THE FABIANI FAMILY
The walking was easier now. It was blither, too. Hermia's
achievements in a musical way had given her confidence. If Madame
Bordier's defunct niece had been the best _Femme Orchestre_ in the
Eure, there was no reason why Hermia shouldn't fit into her reputation
as comfortably as she fitted into her post-humous garments. Clarissa,
too, jogged along without her bridle, and Markham found little use for
the goad he had whittled to save the use of the halter. The people on
the road looked at them curiously, passed a rough jest, and sent them
on the merrier. Markham had destroyed his road map and now they
followed the _patteran_, leaving their destiny to fortune. In the
late afternoon, on their way through a forest, Clarissa suddenly
halted and, in spite of much urging, refused to go on. Hermia took
the halter and Markham the goad, and after a while they moved slowly
forward, the donkey still protesting. A scurrying in the underbrush,
and several dogs appeared, barking furiously. Their offensiveness
went no further than this, however, and in a moment Markham made out
the bulk of a _roulette_ in the shadows of the wood, the shaggy
specter of a horse, a camp-fire, and a party of caravaners. There was
a strip of carpet laid out near the fire upon which a small figure,
clad only in an undershirt and a pair of faded red trunks, was busily
engaged in wrapping its legs round the back of its neck. The cause of
Clarissa's unhappiness was also apparent; for chained to a sapling
nearby, rolling its great head foolishly from side to side, sat a tame
bear.
There were greetings as the newcomers approached, the dogs were called
off, and a burly man rose and came to the roadside to meet them.
"_Bona jou_," he said, smiling, his teeth milk white under his stringy
black mustache. Markham returned the salutation. The caravaner
glanced at Hermia's costume and swept off his hat.
"You go to Alençon for the fête?" he asked in very bad French.
Markham nodded. It was easier to nod than to explain just now. The
big man smiled again and pointed to the fire with a gesture of
invitation. After a glance at Hermia, in whose face he read
affirmation, Markham assented, and urging the unwilling donkey, he and
Hermia followed their host down the slope and into the glen.
The small figure on the carpet, which had not for one moment ceased its
contortions, now consented to unwind its limbs and stand upright; and
in this position assumed definite form as a slender slip of a girl,
about twelve years of age. A man and a woman with a baby rose and
greeted them. The introductions were formal. They had fallen, it
seems, upon the tender mercies of the Fabiani Family of Famous
Athletes. The big man tapped his huge chest.
"_Moi_!" he announced with pardonable pride. "I am Signor Cleofonte
Fabiani, the world's greatest wrestler and strong man. Here," and he
pointed to the others, "is Signor Luigi Fabiani, the world's greatest
acrobat; there Signora Fabiani, world famous as a juggler and hand
balancer; Signorina Stella Fabiani, the child wonder of the twentieth
century."
He recited this rapidly and with much more assurance than his ordinary
command of French had indicated, giving complexion to the thought, as
did his gestures, that this was his public confession. Not to be
outdone in civility, Markham replied:
"Mademoiselle--" he paused and changed her title to "Madame" (a
discretion which the others acknowledged with nods of the
head)--Madame was Yvonne Deschamps, Premièr lady musician of
the world, who played five separate and distinct musical instruments
at one and the same time--an artist known, as the Signor would perhaps
be aware, from Sicily to Sweden, from Brittany to the Russias.
Hermia bowed.
As for himself, he was Monsieur Philidor, the lightning portrait
artist, of Paris. Likenesses, two francs--soldiers, ten sous.
Signor Fabiani was glad. _Madonna mia!_ It was not often that such
persons met. Would the visitors not join him at a pitcher of Calvados
which was not cooling in the stream?
Markham fastened Clarissa's halter to the wheel of the _roulette_ near
the shaggy horse, and joined Hermia, who was already at her ease by
the fire and playing with the _bambino_. They were a jolly lot and
made a fine plea for Markham's philosophy of content. Signor Fabiani
brought the pitcher from the stream and Luigi cups from the
house-wagon, and there they all sat, as thick as thieves, drinking
healths and wishing one another a prosperous pilgrimage. The Fabiani
family had never been to Alençon. This was one of the few
parts of the world into which their fame had not yet spread. All the
more their profit and glory! _Sacro mento_! They would see what they
would see. He, Cleofonte Fabiani, would snap heavy chains about his
chest. He would put a great stone on his stomach, and, while he
supported himself on his feet and hands, Luigi would break the stone
with a sledge hammer. He, Cleofonte Fabiani, would lift her far above
his head, tossing her to Luigi, who would catch her upon his
shoulders. And the Signora meanwhile would juggle with a piece of
paper, an egg, and a cannonball. _O Jesu_! They should see!
He stopped and looked at Hermia. A _Femme Orchestre_! In all his
travels in Italy he had never seen one. The signora was an _artista_,
though. That was clear. One only had to look at her to see that. He
would listen with delight to her music. And Signor Philidor--would
Signor Philidor do his portrait? He would pay--
He straightened, put his enormous hand upon his chest, elbow out, and
took a dramatic pose of the head. He was wonderful. Markham at once
fetched his sketching materials and drew him, while the others crowded
about, looking over the shoulders of Monsieur Philidor, and watched
the feat accomplished. Not until it was done was Cleofonte permitted
to see. It would spoil the pose.
And then! _Che magnifico pitture_! It was nothing short of a
miracle! The nose perhaps a little shorter--but _Madre Dio_! what
could one expect in twenty minutes! Did not the mustache need a
little smoothing? Upon the morning of the performance it was
Cleofonte's custom to dress it with pomatum. The cap, the earrings,
the mole upon his cheek--everything was as like as possible. _Si_,
Monsieur Philidor was a great artist--a very great artist. He,
Cleofonte Fabiani, said so.
But when Philidor took the sketch from his pad and presented it to
Cleofonte with his compliments, the athlete's delight knew no bounds.
He shoed his teeth, and stood first upon one foot and then upon the
other, the sketch held before him by the very tips of his stubby
fingers. The Signora, relinquishing the _bambino_ to Hermia, looked
over his shoulder, more pleased, even, than he. After that nothing
would do but that the visitors must stay for supper. Nothing much--a
soup, some rye bread, peas, and lettuce, but, if they would
condescend, he, Fabiani, would be highly honored. Hermia accepted
with alacrity. She was hungry again. Markham smiled and glanced up
at the smiling heavens, unfastened Clarissa's pack, and brought out a
roasted chicken cold, a loaf of bread, a new tin pot, and a bag of
coffee, which he brought to the fireside.
The Signora insisted on preparing the meal, so Markham filled his pipe
and helped Hermia to amuse the _bambino_.
"You will pardon?" said Fabiani. "But this is the hour of practice,
while the supper is preparing. Luigi, Stella, we will go on if you
please."
The child rose, rather ruefully, Hermia thought, and took her place
upon the mat, where, under Luigi's direction, she went through the
exercises which were to keep her young limbs supple for the
approaching performances. It was the familiar thing--the slow bending
of the back until the palms of the hands touched the ground, in which
position the child walked backward and forward, the contortions of the
slender body, the "split," the putting of the legs around the neck.
Hermia had seen these acts at the _Variétés_ and at
Madison Square Garden when the circus came, but had seen them at a
great distance, under a blaze of light, as part of a great spectacle
in a performance which went so smoothly that one never gave a thought
to the difficulty of achievement. There in the silent shadows of the
wood, bared of its tinsel and music, the rehearsal took on a different
color. She saw the straining muscles of the child, the beads of
perspiration which stood on her brow, the livid face with its tortured
expression. An exclamation of pity broke from her lips. "Is it not
enough?" she asked. Cleofonte only laughed through his cigarette
smoke. It seemed like a great deal, he said. She had not had her
practice yesterday. It would be still easier to-morrow. And then he
signaled for the performance to be repeated. At last Hermia turned to
the _bambino_ and would look no more. She was tasting life, other
people's, at the springs, as John Markham had promised, and it was not
sweet.
There was a brief rest, after which Luigi and Stella did an acrobatic
performance of tumbling and balancing in which at the end Cleofonte
joined with a masterful air, punctuating the acts with cries and
handclaps, and at the end of each act they all bowed and kissed the
tips of their fingers right and left to the imaginary audience. The
rehearsal ended in applause from the visitors. As for the Signora,
having put the coffee on to boil, she was not nursing the _bambino_.
Cleofonte came up, puffing and blowing and tapping his chest. "The
performance is ended," he exclaimed, "in tricks with Tomasso--that is
the name of my bear--and in great feats of strength, as I have told
you, after which I make my great wrestling challenge, to throw any man
in the world for one hundred francs. _Madre de Dio_! You can be sure
that when they see Luigi break the stone upon me--they are not zealous."
The baby bed and fast asleep, it was put to bed in the wagon and they
all sat at supper. The delight Hermia had taken in her new
acquaintances--Fabiani's bombast, Luigi's grace, and the Signora's
motherly perquisites--had lost some of its spontaneity since she had
seen the expression on the face of the child Stella, when she had gone
through her act of _décarcasse_. It haunted her like the
memory of a bad dream and brought into stronger contrast her own
girlhood in New York, with its nurses and governesses and the
sheltered life she had led under their care and supervision.
And when Stella, her slim figure wrapped in a shabby cloak, came from
the _roulette_ and joined them at the fire, Hermia motioned her to the
place beside her. When she sat, Hermia put an arm around the child
and kissed her softly on the brow. Stella looked up at her timidly
and then put her sinewy brown hand in Hermia's softer ones and there
let it stay. Hermia had made a friend.
Cleofonte looked up from his chicken bone and shook his huge shoulders.
"You are sorry, Signorina? _Jesu mio_! So am I. But what would you
have? One must eat."
"It seems a pity," said Hermia, smiling.
Fabiani shrugged his shoulders and raised his brows to the sky, with
the resignation of the fatalist. "It is life--_voilà tout_."
The soup was of vegetables, for which the Fabiani family had not paid,
but it was none the less nourishing on that account. The chicken, a
luxury, for which for many days the palate of the Fabiani family had
been innocent, was acclaimed with joy and dispatched with magic haste.
The cheese, the rye bread, and the salad were beyond cavil; and the
coffee--of Monsieur Duchanel's best--made all things complete.
The dusk had fallen, velvety and odorous, and the stars came peeping
shyly forth. Fabiani, who for all his braggadocio did not lack a
certain magnificence, had insisted that the visitors remain in camp
for the night. Madame should sleep in the house-wagon with the
Signora Fabiani, Stella and the baby. Were there not two beds? As
for Monsieur Philidor--he knew a man when he saw one. The night was
heaven sent. Monsieur should sleep as he and Luigi slept--_à
la belle étoile_.
Hermia's cover for the night assured, Markham had accepted the
invitation, and now, all care banished for at least twelve hours, they
sat in great good fellowship before the fire, listening to Cleofonte's
tales of the road. They forgave him much for his good heart and at
appropriate moments led in applause of his prowess and achievements.
When the conversation lagged, which it did when Cleofonte grew weary,
Hermia brought forth her _orchestre_ and played for them; first the
tunes she had practiced and afterward, as she gained new confidence in
their appreciation, "Santa Lucia" and "Funiculi, funicula," to which
Cleofonte, who had a soul for concord, roared a fine basso. It was a
night for vagabonds, carefree, a night of laughter, of mirth and of
song. What did it matter what happened on the morrow? Here were
meat, drink and good company. Could any mortal ask for more?
After a time, the din awakening the _bambino_, the Signora went to
bed, and Hermia, her hand in Stella's, followed to the wagon. The
animals fed and watered, Markham settled down by the fire with his
newly found friends and lit a pipe. In a moment Luigi had fallen back
on his blanket and was asleep. Markham was conscious that Fabiani
still talked, but he had already learned that it was not necessary to
make replies, and so he sat, nodding or answering in monosyllables. A
warm breeze sighed in the tree tops, the rill tinkled nearby, and a
night bird called in the distance. The glow of the fire painted the
trunks of the trees which rose in dim majesty to where their branches
held eyrie among the stars. The chains of the bear still clanked as
he rolled to and fro until a gruff "Be silent, thou!" from Cleofonte
brought quiet in that direction. After a while even Cleofonte grew
weary of his own voice, his head fell upon his breast, and he sank
prone and slept.
Markham sat for a long while, his back against the bole of a tree,
pipe in mouth, gazing into the embers of the fire. He had brought the
tarpaulin which covered the donkey's pack, and Cleofonte had provided
him with a blanket, but he seemed to have no desire to sleep. The
smile at his lips indicated that his thoughts were pleasant ones.
Hermia had learned something to-day--would learn something more
to-morrow, and yet she had not flinched from the school in which he
was driving her. If he had thought by hardship to dissuade her from
her venture, it seemed that he had thus far missed his calculations.
Indeed, each new experience seemed only to make her relish the keener.
She was drinking in impressions avidly, absorbing the new life as a
sponge absorbs water, differing from this only in the particular that
her capacity for retention had no limitations. He smiled because it
pleased him to think that his judgment of her character had not been
at fault. Hers was a brave soul, not easily daunted or discouraged,
better worthy of this life which was teaching its stoicism, charity
and self-abnegation than of that other life which denied by
self-sufficiency their very existence--a gallant spirit which for once
soared free of the worldly, venal and time-serving. It pleased him to
think it was by his means that she had been bought into his valley of
contentment and that thus far she had found it pleasant. Would the
humor last?
Fabiani snored, as he did everything, from the depths of his being,
and Luigi, in the shadows, echoed him nobly. Markham looked toward
the _roulette_. The lantern which had burned there a while ago had
been extinguished. Strangely enough, although it was his custom to be
much alone, Markham wanted company. He wished at least that Hermia
had bade him good night. It was curious how quickly one fell into the
habit of gregariousness. He and Hermia had fared together but for one
day, and yet he already felt a sort of material dependence upon her
presence. It was the habit of interdependence, of course--he
recognized it, the same habit which led men and women in droves to the
cities, to herd in the back streets of the slums when the clean vales
of the open country awaited them, sweet with the smells of shrub and
clover, where one could lie at one's length and look up as one should
at the stars, lulled by the song of the stream or the whistle of the
south wind in the-- His head nodded and his pipe dropped from his
teeth. Heigho! he had almost been asleep.
He rose and spread his tarpaulin upon the ground. As he did so a dry
twig cracked nearby, a dog growled, and presently a small phantom
emerged from the shadows. It was Hermia, with a finger laid upon her
lips in token of silence.
"Couldn't you sleep?" he whispered.
"No. It was a pity to crowd them, so when Stella got to sleep I came
away."
He laid a log upon the fire, and made a place for her beside him.
"It was very nice of you," he whispered. "To tell the truth, I wanted
you."
"Then I'm glad I came. I shall sleep here, by the fire, if you don't
mind."
"You're not afraid of the damp?"
"I never take colds."
She smiled at the prostrate Cleofonte, whose stertorous breathing
shattered the silences.
"He is so much in earnest about everything," she laughed.
"Aren't you tired?" he asked. "You've had a hard day."
"Yes--a little. But I don't feel like sleeping."
"Nor I--but you'd better sleep, you've been up since dawn."
"What time is it?" she inquired.
He looked at his watch. "There is no time in Vagabondia. The birds
have been asleep a long while. But if you must know--it's half-past
nine."
"Only that?" in surprise. "We've turned time backward, haven't we?"
"Of life forward," he paused and then: "You are still willing to go
on?" he asked.
She smiled into the fire.
"I am," quietly. "I'm committed irrevocably."
"To me?"
"Oh, no. To myself, _mon ami_. You are merely my recording angel."
"A vagabond angel--"
"Or an angel vagabond. I haven't disappointed you?"
He laughed softly, but made no reply. Of a truth, she had not.
"I was just thinking what a pity it was that during all these years
your gifts have been so prodigally wasted. You have, I think, the
greatest gift of all."
"And what is that?"
"The talent for living."
"Have I? Then I've learned it to-day. I _have_ lived to-day, John,"
she whispered. "I _have_ lived every hour of it." She watched the
yellow rope of smoke which rose from the damp log. "The talent for
living!" she mused. "I never thought of that."
"Yes, it's a talent, a fine art; but you've got to have your root in
the soil, Hermia--unless you're an orchid."
"That's it, I know. But I'm not an orchid any longer."
Markham rose and knocked his pipe out.
"No," he smiled, "you're a night-blooming cereus--and so am I. You
must remember that in this world the darkness was made for sleep, dawn
for waking. The birds know that. So does Cleofonte. Therefore, you,
too, child, shall sleep--and at once."
He raised the tarpaulin, scraped the ground free of twigs and stones,
and then laid it back carefully, fetching his overcoat for a pillow.
"_Voilà_, Mademoiselle, your sheets have been airing all day.
I hope you fill find the mattress to your liking."
"But--where will you sleep?"
"Here; nearby--in Cleofonte's blanket."
She drew her long coat around her.
"You're a masterful person," she laughed. "What would happen if I
refused to obey?"
"An immovable object would encounter an irresistible force."
She smiled and stretched herself out. He bent forward and laid the
loose end of the cover over her.
"Good night, child. As a reward of obedience, you shall dream of a
porcelain bath tub and a tooth brush."
She smiled, and, fishing in the pocket of her coat, drew out a small
object wrapped in paper.
"It's the only thing I've saved from the wreck of my
respectability--but the porcelain bath tub! Don't temp me."
He turned away and picked up Fabiani's blanket.
"Good night, Hermia," he said.
"Good night."
"Pleasant dreams."
"And you--good night."
"Good night."