seamen they are,
too.
“Ah, yes, very brave. You must not think that gypsies are cowards.
Gypsies fought in the great war, fought and died. Ah, yes! So you see
this beautiful story of the stage, this play in which I am to have so
wonderful a part, this tale of gypsies in war, is not without its
parallel in life.”
At that she lapsed into silence. She was thinking again of that night,
which each sunset found a day nearer, when on an American stage, before
many hundreds of people, she should dance the gypsy tarantella on a
miniature battlefield beneath the light of an imaginary moon.
At such times as this, Florence loved to watch the changes that passed
over Jeanne’s face. As she imagined herself in the wings, awaiting her
cue, a look of uncertainty, almost of fear, was written there. As, still
in her imagination, she stepped out to face her audience, a wistful
expression banished fear. After that, as she entered into the compelling
rhythm of the dance, came complete transformation. Her face, warmed as if
by the mellow light of the morning sun, became the face of a Madonna.
“I only hope,” Florence thought to herself, “that the play proves a great
success. It means so much to her. And she is so kind-hearted, so
unspoiled. She has lost so much; has so much to win.”
“Listen to the rain!” cried Jeanne. “Who would believe it could come down
so hard?”
“Three days’ rain. That’s what the old timers say it will be. We have so
little time to spend here. And there is so much that might be done.”
Florence sighed.
“Do you know,” she spoke again, after watching the glow of the fire and
listening to the steady patter-patter on the roof, “living in a place
like this affects me strangely.”
She stretched herself full length in the great cedar chair. “I feel as if
I had always lived here, never been out of the woods; as if I were very
poor, ignorant and strong. I find it hard to believe that I have warm,
soft, bright garments of fine spun cotton and silk. It is as if my
garments had always been of brown homespun, my boots of coarsest leather,
my hat of rain-proof stuff; as if I tramped days and days over miles of
trail that would weary city-dwellers, but can only bring fresh joy to the
one of browned features and brawny limbs.
“And why not?” she cried with some passion, sitting up quite abruptly.
“Why not a cabin like this, and peace? In winter the trap line, a long,
long tramp in high boots through drifted snow. A weasel pelt here, a mink
there, and by this pond muskrat skins.
“And out over the lake’s four foot ice, far across the frozen inland sea
to Goose Island. There a fish shanty, a hole in the ice, twenty fathoms
of line and a rich catch of lake trout and sturgeon. Why not always at
night the crackling fire, the bacon and corn bread eaten with a relish
because one is truly hungry?
“Why not? No worry about room rent, a run in a silk stocking or a frayed
Sunday dress. Why not always boots of cowhide and coats of canvas that do
not wear out?”
“Oh! but after all you are a girl,” smiled Petite Jeanne.
“In this day,” said Florence with great emphasis, “that does not matter.
All that matters is that I am as strong as a man; that if I choose I can
follow a man’s trap line or fish in a man’s shanty over the frozen lake.”
“That is not all.” The French girl’s tone was quiet, full of assurance.
“Women are born with a desire for beauty, softness and color. We live for
that which we see and touch; your eye catches the glorious red, the
orange, the blue of a gown, and it enchants you. Is it not so?”
“Yes, but here at the edge of the lake we have the sunset. What could be
more gorgeous?
“Ah! But that you cannot touch.
“Did you never note?” Jeanne’s tone grew serious. “Did you never come to
realize how much we live for the sense of touch? A scarf of silken gold
is held out before you. You say, ‘Let me see it.’ But you hold out a
hand. Why? You wish to touch it. You have missed a friend for a long
time. She returns. Your hands, your lips, meet. Why? Because you are not
happy until you have touched the one you love.
“No, no, Miss Florence! This is very wonderful, very peaceful. It is so
very grand. But after all, it is only for now.
“To-morrow, next day, sometime very soon you are going to hear the call
of the city, to feel its pull at your heart. All the bright lights, the
colors, the shouts, the throngs will call to you. And you will go. For
there, after all, is life. Life—beautiful, rushing, throbbing life. That,
my dear friend, is a city. It is found nowhere else.”
Leaping from her chair, the little French girl went whirling across the
floor in her fantastic dance. She danced herself quite out of the cabin
and out into the rain, leaving Florence to meditate upon her strange
words, to conclude that Jeanne was more than half right, then to spring
suddenly to her feet, crying:
“Come back here, Petite Jeanne! Come back right now. You will die of
pneumonia.”
“Ever hear of a sprite dying of pneumonia?” Jeanne’s eyes were as full of
laughter as her golden locks were of water, as she came dancing back.
“You’re not a sprite,” said Florence. “Even if you were one, who had
taken human form, I’d have to keep you human until that play had its
run.”
“Oh! the blessed play!” said the French girl contritely, at the same time
snatching at her drenched garments. “How one does hate being in training
for anything.”
Ten minutes later, wrapped in a white, woolly blanket, she sat toasting
before a fire. At this moment everything, past and future, was forgotten
in the glorious now.