At last the silence, roused only by the strident buzzing of the
mosquitos, became unendurable. Gregorio gave a preparatory cough and
opened his lips to speak, but the words refused to be born. He was
unnerved. The odious visitor, the wearying day, the memory of Xantippe’s
face at the window, combined to make him fearful. He watched, under his
half-closed lids, his wife crouching on the far side of the boy. Once or
twice, as he was rubbing the youngster’s forehead, his fingers touched
those of his wife as she waved off the mosquitos; but at each contact
with them he shivered and his fears increased. He tried, vainly, to
get his thoughts straight, and lit a cigarette with apparent calmness,
swaggering to the window; but his legs did not cease to tremble, and the
unsteadiness of his gait caused Xantippe to smile as she watched him.
Resting by the window, Gregorio widened the lips of the lattice and let
in a stream of moonbeams that rested on wife and child, illumining the
dark corner.
“Gregorio!”
“Yes.”
“Have you told me all? Is there nothing else to tell em about our son
and the Jew?”
Gregorio felt he must now speak; it was not possible to keep silence
longer. He was pleased that his wife had begun the conversation, for it
seemed easier to answer questions than to frame them. “I have told you
the whole story. There is no more to tell. It was by accident I found
him in the bazaar, and that devil Amos was bending over him. I could
kill that man.”
“What good would that do?”
“Fancy if we had lost the boy! Think of the sacrifices we have made for
him, and they would have been useless.”
“Have you made any sacrifices, Gregorio?”
The question was quietly asked, but there was a ring of irony in the
sound of the voice, and Gregorio, to shun his wife’s gaze, moved into
the friendly shadows. For some minutes he did not answer. At length,
with a nervous laugh, he replied:
“Of course. We have both made sacrifices, great sacrifices.”
“It is odd,” pursued Xantippe, gently, as if speaking to herself, “that
you should so flatter yourself. You professed to care for me once; you
only regard me now as a slave to earn money for you.”
“It is for our son’s sake.”
“Is it for our son’s sake also that you sit with Madam Marx, that you
drink her wine, that you kiss her?”
Gregorio could not answer. He felt it were useless to try and explain,
though the reason seemed to him clear enough.
“I am glad to have the chance,” continued Xantippe, “of talking to
you, for we may now understand each other. I have made the greatest
sacrifice, and because it was for our son’s sake I forgave you. I wept,
but, as I wept, I said, ‘It is hell for Gregorio too.’ But when I looked
from the window this afternoon I knew it was not hell for you. I knew
you did not care what became of me. It was pleasant for you to send
me away to make money while you drank and kissed at the Penny-farthing
Shop. I came suddenly to know that the man had spoken truth.”
“What man?” asked Gregorio, huskily.
“The man! The man you bade me find. Because money is not gathered from
the pavements. You know that, and you sent me out to get money. When I
first came back to you I flung the gold at you; it burned my fingers,
and your eagerness for it stung. But I did not quite hate you, though
his words had begun to chime in my ears: ‘In my country such a husband
would be horsewhipped.’ When you were kind I was little more than a dog
you liked to pet. I thought that was how all women were treated. I know
differently now. You will earn money through me, for it is my duty to my
son, but you have earned something else.”
“Yes?” queried Gregorio.
“My hate. Surely you are not surprised? I have learned what love is
these last few days, have learned what a real man is like. I know you to
be what he called you, a cur and a coward. I should never have learned
this but for you, and I am grateful, very grateful. It is useless
to swear and to threaten me with your fists. You dare not strike me,
because, were you to injure me, you would lose your money. You have
tried to degrade me, and you have failed. I am happier than I have ever
been, and far, far wiser. When a woman learns what a man’s love is,
she becomes wiser in a day than if she had studied books for a hundred
years.”
Xantippe ceased speaking and, taking her son in her arms, closed her
eyes and fell asleep quietly, a gentle smile hovering round her lips.
Gregorio scowled at her savagely, and would have liked to strike her,
to beat out his passion on her white breast and shoulders. But she had
spoken only the truth when she said he dare not touch her. With impotent
oaths he sought to let off the anger that boiled in him. He feared
to think, and every word she had uttered made him think in spite of
himself. The events of sixty hours had destroyed what little of good
there was in the man. Save only the idolatrous love for his child, he
scarcely retained one ennobling quality.
Little by little his anger cooled, his shame died out of him, and he
began to wonder curiously what manner of man this was whose words had so
stirred his wife. Wondering he fell asleep, nor did he awaken till the
sun was risen.
While eating his breakfast he inquired cunningly concerning this wise
teacher of the gospels of love and hate, but Xantippe for a time did not
answer.
“Is he a Greek?”
“No.”
“A Frenchman?”
“No.”
“A German?”
“No.”
Suddenly Gregorio felt a kind of cramp at his heart, and he had to
pause before he put the next question. He could scarcely explain why
he hesitated, but he called to mind the Paradise cafe and the red-faced
Englishman. He was ready enough to sacrifice his wife if by so doing
money might be gained, but he felt somehow hurt in his vanity at the
idea of this ugly, slow-witted Northerner usurping his place. With an
effort, however, he put the question:
“Is he an Englishman?”
“Yes.”
He was seized with a tumult of anger. He spoke volubly, talking of the
ignorance of the English, their brutality, their dull brains, their
stupid pride. Xantippe waited till he had finished speaking and then
replied quietly:
“It cannot matter to you. It is my concern. You have lost all rights to
be angry with me or those connected with me.”
Gregorio refused to hear reason, and explained how he begrudged them
their wealth and fame. “For these English are a dull people, and we
Greeks are greatly superior.”
“I do not agree with you,” Xantippe replied. “I have learned what a man
is since I have known him, and I have learned to hate you. You may have
more brains--that I know nothing of, nor do I care. He could not behave
as you have behaved, nor have sacrificed me as you have sacrificed me.
Some of his money comes to you. You want money. Be satisfied.”
Gregorio felt the justice of her words, and he watched her put on her
hat and leave the room. A minute later, looking out of the window, he
saw her link her arm in that of the Englishman of the Paradiso, and
across the street, at the threshold of the Penny-farthing Shop, Madam
Marx waved her hand to himself and laughed.