The small rotund gentleman who had danced and spun all the way to
Gantick village from the extreme south of France, and had danced and
smiled and blown his flageolet all day in Gantick Street without
conciliating its population in the least, was disgusted. Towards dusk
he crossed the stile which divides Sanctuary Lane from the churchyard,
and pausing with a leg on either side of the rail, shook his fist back
at the village which lay below, its grey roofs and red chimneys just
distinguishable here and there between a foamy sea of apple-blossom
and a haze of bluish smoke. He could not well shake its dust off his
feet, for this was hardly separable on his boots from the dust of many
other villages, and also it was mostly mud. But his gesture betokened
extreme rancour.
"These Cor-rnishmen," he said, "are pigs all! There is not a
Cor-rnishman that is not a big pig!"
He lifted the second leg wearily over the rail.
"As for Art--"
"Words failed him here, and he spat upon the ground, adding--
"Moreover, they shut up their churches!"
This was really a serious matter; for he had not a penny-piece in his
pocket--the last had gone to buy a loaf--and there was no lodging to
be had in the village. The month was April--a bad time to sleep in
the open; and though the night drew in tranquilly upon a day of broad
sunshine, the earth had by no means sucked down the late heavy rains.
The church porch, however, had a broad bench on either side and faced
the south, away from the prevailing wind. He had made a mental note of
this early in the day, being schooled to anticipate such straits as
the present. While, with a gait like a limping hare's, he passed up
the narrow path between the graves, his eyes were busy.
The churchyard was narrow and surrounded by a high grey wall, mostly
hidden by an inner belt of well-grown cypresses. On the south side the
ranks of these trees were broken for some thirty feet, and here the
back of a small dwelling-house abutted on the cemetery. There was one
window only in the yellow-washed wall, and this window--a melancholy
square framed in moss-stained plaster--looked straight into the church
porch. The flageolet-player eyed it suspiciously; but the casement
was shut and the blind drawn down. The whole aspect of the cottage
proclaimed that its inhabitants were very poor folk--not at all the
sort to tell tales upon a casual tramp if they spied him bivouacking
upon holy ground.
He limped into the porch, and cast off the blue bag that was strapped
upon his shoulders. Out of it he drew a sheep's-wool cape, worn very
thin; and then turned the bag inside out, on the chance of a forgotten
crust. The disappointment that followed he took calmly--being on the
whole a sweet-tempered man, nor easily angered except by an affront on
his vanity. His violent rancour against the people of Gantick
arose from their indifference to his playing. Had they taken him
seriously--had they even run out at their doors to listen and
stare--he would not have minded their stinginess.
He who sleeps, sups. The little man passed the flat of his hand,
in the dusk, over the two benches, chose the one which had fewest
asperities of surface, tossed his bag and flageolet upon the other,
pulled off his boots, folded his cape to make a pillow, and stretched
himself at length. In less than ten minutes he was sleeping
dreamlessly.
For four hours he slept without movement. But just above his head
there hung a baize-covered board containing a list or two of the
parish ratepayers and the usual notice of the spring training of the
Royal Cornwall Eangers Militia. This last placard had broken from two
of its fastenings, and towards midnight flapped loudly in an eddy of
the light wind. The sleeper stirred, and passed a languid hand over
his face. A spider within the porch had been busy while he slept, and
his hand encountered gossamer.
His eyes opened. He sat upright, and lowered his bare feet upon
the flags. Outside, the blue firmament was full of stars sparkling
unevenly, as though the wind were trying in sport to puff them out.
In the eaves of the porch he could hear the martins rustling in the
crevices--they had returned but a few days back to their old quarters.
But what drew the man to step out under the sky was the cottage-window
over the wall.
The lattice was pushed back and the room inside was brightly lit. But
between him and the lamp a white sheet had been stretched right across
the window; and on this sheet two quick hands were weaving all kinds
of clever shadows, shaping them, moving them, or reshaping them with
the speed of summer lightning.
It was certainly a remarkable performance. The shadows took the forms
of rabbits, swans, foxes, elephants, fairies, sailors with wooden
legs, old women who smoked pipes, ballet-girls who pirouetted, anglers
who bobbed for fish, twirling harlequins, and the profiles of eminent
statesmen--all made with two hands and, at the most, the help of a
tiny stick or piece of string. They danced and capered, grew large
and then small, with such profusion of odd turns and changes that the
flageolet-player began to giggle as he wondered. He remarked that the
hands, whenever they were disentwined for a moment, appeared to be
very small and plump.
In about ten minutes the display ceased, and the shadow of a woman's
head and neck crossed the sheet, which was presently drawn back at one
corner.
"Is that any better?" asked a woman's voice, low but distinct.
The flageolet-player started and bent his eyes lower, across the
graves and into the shadow beneath the window. For the first time he
was aware of a figure standing there, a little way out from the wall.
As well as he could see, it was a young boy.
"Much better, mother. You can't think how you've improved at it this
week."
"Any mistakes?"
"The harlequin and columbine seemed a little jerky. But your hands
were tired, I know."
"Never mind that: they mustn't be tired and it's got to be perfect.
We'll try them again."
She was about to drop the corner of the sheet when the listener sprang
out towards the window, leaping with bare feet over the graves and
waving his flageolet wildly.
"Ah, no--no, madame!" he cried. "Wait one moment, the littlest, and I
shall inspire you."
"Whoever is that?" cried the woman's voice at the window.
The youth below faced round on the intruder. He was white in the face
and had wanted to run, but mastered his voice and enquired gruffly--
"Who the devil are you?"
"I? I am an artist, and as such I salute madame and monsieur her son.
She is greater artist than I, but I shall help her. They shall dance
better this time, her harlequin and columbine. Why? Because they shall
dance to my music--the music that I shall make here, on this spot,
under the stars. _Tiens!_ I shall play as if possessed. I feel that. I
bet you. It is because I have found an artist--an artist in Gantick.
O-my-good-lor! It makes me expand!"
He had pulled off his greasy hat, and stood bowing and smiling,
showing his white teeth and holding up his flageolet, that the woman
might see and be convinced.
"That's all very well," said the boy; "but my mother doesn't want it
known that she practises at these shadows."
"Ha? It is perhaps forbidden by law?"
"Since you have found us out, sir," said the woman, "I will tell you
why we are behaving like this, and trust you to tell nobody. I have
been left a widow, in great poverty, and with this one son, who must
be educated as well as his father was. Richard is a promising boy, and
cannot be satisfied to stand lower in the world than his father stood.
His father was an auctioneer. But we are left very poor--poor as mice:
and how was I to get him better teaching than the Board Schools here?
Well, six months ago, when sadly perplexed, I found out by chance that
this small gift of mine might earn me a good income in London, at--at
a music-hall--"
"Mother!" interjected the youth reprovingly.
"Pursue, madame," said the flageolet-player.
"Of course, sir, Richard doesn't like or approve of me performing at
such places, but he agrees with me that it is necessary. So we are
hiding it from everybody in the village, because we have always been
respected here. We never guessed that anybody would see us from the
churchyard, of all places, at this time of night. As soon as I have
practised enough, we mean to travel up to London. Of course I shall
change my name to something French or Italian, and hope nobody will
discover--"
But the flageolet-player sat suddenly down upon a damp grave, and
broke into hysterical laughter.
"Oh-oh-oh! Quick, madame! dance your pretty figures while yet I laugh
and before I curse. O stars and planets, look down on this mad world,
and help me play! And, O monsieur, your pardon if I laugh; for that
either you or I are mad is a cock-sure. Dance, madame!"
He put the flageolet to his lips and blew. In a moment or two
harlequin and columbine appeared on the screen, and began to caper
nimbly, naturally, with the airiest graces. The tune was a jigging
reel, and soon began to inspire the performer above. Her small dancers
in a twinkling turned into a gambolling elephant, then to a pair
of swallows. A moment after they were flower and butterfly, then
a jigging donkey, then harlequin and columbine again. With each
fantastic change the tune quickened and the dance grew wilder. At
length, tired out, the woman spread her hands out wide against the
sheet, as if imploring mercy.
The player tossed his flageolet over a headstone, and rolled back on
the grave in a paroxysm of laughter. Above him the rooks had poured
out of their nests, and were cawing in flustered circles.
"Monsieur," he gasped out, sitting up and wiping his eyes, "was it
good this time?"
"Yes, it was."
"Then could you spare from the house one little crust of bread? For I
am famished."
The youth went round the churchyard wall, and came back in a couple of
minutes with some bread and cold bacon.
"Of course," said he, "if you should meet either of us in the village
to-morrow, you will not recognise us."
The little man bowed. "I agree," said he, "with your mother, monsieur,
that you must be educated at all costs."