With these folk dances began what has been known ever since as the
Dramatic Movement in Addington. On this first night the proudly
despairing ticket-seller began to repeat by seven o'clock: "Every seat
taken." Many stood and more were turned away. But the families of the
sons and daughters who were dancing were clever enough to come early,
and filled the body of the hall. Jeff was among them. He, too, had gone
early, with Anne and Lydia, to carry properties and help them with the
stage. And when he wasn't needed behind the scenes, he went out and sat
among the gay contingent from Mill End, magnificent creatures by
physical inheritance, the men still rough round the edges from the day's
work, but the women gay in shawls and beads and shiny combs. Andrea was
there and bent forward until Jeff should recognise him, and again Jeff
realised that smiles lit up the place for him. Even the murmured name
ran round among the rows. They were telling one another, here was The
Prisoner. Whatever virtue there was in being a prisoner, it had earned
him adoring friends.
He sat there wondering over it, and conventional Addington came in
behind and took the vacant places. Jeff was glad not to be among them.
He didn't want their sophisticated views. This wasn't a pageant for
critical comment. It was Miss Amabel's pathetic scheme for bringing the
East and the West together and, in an exquisite hospitality, making the
East at home.
But when the curtain went up, he opened his eyes to the scene and
ceased thinking of philanthropy and Miss Amabel. Here was beauty, the
beauty of grace and traditionary form. They were dancing the tarantella.
Jeff had seen it in Italy, more than one night after the gay little
dinners Esther had loved to arrange when they were abroad. She had
refused all the innocent bohemianisms of foreign travel; she had taken
her own atmosphere of expensive conventionalities with her, and they had
seen Europe through that medium. In all their travelling they had never
touched racial intimacies. They were like a prince and princess convoyed
along in a royal progress, seeing only what is fitting for royal eyes to
see. The tarantella then was no more than an interlude in a play.
To-night it was no such spectacle. Jeff, who had a pretty imagination of
his own, felt hot waves of homesickness for the beauties of foreign
lands, and yet not those lands as he had seen them unrolled for the
perusal of the traveller. He sat in a dream of the heaven of beauty that
lies across the sea, and he felt toward the men who had left it to come
here to better themselves a compassion in the measure of his compassion
for himself. How bare his own life had been, even when the world opened
before him her illuminated page! He had not really enjoyed these
exquisite delights of hers; he had not even prepared himself for
enjoying. He had kept his eyes fixed on the game that ensures mere
luxury, and he had let Esther go out into the market and buy for them
both the only sort of happiness her eyes could see. He loved this
dancing rout. He envied these boys and girls their passion and facility.
They were, the most ignorant of them, of another stripe from arid New
Englanders encased in their temperamental calm, the women, in a
laughable self-satisfaction, leading the intellectual life and their men
set on "making good". The poorest child of the East and South had an
inheritance that made him responsive, fluent, even while it left him
hot-headed and even froward. There was something, he saw, in this idea
of the melting-pot, if only the mingling could be managed by gods that
saw the future. You couldn't make a wonder of a bell if you poured your
metal into an imperfect mould. The mould must be flawless and the metal
cunningly mixed; and then how clear the tone, how resonant! It wasn't
the tarantella only that led him this long wandering. It was the quality
of the dancers; and through all the changing steps and measures Anne and
Lydia, too, were moving, Lydia a joyous leader in the temperamental rush
and swing.
Mrs. Choate, stately in dark silk and lace and quite unlike the
revolutionary matron who had lain in bed and let her soul loose with the
"Mysteries of Paris," sat between her son and daughter and was silent
though she grew bright-eyed. Mary whispered to her:
"Anne looks very sweet, doesn't she? but not at all like a dancer."
"Sweet," said the mother.
"Anne doesn't belong there, does she?" said Alston.
"No," said the mother. "Lydia does."
"Yes."
Alston, too, was moved by the spectacle, but he thought dove-like Anne
far finer in the rout than gipsy Lydia. His mother followed his thoughts
exactly, but while she placidly agreed, it was Lydia she inwardly
envied, Lydia who had youth and a hot heart and not too much scruple to
keep her from giving each their way.
When it was over, Jeff waited for Anne and Lydia, to carry home their
parcels. He stood for a moment beside Andrea, and Andrea regarded him
with that absurd devotion he exuded for The Prisoner. Jeff smiled at him
even affectionately, though quizzically. He wished he knew what picture
of him was under Andrea's skull. A sudden impulse seized him to make the
man his confidant.
"Andrea," said he, "I want you fellows to act plays with me."
Andrea looked enchanted.
"What play?" he asked.
"Shakespeare," said Jeff. "In English. That's your language, Andrea, if
you're going to live here."
Andrea's face died into a dull denial. A sort of glaze even seemed to
settle over the surface of his eyes. He gave a perfunctory grunt, and
Jeff caught him up on it.
"Won't she allow it?" he hazarded. "Madame Beattie?"
Andrea was really caught and quite evidently relieved, too, if Jeff
understood so well. He smiled again. His eyes took on their wonted
shining. Jeff, relying on Anne's and Lydia's delay, stayed not an
instant, but ran out of the side door and along to the front where
Madame Beattie, he knew, was making a stately progress, accepting
greetings in a magnificent calm. He got to the door as she did, and she
gave him the same royal recognition. She was dressed in black, her head
draped with lace, and she really did look a distinguished personage. But
Jeff was not to be put off with a mere greeting. He called her name.
"You may take me home," she said.
"I can't," said Jeff ruthlessly, when he had got her out of earshot.
"I'm going to carry things for Anne."
"No, you're not." She put her hand through his arm and leaned heavily
and luxuriously. "Good Lord, Jeff, why can't New Englanders dance like
those shoemakers' daughters? What is it in this climate that dries up
the blood?"
"Madame Beattie," said Jeff, "you've got to give away the game. You've
got to tell me how you've hypnotised every man Jack of those people
there to-night so they won't do a reasonable thing I ask 'em unless
they've had your permission."
"What do you want to do?" But she was pleased. There was somebody under
her foot.
"I want to rehearse some plays in English. And I gather from the leader
of the clan--"
"Andrea?"
"Yes, Andrea. They won't do it unless you tell them to."
"Of course they won't," said Madame Beattie.
"Then why won't they? What's your infernal spell?"
"It's the spell of the East. And you can't tempt them with anything that
comes out of the West."
"Their food comes out of the West," said Jeff, smarting.
"Oh, that! Well, that's about all you can give them. That's what they
come for."
"All of them? Good God!"
"Not good God at all. Don't you know what a man is led by? His belly.
But they don't all come for that. Some come for--" She laughed, a rather
cackling laugh.
"What?" Jeff asked her sternly. He shook her arm involuntarily.
"Freedom. That's talked about still. And a lot of demagogues like your
Weedon Moore get hold of 'em and debauch 'em and make 'em drunk."
"Drunk?"
"No, no. Not on liquor. Better if they did. But they tell 'em they're
gods and all they've got to do is to climb up on a throne and crown
themselves."
"Then why won't you," said Jeff, in wrath, "let me knock something else
into their heads. You can't do it by facts. There aren't many facts
just now that aren't shameful. Why can't you let me do it by poetry?"
Madame Beattie stopped in the street and gazed up at the bright heaven.
She was remembering how the stars looked in Italy when she was young and
sure her voice would sound quite over the world. She seldom challenged
the stars now, they moved her so, in an almost terrible way. What had
she made of life, they austerely asked her, she who had been driven by
them to love and all the excellencies of youth? But then, in answer, she
would ask them what they had done for her.
"Jeff," said she, "you couldn't do it in a million years. They'll do
anything for me, because I bring their own homes to them, but they
couldn't make themselves over, even for me."
"They like me," said Jeff, "for some mysterious reason."
"They like you because I've told them to."
"I don't believe it." But in his heart he did.
"Jeff," said she, "life isn't a matter of fact, it's a matter of
feeling. You can't persuade men and women born in Italy and Greece and
Syria and Russia that they're happy in this little bare town. It doesn't
smell right to them. Their hearts are somewhere else. And they want
nothing so much in the world as to get a breath from there or hear a
story or see somebody that's lived there. Lived--not stayed in a
_pension_."
"Do they feel so when they've seen their sisters and cousins and aunts
carved up into little pieces there?" Jeff asked scoffingly. But she was
hypnotising him, too. He could believe they did.
"What have you to offer 'em, Jeff, besides wages and a prospect of not
being assassinated? That's something, but by God! it isn't everything."
She swore quite simply because out in the night even in the straight
street of a New England town she felt like it and was carelessly willing
to abide by the chance of God's objecting.
"But I don't see," said Jeff, "why you won't let me have my try at it."
He was waiting for her to signify her readiness to go on, and now she
did.
"Because now, Jeff, they do think you're a god. If they saw you trying
to produce the Merchant of Venice they'd be bored and they wouldn't
think so any more."
"Have you any objection," said Jeff, "to my trying to produce the
Merchant of Venice with English-speaking children of foreigners?"
"Not a grain," said Madame Beattie cordially. "There's your chance. Or
you can get up a pageant, if you like-, another summer. But you'll have
to let these people act their own historic events in their own way. And,
Jeff, don't be a fool." They were standing before her door and Esther at
the darkened window above was looking down on them. Esther had not gone
to the dances because she knew who would be there. She told herself she
was afraid of seeing Jeff and because she had said it often enough she
believed it. "Tell Lydia to come to see me to-morrow," said Madame
Beattie. Sophy had opened the door. It came open quite easily now since
the night Madame Beattie had called Esther's name aloud in the street.
Jeff took off his hat and turned away. He did not mean to tell Lydia.
She saw enough of Madame Beattie, without instigation.