IX

“Prancing Nigger, I t’ink it bery strange, dat Madame Ruiz, she nebba

call.”

“Sh’o.”

“In August-Town, S’ciety less stuck-up dan heah!”

Ensconced in rocking-chairs, in the shade of the ample porch of the

Villa Vista Hermosa, Mr. and Mrs. Mouth had been holding a desultory

_tête-à-tête_.

It was a Sabbath evening, and a sound of reedy pipes and bafalons, from

a neighbouring café, filled with a feverish sadness the brilliantly

lamp-lit street.

“De airs ob de nabehs, dat dair affair, what matter mo’, am de

chillen’s schoolin’.”

“Prancing Nigger, I hope your Son an’ Daughters will yet take dair

Degrees, an’ if not from de University, den from Home. From heah.”

“Hey-ho-day, an’ dat would be a miracle!” Mr. Mouth mirthlessly laughed.

“Dose chillens hab learnt quite a lot already.”

“’Bout de shaps an’ cynemas!”

Mrs. Mouth disdained a reply.

She had taken the girls to the gallery at the Opera one night to hear

“Louise,” but they had come out, by tacit agreement, in the middle

of it: the plainness of Louise’s blouse, and the lack of tunes ...

added to which, the suffocation of the gallery.... And--once bit twice

shy--they had not gone back again.

“All your fambly need, Prancing Nigger, is social opportunity! But what

is de good ob de Babtist parson?”

Mr. Mouth sketched a gesture.

“Sh’o, Edna, she some young yet.... But Miami dat _distinguée_; an’,

doh I her mother, b’lieb me dat is one ob de choicest girls I see; an

’dat’s de trute.”

“It queer,” Mr. Mouth abstrusely murmured, “how many skeeter-bugs dair

are ’bout dis ebenin’!”

“De begonias in de window-boxes most lik’ly draw dem. But as I was

saying, Prancing Nigger, I t’ink it bery strange dat Madame Ruiz nebba

call.”

“P’raps, she out ob town.”

“Accordin’ to de paper, she bin habing her back painted, but what dat

fo’ I dunno.”

“Ah shouldn’t wonder ef she hab some trouble ob a dorsal kind; same as

me gramma mumma long agone.”

“Dair’d be no harm in sendin’ one ob de chillens to enquire. Wha’ you

t’ink, sah?” Mrs. Mouth demanded, plucking from off the porch a pale

hanging flower with a languorous scent.

Mr. Mouth glanced apprehensively skyward.

The mutters of thunder and intermittent lightning of the finest nights.

“It’s a misfortnit we eber left Mediavilla,” he exclaimed uneasily, as

a falling star, known as a thief star, sped swiftly down the sky.

“Prancing Nigger,” Mrs. Mouth rose, remarking, “befo’ you start to

grummle, I leab you alone to your Jereymiads!”

“A misfortnit sho’ nuff,” he mused, and regret for the savannah

country, and the tall palm-trees of his village, oppressed his heart.

Moreover, his means (derived from the cultivation of the _Musa

paradisica_, or Banana) seemed likely to prove erelong inadequate

to support the whims of his wife, who after a lifetime of contented

nudity, appeared to be now almost insatiable for dress.

A discordant noise from above interrupted the trend of his thoughts.

“Sh’o, she plays wid it like a toy,” he sighed, as the sound occurred

again.

“Prancing Nigger, de water-supply cut off!”

“It’s de Lord’s will.”

“Dair’s not a drop, my lub, in de privy.”

“’Cos it always in use!”

“I b’lieb dat lil half-caste Ibum, ’cos I threaten to gib him notice,

do somet’in’ out ob malice to de chain.”

“Whom de Lord loveth, He chasteneth!” Mr. Mouth observed, “an’ dose

bery words (ef you look) you will find in de twelfth chapter, an’ de

sixth berse ob de Book ob Hebrews.”

“Prancing Nigger, you datways selfish! Always t’inkin ’ob your soul,

instead ob your obligations towards de fambly.”

“Why, wha’ mo’ can I do dan I’ve done?”

Mrs. Mouth faintly shrugged.

“I had hoped,” she said, “dat Nini would hab bin ob use to de girls,

but dat seem now impossible!” For Mrs. Snagg had been traced to a house

of ill-fame, where, it appeared, she was an exponent of the Hodeidah--a

lascive Cunan dance.

“Understand dat any sort ob intimacy ’tween de Villa an’ de _Closerie

des Lilas_ Ah must flatly forbid.”

“Prancing Nigger, as ef I should take your innocent chillens to call on

po’ Nini; not dat eberyt’ing about her at de _Closerie_ is not elegant

an’ nice. Sh’o, some ob de inmates ob dat establishment possess mo’

diamonds dan dair betters do outside! You’d be surprised ef you could

see what two ob de girls dair, Dinah an’ Lew....”

“Enuf!”

“It isn’t always Virtue, Prancing Nigger, dat come off best!” And Mrs.

Mouth might have offered further observations on the matter of ethics,

had not her husband left her.

X

Past the Presidency and the public park, the Theatres Maxine Bush,

Eden-Garden, and Apollo, along the Avenida, and the Jazz Halls by the

wharf, past little suburban shops, and old, deserted churchyards where

bloom geraniums, through streets of squalid houses, and onward skirting

pleasure lawns and orchards, bibbitty-bobbitty, beneath the sovereign

brightness of the sky, the Farananka tram crawled along.

Surveying the landscape listlessly through the sticks of her fan, Miss

Edna Mouth grew slightly bored--alas, poor child; couldst thou have

guessed the blazing brightness of thy Star, thou wouldst doubtless have

been more alert!

“Sh’o, it dat far an’ tejus,” she observed to the conductor, lifting

upon him the sharp-soft eyes of a parroquet.

She was looking bewitching in a frock of silverish _mousseleine_ and a

violet tallyho cap, and dangled upon her knees an intoxicating sheaf of

blossoms, known as Marvel of Peru.

“Hab patience, lil Missey, an’ we soon be dah.”

* * * * *

“He tells me, dear child, he tells me,” Madame Ruiz was rounding a

garden path, upon the arm of her son, “he tells me, Vitti, that the

systole and diastole of my heart’s muscles are slightly inflamed; and

that I ought, darling, to be _very_ careful....”

Followed by a handsome borzoi, and the pomeranian Snob, the pair were

taking their usual post-prandial exercise beneath the trees.

“Let me come, Mother, dear,” he murmured without interrupting, “over

the other side of you; I always like to be on the right side of my

profile!”

“And, really, since the affair of Madame de Bazvalon, my health has

hardly been what it was.”

“That foolish little woman,” he uncomfortably laughed.

“He tells me my nerves need rest,” she declared, looking pathetically

up at him.

He had the nose of an actress, and ink-black hair streaked with gold,

his eyes seemed to be covered with the freshest of fresh dark pollen,

while nothing could exceed the vivid pallor of his cheeks, or the

bright sanguine of his mouth.

“You go out so much, Mother.”

“Not so much!”

“So very much.”

“And he forbids me my opera-box for the rest of the week! So last night

I sat at home, dear child, reading the Life of Lazarillo de Tormes.”

“I don’t give a damn,” he said, “for any of your doctors.”

“So vexing, though; and apparently Lady Bird has been at death’s door,

and poor Peggy Povey too. It seems she got wet on the way to the Races;

and really I was _sorry_ for her when I saw her in the paddock; for

the oats and the corn, and the wheat and the tares, and the barley

and the rye, and all the rest of the reeds and grasses in her pretty

Lancret hat, looked like nothing so much as manure.”

“I adore to folly her schoolboy’s moustache!”

“My dear, Age is the one disaster,” Madame Ruiz remarked, raising the

rosy dome of her sunshade a degree higher above her head.

They were pacing a walk radiant with trees and flowers as some

magician’s garden, that commanded a sweeping prospect of long, livid

sands, against a white green sea.

“There would seem to be several new yachts, darling,” Madame Ruiz

observed.

“The Duke of Wellclose with his duchess (on their wedding-tour) arrived

with the tide.”

“Poor man; I’m told that he only drove to the church after thirty

brandies!”

“And the _Sea-Thistle_, with Lady Violet Valesbridge, and, _oh_, such a

crowd.”

“She used to be known as ‘The Cat of Curzon Street,’ but I hear she is

still quite incredibly pretty,” Madame Ruiz murmured, turning to admire

a somnolent peacock, with moping fan, poised upon the curved still arm

of a marble mænad.

“How sweet something smells.”

“It’s the China lilies.”

“I believe it’s my handkerchief ...” he said.

“Vain wicked boy; ah, if you would but decide, and marry some nice,

intelligent girl.”

“I’m too young yet.”

“You’re _twenty-six_!”

“And past the age of folly-o,” he made airy answer, drawing from his

breast-pocket a flat, jewel-encrusted case, and lighting a cigarette.

“Think of the many men, darling, of twenty-six....” Madame Ruiz broke

off, focusing the fruit-bearing summit of a slender arecia palm.

“Foll-foll-folly-o!” he laughed.

“I think I’m going in.”

“Oh, why?”

“Because,” Madame Ruiz repressed a yawn, “because, dear, I feel

armchairish.”

With a kiss of the finger tips (decidedly distinguished hands had

Vittorio Ruiz), he turned away.

Joying frankly in excess, the fiery noontide hour had a special charm

for him.

It was the hour, to be sure, of “the Fawn!”

“Aho, Ahi, Aha!” he carolled, descending half-trippingly a few white

winding stairs, that brought him upon a fountain. Palms, with their

floating fronds, radiating light, stood all around.

It was here “the creative mood” would sometimes take him, for he

possessed no small measure of talent of his own.

His _Three Hodeidahs_, and _Five Phallic Dances for Pianoforte and

Orchestra_, otherwise known as “Suite in Green,” had taken the whole

concert world by storm, and, now, growing more audacious, he was

engaged upon an opera to be known, by and by, as _Sumaïa_.

“Ah Atthis, it was Sappho who told me--” tentatively he sought an air.

A touch of banter there.

“_Ah Atthis_--” One must make the girl feel that her little secret is

out ...; quiz her; but let her know, and pretty plain, that the Poetess

had been talking....

“Ah Atthis--”

But somehow or other the lyric mood to-day was obdurate, and not to be

persuaded.

“I blame the oysters! After oysters--” he murmured, turning about to

ascertain what was exciting the dogs.

She was coming up the drive with her face to the sun, her body shielded

behind a spreading bouquet of circumstance.

“It’s all right; they’ll not hurt you.”

“Sh’o, I not afraid!”

“Tell me who it is you wish to see.”

“Mammee send me wid dese flowehs....”

“Oh! But how scrumptious.”

“It strange how dey call de bees; honeybees, sweat-bees, bumble-bees

an’ all!” she murmured, shaking the blossoms into the air.

“That’s only natural,” he returned, his hand falling lightly to her arm.

“Madame Ruiz is in?”

“She is: but she is resting; and something tells me,” he suavely added,

indicating a grassy bank, “you might care to repose yourself too.”

And indeed after such a long and rambling course, she was glad to

accept.

“De groung’s as soft as a cushom,” she purred, sinking with nonchalance

to the grass.

“You’d find it,” he said, “even softer, if you’ll try it nearer me.”

“Dis a mighty pretty place!”

“And you--” but he checked his tongue.

“Fo’ a villa so grand, dair must be mo’ dan one privy?”

“Some six, or seven!”

“Ours is broke.”

“You should get it mended.”

“De aggervatines’!” she wriggled.

“Tell me about them.”

And so, not without digressions, she unfolded her life.

“Then you, Charlie, and Mimi are here, dear, to study?”

“As soon as de University is able to receibe us; but dair’s a waiting

list already dat long.”

“And what do you do with all your spare time?”

“Goin’ round de shops takes up some ob it. An’ den ob course, dair’s de

Cinés. Oh, I love de Lara. We went last night to see _Souls in Hell_.”

“I’ve not been!”

“Oh it was choice.”

“Was it? Why?”

“De scene ob dat story,” she told him, “happen foreign; ’way crost de

big watteh, on de odder side ob de world ... an’ de principal gal, she

merried to a man who neglect her (ebery ebenin’ he go to pahtys an’

biars), while all de time his wife she sit at home wid her lil pickney

at her breas’. But dair anodder gemplum (a friend ob de fambly) an’

he afiah to woe her; but she only shake de head, slowly, from side to

side, an’ send dat man away. Den de hubsom lose his fortune, an’, oh,

she dat ’stracted, she dat crazed ... at last, she take to gamblin,’

but dat only make t’ings worse. Den de friend ob de fambly come back,

an’ offer to pay all de expenses ef only she unbend: so she cry, an’

she cry, ’cos it grieb her to leab her pickney to de neglect ob de

serbants (dair was three ob dem, an old buckler, a boy, an’ a cook),

but, in de end, she do, an’ frtt! away she go in de fambly carriage.

An’ den, bimeby, you see dem in de bedroom doin’ a bit ob funning.”

“What?”

“Oh ki; it put me in de gigglemints....”

“Exquisite kid.”

“Sh’o, de coffee-concerts an’ de pictchures, I don’t nebba tiah ob dem.”

“Bad baby.”

“I turned thirteen.”

“You are?”

“By de Law ob de Island, I a spinster ob age!”

“I might have guessed it was the Bar! These Law-students,” he murmured,

addressing the birds.

“Sh’o, it’s de trute,” she pouted, with a languishing glance through

the sticks of her fan.

“I don’t doubt it,” he answered, taking lightly her hand.

“Mercy,” she marvelled: “is dat a watch dah, on your arm?”

“Dark, bright baby!”

“Oh, an’ de lil ‘V.R.’ all in precious stones so blue.” Her frail

fingers caressed his wrist.

“Exquisite kid.” She was in his arms.

“Vitti, Vitti!--” It was the voice of Eurydice Edwards. Her face was

strained and quivering. She seemed about to faint.