Emilia stretched out her hand and said, “Good-bye.” Seeing that the
hardened girl, with her dead eyelids, did not appear to feel herself at
his mercy, and also that Sir Purcell's forehead looked threatening, Mr.
Pericles stopped his sardonic noise. He went straight to the door, which
he opened with alacrity, and mimicking very wretchedly her words of
adieu, stood prepared to bow her out. She astonished him by passing
without another word. Before he could point a phrase bitter enough for
expression, Sir Purcell had likewise passed, and in going had given him
a quietly admonishing look.
“Zose Poles are beggars!” Mr. Pericles roared after them over the
stairs, and slammed his door for emphasis. Almost immediately there
was a knock at it. Mr. Pericles stood bent and cat-like as Sir Purcell
reappeared. The latter, avoiding all preliminaries, demanded of the
Greek that he should promise not to use the names of his friends
publicly in such a manner again.
“I require a promise for the future. An apology will be needless from
you.”
“I shall not give it,” said Mr. Pericles, with a sharp lift of his upper
lip.
“But you will give me the promise I have returned for.”
In answer Mr. Pericles announced that he had spoken what was simply
true: that the prosperity of the Poles was fictitious: that he, or any
unfavourable chance, could ruin them: and that their friends might do
better to protect their interests than by menacing one who had them in
his power.
Sir Purcell merely reiterated his demand for the promise, which was
ultimately snarled to him; whereupon he retired, joy on his features.
For, Cornelia poor, she might be claimed by him fearlessly: that is to
say, without the fear of people whispering that the penniless baronet
had sued for gold, and without the fear of her father rejecting his
suit. At least he might, with this knowledge that he had gained, appoint
to meet her now! All the morning Sir Purcell had been combative, owing
to that subordinate or secondary post he occupied in a situation of some
excitement;--which combativeness is one method whereby men thus placed,
imagining that they are acting devotedly for their friends, contrive
still to assert themselves. He descended to the foot of the stairs,
where he had told Emilia to wait for him, full of kind feelings and
ready cheerful counsels; as thus: “Nothing that we possess belongs to
us;--All will come round rightly in the end; Be patient, look about for
amusement, and improve your mind.” And more of this copper coinage of
wisdom in the way of proverbs. But Emilia was nowhere visible to receive
the administration of comfort. Outside the house the fog appeared to
have swallowed her. With some chagrin on her behalf (partly a sense
of duty unfulfilled) Sir Purcell made his way to the residence of the
Marinis, to report of her there, if she should not have arrived. The
punishment he inflicted on himself in keeping his hand an hour from
that letter to be written to Cornelia, was almost pleasing; and he
was rewarded by it, for the projected sentences grew mellow and rich,
condensed and throbbed eloquently. What wonder, that with such a mental
occupation, he should pass Emilia and not notice her? She let him go.
But when he was out of sight, all seemed gone. The dismally-lighted city
wore a look of Judgement terrible to see. Her brain was slave to her
senses: she fancied she had dropped into an underground kingdom, among
a mysterious people. The anguish through which action had just hurried
her, now fell with a conscious weight upon her heart. She stood a
moment, seeing her desolation stretch outwardly into endless labyrinths;
and then it narrowed and took hold of her as a force within: changing
thus, almost with each breathing of her body.
The fog had thickened. Up and down the groping city went muffled men,
few women. Emilia looked for one of her sex who might have a tender
face. Desire to be kissed and loved by a creature strange to her, and
to lay her head upon a woman's bosom, moved her to gaze around with
a longing once or twice; but no eyes met hers, and the fancy recurred
vividly that she was not in the world she had known. Otherwise, what
had robbed her of her voice? She played with her fancy for comfort, long
after any real vitality in it had oozed out. Her having strength to
play at fancies showed that a spark of hope was alive. In truth, firm
of flesh as she was, to believe that all worth had departed from her was
impossible, and when she reposed simply on her sensations, very little
trouble beset her: only when she looked abroad did the aspect of
numerous indifferent faces, and the harsh flowing of the world its own
way, tell her she had lost her power. Could it be lost? The prospect of
her desolation grew so wide to her that she shut her eyes, abandoning
herself to feeling; and this by degrees moved her to turn back and throw
herself at the feet of Mr. Pericles. For, if he said, “Wait, my child,
and all will come round well,” she was prepared blindly to think so. The
projection of the words in her mind made her ready to weep: but as she
neared the house of his office the wish to hear him speak that, became
passionate; she counted all that depended on it, and discovered the size
of the fabric she had built on so thin a plank. After a while, her steps
were mechanically swift. Before she reached the chambers of Mr. Pericles
she had walked, she knew not why, once round the little quiet enclosed
city-garden, and a cold memory of those men who had looked at her face
gave her some wonder, to be quickly kindled into fuller comprehension.
Beholding Emilia once more, Mr. Pericles enjoyed a revival of his taste
for vengeance; but, unhappily for her, he found it languid, and when he
had rubbed his hands, stared, and by sundry sharp utterances brought her
to his feet, his satisfaction was less poignant than he had expected. As
a consequence, instead of speaking outrageously, according to his habit,
in wrath, he was now frigidly considerate, informing Emilia that it
would be good for her if she were dead, seeing that she was of no use
whatever; but, as she was alive, she had better go to her father and
mother, and learn knitting, or some such industrial employment. “Unless
zat man for whom you play fool!--” Mr. Pericles shrugged the rest of his
meaning.
“But my voice may not be gone,” urged Emilia. “I may sing to you
to-morrow--this evening. It must be the fog. Why do you think it lost?
It can't be--”
“Cracked!” cried Mr. Pericles.
“It is not! No; do not think it. I may stay here. Don't tell me to go
yet. The streets make me wish to die. And I feel I may, perhaps, sing
presently. Wait. Will you wait?”
A hideous imitation of her lamentable tones burst from Mr. Pericles.
“Cracked!” he cried again.
Emilia lifted her eyes, and looked at him steadily. She saw the idea
grow in the eyes fronting her that she had a pleasant face, and she at
once staked this little bit of newly-conceived worth on an immediate
chance. Remember; that she was as near despair as a creature constituted
so healthily could go. Speaking no longer in a girlish style, but with
the grave pleading manner of a woman, she begged Mr. Pericles to take
her to Italy, and have faith in the recovery of her voice. He, however,
far from being softened, as he grew aware of her sweetness of feature,
waxed violent and insulting.
“Take me,” she said. “My voice will reward you. I feel that you can cure
it.”
“For zat man! to go to him again!” Mr. Pericles sneered.
“I never shall do that.” There sprang a glitter as of steel in Emilia's
eyes. “I will make myself yours for life, if you like. Take my hand, and
let me swear. I do not break my word. I will swear, that if I recover
my voice to become what you expected,--I will marry you whenever you ask
me, and then--”
More she was saying, but Mr. Pericles, sputtering a laugh of “Sanks!”
presented a postured supplication for silence.
“I am not a man who marries.”
He plainly stated the relations that the woman whom he had distinguished
by the honours of selection must hold toward him.
Emilia's cheeks did not redden; but, without any notion of shame at the
words she listened to, she felt herself falling lower and lower the
more her spirit clung to Mr. Pericles: yet he alone was her visible
personification of hope, and she could not turn from him. If he cast
her off, it seemed to her that her voice was condemned. She stood there
still, and the cold-eyed Greek formed his opinion.
He was evidently undecided as regards his own course of proceeding, for
his chin was pressed by thumb and forefinger hard into his throat, while
his eyebrows were wrinkled up to their highest elevation. From this
attitude, expressive of the accurate balancing of the claims of an
internal debate, he emerged into the posture of a cock crowing, and
Emilia heard again his bitter mimicry of her miserable broken tones,
followed by, “Ha! dam! Basta! basta!”
“Sit here,” cried Mr. Pericles. He had thrown himself into a chair, and
pointed to his knee.
Emilia remained where she was standing.
He caught at her hand, but she plucked that from him. Mr. Pericles rose,
sounding a cynical “Hein!”
“Don't touch me,” said Emilia.
Nothing exasperates certain natures so much as the effort of the visibly
weak to intimidate them.
“I shall not touch you?” Mr. Pericles sneered. “Zen, why are you here?”
“I came to my friend,” was Emilia's reply.
“Your friend! He is not ze friend of a couac-couac. Once, if you please:
but now” (Mr. Pericles shrugged), “now you are like ze rest of women.
You are game. Come to me.”
He caught once more at her hand, which she lifted; then at her elbow.
“Will you touch me when I tell you not to?”
There was the soft line of an involuntary frown over her white face, and
as he held her arm from the doubled elbow, with her clenched hand aloft,
she appeared ready to strike a tragic blow.
Anger and every other sentiment vanished from Mr. Pericles in the
rapturous contemplation of her admirable artistic pose.
“Mon Dieu! and wiz a voice!” he exclaimed, dashing his fist in a
delirium of forgetfulness against the one plastered lock of hair on his
shining head. “Little fool! little dam fool!--zat might have been”--(Mr.
Pericles figured in air with his fingers to signify the exaltation she
was to have attained)--“Mon Dieu! and look at you! Did I not warn you?
non a vero? Did I not say 'Ruin, ruin, if you go so? For a man!--a
voice! You will not come to me? Zen, hear! you shall go to old Belloni.
I do not want you, my pretty dear. Woman is a trouble, a drug. You
shall go to old Belloni; and, crack! if ze voice will come back to a
whip,--bravo, old Belloni!”
Mr. Pericles turned to reach down his hat from a peg. At the same
instant Emilia quitted the room.
Dusk was deepening the yellow atmosphere, and the crowd was now steadily
flowing in one direction. The bereaved creature went with the stream,
glad to be surrounded and unseen, till it struck her, at last, that she
was moving homeward. She stopped with a pang of grief, turned, and met
all those people to whom the fireside was a beacon. For some time she
bore against the pressure, but her loneliness overwhelmed her. None
seemed to go her way. For a refuge, she turned into one of the city
side streets, where she was quite alone. Unhappily, the street was of
no length, and she soon came to the end of it. There was the choice
of retracing her steps, or entering a strange street; and while she
hesitated a troop of sheep went by, that made a piteous noise. She
followed them, thinking curiously of the something broken that appeared
to be in their throats. By-and-by, the thought flashed in her that they
were going to be slaughtered. She held her step, looking at them, but
without any tender movement of the heart. They came to a butcher's yard,
and went in.
When she had passed along a certain distance, a shiver seized her,
and her instinct pushed her toward the lighted shops, where there were
pictures. In one she saw the portrait of that Queen of Song whom she had
heard at Besworth. Two young men, glancing as they walked by arm in
arm, pronounced the name of the great enchantress, and hummed one of
her triumphant airs. The features expressed health, humour, power, every
fine animal faculty. Genius was on the forehead and the plastic mouth;
the forehead being well projected, fair, and very shapely, showing clear
balance, as well as capacity to grasp flame, and fling it. The line
reaching to a dimple from the upper lip was saved from scornfulness by
the lovely gleam, half-challenging, half-consoling, regal, roguish--what
you would--that sat between her dark eyelashes, like white sunlight on
the fringed smooth roll of water by a weir. Such a dimple, and such a
gleam of eyes, would have been keys to the face of a weakling, and it
was the more fascinating from the disregard of any minor charm notable
upon this grand visage, which could not suffer a betrayal. You saw,
and there was no effort to conceal, that the spirit animating it was
intensely human; but it was human of the highest chords of humanity,
indifferent to finesse and despising subtleties; gifted to speak, to
inspire, and to command all great emotions. In fact, it was the masque
of a dramatic artist in repose. Tempered by beauty, the robust frame
showed that she possessed a royal nature, and could, as a foremost
qualification for Art, feel harmoniously. She might have many of the
littlenesses of which women are accused; for Art she promised unspotted
excellence; and, adorable as she was by attraction of her sex, she was
artist over all.
Emilia found herself on one of the bridges, thinking of this aspect.
Beneath her was the stealing river, with its red intervals, and the fog
had got a wider circle. She could not disengage that face from her mind.
It seemed to say to her, boldly, “I live because success is mine;” and
to hint, as with a paler voice, “Death the fruit of failure.” Could she,
Emilia, ever be looked on again by her friends? The dread of it gave her
shudders. Then, death was certainly easy! But death took no form in her
imagination, as it does to one seeking it. She desired to forget and to
hide her intolerable losses; to have the impostor she felt herself to
be buried. As she walked along she held out her hands, murmuring,
“Helpless! useless!” It came upon her as a surprise that one like
herself should be allowed to live. “I don't want to,” she said; and the
neat moment, “I wonder what a drowned woman is like?” She hurried
back to the streets and the shops. The shops failed now to give her
distraction, for a stiff and dripping image floated across all the
windows, and she was glad to see the shutters being closed; though, when
the streets were dark, some friendliness seemed to have gone. When the
streets were quits dark, save for the row of lamps, she walked fast,
fearing she knew not what.
A little Italian boy sat doubled over his organ on a doorstep, while
a yet smaller girl at his elbow plied him with questions in English.
Emilia stopped before them, and the girl complained to her that the
perverse little foreigner would not answer. Two or three words in his
native tongue soon brought his face to view. Emilia sat down between
them, and listened to the prattle of two languages. The girl said that
she never had supper, which was also the case with the boy; so Emilia
felt for her purse, and sent the girl with sixpence in search of a shop
that sold cafes. The girl came back with her apron full. As they were
all about to eat, a policeman commanded them to quit the spot, informing
them that he knew both them and their dodges. Emilia stood up, and
was taking her little people away, when the policeman, having suddenly
changed his accurate opinion of her, said, “You're giving 'em some
supper, miss? Oh, they must sit down to their suppers, you know!” and
walked away, not to be a witness of this infraction of the law. So, they
sat down and ate, and the boy and girl tried to say intelligible things
to one another, and laughed. Emilia could not help joining in their
laughter. The girl was very anxious to know whether the boy was
ever beaten, and hearing that he was, she appeared better satisfied,
remarking that she was also, but curious still as to the different
forms of chastisement they received. This being partially explained,
she wished to know whether he would be beaten that night, Emilia
interpreting. A grin, and a rapid whistle and 'cluck,' significant of
the application of whips, told the state of his expectations; at which
the girl clapped her hands, adding, lamentably, “So shall I, 'cause I am
always.” Emilia gathered them under each shoulder, when, to her delight
and half perplexity, they closed their eyes, leaning against her.
The policeman passed, and for an hour endured this spectacle. At last
he felt compelled to explain to Emilia what were the sentiments of
gentlefolks with regard to their doorsteps, apart from the law of
the matter. He put it to her human nature whether she would like her
doorsteps to be blocked, so that no one could enter, and anyone emerging
stood a chance of being precipitated, nose foremost, upon the pavement.
Then, again, as gentle-folks had good experience of, the young ones in
London were twice as cunning as the old. Emilia pleaded for her sleeping
pair, that they might not be disturbed. Her voice gave the keeper of
the peace notions of her being one of the eccentric young ladies who are
occasionally 'missing,' and have advertizing friends. He uttered a stern
ahem! preliminary to assent; but the noise wakened the children, who
stared, and readily obeyed his gesture, which said, “Be off!” while his
words were those of remonstrance. Emilia accompanied them a little way.
Both promised eagerly that they would be at the same place the night
following and departed--the boy with laughing nods and waving of hands,
which the girl imitated. Emilia's feeling of security went with them.
She at once feigned a destination in the distance, and set forward to
reach it, but the continued exposure of this delusion made it difficult
to renew. She fell to counting the hours that were to elapse before she
would meet those children, saying to herself, that whatever she did she
must keep her engagement to be at the appointed steps. This restriction
set her darkly fancying that she wished for her end.
Remembering those men who had looked at her admiringly, “Am I worth
looking at?” she said; and it gave her some pleasure to think that she
had it still in her power to destroy a thing of value. She was savagely
ashamed of going to death empty-handed. By-and-by, great fatigue
stiffened her limbs, and she sat down from pure want of rest. The luxury
of rest and soothing languor kept hard thoughts away. She felt as
if floating, for a space. The fear of the streets left her. But when
necessity for rest had gone, she clung to the luxury still, and sitting
bent forward, with her hands about her knees, she began to brood over
tumbled images of a wrong done to her. She had two distinct visions of
herself, constantly alternating and acting like the temptation of two
devils. One represented her despicable in feature, and bade her die; the
other showed a fair face, feeling which to be her own, Emilia had fits
of intolerable rage. This vision prevailed; and this wicked side of her
humanity saved her. Active despair is a passion that must be superseded
by a passion. Passive despair comes later; it has nothing to do with
mental action, and is mainly a corruption or degradation of our blood.
The rage in Emilia was blind at first, but it rose like a hawk, and
singled its enemy. She fixed her mind to conceive the foolishness of
putting out a face that her rival might envy, and of destroying anything
that had value. The flattery of beauty came on her like a warm garment.
When she opened her eyes, seeing what she was and where, she almost
smiled at the silly picture that had given her comfort. Those men had
looked on her admiringly, it was true, but would Wilfrid have ceased
to love her if she had been beautiful? An extraordinary intuition of
Wilfrid's sentiment tormented her now. She saw herself in the light
that he would have seen her by, till she stood with the sensations of an
exposed criminal in the dark length of the street, and hurried down it,
back, as well as she could find her way, to the friendly policeman.
Her question on reaching him, “Are you married?” was prodigiously
astonishing, and he administered the rebuff of an affirmative with
severity. “Then,” said Emilia, “when you go home, let me go with you to
your wife. Perhaps she will consent to take care of me for this night.”
The policeman coughed mildly and replied, “It's plain you know nothing
of women--begging your pardon, miss,--for I can see you're a lady.”
Emilia repeated her petition, and the policeman explained the nature of
women. Not to be baffled, Emilia said, “I think your wife must be a good
woman.” Hereat the policeman laughed, arming “that the best of them knew
what bad suspicions was.” Ultimately, he consented to take her to his
wife, when he was relieved, after the term of so many minutes. Emilia
stood at a distance, speculating on the possible choice he would make of
a tune to accompany his monotonous walk to and fro, and on the certainty
of his wearing any tune to nothing.
She was in a bed, sleeping heavily, a little before dawn.
The day that followed was her day of misery. The blow that had stunned
her had become as a loud intrusive pulse in her head. By this new
daylight she fathomed the depth, and reckoned the value, of her loss.
And her senses had no pleasure in the light, though there was sunshine.
The woman who was her hostess was kind, but full of her first surprise
at the strange visit, and too openly ready for any information the young
lady might be willing to give with regard to her condition, prospects,
and wishes. Emilia gave none. She took the woman's hand, asking
permission to remain under her protection. The woman by-and-by named a
sum of money as a sum for weekly payment, and Emilia transferred all
to her that she had. The policeman and his wife thought her, though
reasonable, a trifle insane. She sat at a window for hours watching a
'last man' of the fly species walking up and plunging down a pane
of glass. On this transparent solitary field for the most objectless
enterprise ever undertaken, he buzzed angrily at times, as if he had
another meaning in him, which was being wilfully misinterpreted. Then he
mounted again at his leisure, to pitch backward as before. Emilia found
herself thinking with great seriousness that it was not wonderful
for boys to be always teasing and killing flies, whose thin necks and
bobbing heads themselves suggested the idea of decapitation. She said to
her hostess: “I don't like flies. They seem never to sing but when
they are bothered.” The woman replied: “Ah, indeed?” very smoothly,
and thought: “If you was to bust out now, which of us two would be
strongest?” Emilia grew distantly aware that the policeman and his wife
talked of her and watched her with combined observation.
When it was night she went to keep her appointment. The girl was there,
but the boy came late. He said he had earned only a few pence that day,
and would be beaten. He spoke in a whimpering tone which caused the girl
to desire a translation of his words. Emilia told her how things were
with him, and the girl expressed a wish that she had an organ, as in
that case she would be sure to earn more than sixpence a day; such being
the amount that procured her nightly a comfortable reception in the arms
of her parents. “Do you like music?” said Emilia. The girl replied that
she liked organs; but, as if to avoid committing an injustice, cited
parrots as foremost in her affections. Holding them both to her breast,
Emilia thought that she would rescue them from this beating by giving
them the money they had to offer for kindness: but the restlessness of
the children suddenly made her a third party to the thought of
cakes. She had no money. Her heart bled for the poor little hungry,
apprehensive creatures. For a moment she half fancied she had her voice,
and looked up at the windows of the pitiless houses with a bold look;
but there was a speedy mockery of her thought “You shall listen: you
shall open!” She coughed hoarsely, and then fell into fits of crying.
Her friend the policeman came by and took her arm with a force that he
meant to be persuasive; so lifting her and handing her some steps beyond
the limit of his beat, with stern directions for her to proceed home
immediately. She obeyed. Next day she asked her hostess to lend her
half-a-crown. The woman snapped shortly in answer: “No; the less you
have the better.” Emilia was obliged to abandon her little people.
She was to this extent the creature of mania: that she could not
conceive of a way being open by which she might return to her father and
mother, or any of her friends. It was to her not a matter for her
will to decide upon, but simply a black door shut that nothing could
displace. When the week, for which term of shelter she had paid, was
ended, her hostess spoke upon this point, saying, more to convince
Emilia of the necessity for seeking her friends than from any
unkindness: “Me and my husband can't go on keepin' you, you know, my
dear, however well's our meaning.” Emilia drew the woman toward her with
both her lands, softly shaking her head. She left the house about noon.
It was now her belief that she had probably no more than another day to
live, for she was destitute of money. The thought relieved her from that
dreadful fear of the street, and she walked at her own pace, even
after dark. The rumble and the rattle of wheels; the cries and grinding
noises; the hum of motion and talk; all under the lingering smoky red
of a London Winter sunset, were not discord to her animated blood. Her
unhunted spirit made a music of them. It was not like the music of other
days, nor was the exultation it created at all like happiness: but she
at least forgot herself. Voices came in her ear, and hung unheard until
long after the speaker had passed. Hunger did not assail her. She was
not beset by an animal weakness; and having in her mind no image of
death, and with her ties to life cut away;--thus devoid of apprehension
or regret, she was what her quick blood made her, for the time. She
recognized that, for one near extinction, it was useless to love or to
hate: so Wilfrid and Lady Charlotte were spared. Emilia thought of them
both with a sort of equanimity; not that any clear thought filled her
brain through that delirious night. The intoxicating music raged there
at one level depression, never rising any scale, never undulating ever
so little, scarcely changing its barbarous monotony of notes. She had
no power over it. Her critical judgement would at another moment have
shrieked at it. She was moved by it as by a mechanical force.
The South-west wind blew, and the hours of the night were not evil to
outcasts. Emilia saw many lying about, getting rest where they might.
She hurried her eye pityingly over little children, but the devil
that had seized her sprang contempt for the others--older beggars, who
appeared to succumb to their fate when they should have lifted their
heads up bravely. On she passed from square to market, market to park;
and presently her mind shot an arrow of desire for morning, which was
nothing less than hunger beginning to stir. “When will the shops open?”
She tried to cheat herself by replying that she did not care when, but
pangs of torment became too rapid for the counterfeit. Her imagination
raised the roof from those great rich houses, and laid bare a brilliancy
of dish-covers; and if any sharp gust of air touched the nerve in
her nostril, it seemed instantaneously charged with the smell of old
dinners. “No,” cried Emilia, “I dislike anything but plain food.” She
quickly gave way, and admitted a craving for dainty morsels. “One
lump of sugar!” she subsequently sighed. But neither sugar nor meat
approached her.
Her seat was under trees, between a man and a woman who slanted from
her with hidden chins. The chilly dry leaves began to waken, and the sky
showed its grey. Hunger had become as a leaden ball in Emilia's chest.
She could have eaten eagerly still, but she had no ravenous images of
food. Nevertheless, she determined to beg for bread at a baker's shop.
Coming into the empty streets again, the dread of exposing her solitary
wretchedness and the stains of night upon her, kept her back. When she
did venture near the baker's shop, her sensation of weariness, want of
washing, and general misery, made her feel a contrast to all other women
she saw, that robbed her of the necessary effrontery. She preferred to
hide her head.
The morning hours went in this conflict. She was between-whiles hungry
and desperate, or stricken with shame. Fatigue, bringing the imperious
necessity for rest, intervened as a relief. Emilia moaned at the weary
length of the light, but when dusk fell and she beheld flame in the
lamps, it seemed to be too sudden and she was alarmed. Passive despair
had set in. She felt sick, though not weak, and the thought of asking
help had gone.
A street urchin, of the true London species, in whom excess of woollen
comforter made up for any marked scantiness in the rest of his attire,
came trotting the pavement, pouring one of the favourite tunes of his
native metropolis through the tube of a penny-whistle, from which it did
not issue so disguised but that attentive ears might pronounce it the
royal march of the Cannibal Islands. A placarded post beside a lamp met
this musician's eye; and, still piping, he bent his knees and read the
notification. Emilia thought of the Hillford and Ipley clubmen, the big
drum, the speeches, the cheers, and all the wild strength that lay in
her that happy morning. She watched the boy piping as if he were reading
from a score, and her sense of humour was touched. “You foolish boy!”
she said to herself softly. But when, having evidently come to the last
printed line, the boy rose and pocketed his penny-whistle, Emilia was
nearly laughing. “That's because he cannot turn over the leaf,” she
said, and stood by the post till long after the boy had disappeared.
The slight emotion of fun had restored to her some of her lost human
sensations, and she looked about for a place where to indulge them
undisturbed. One of the bridges was in sight She yearned for the
solitude of the wharf beside it, and hurried to the steps. To descend
she had to pass a street-organ and a small figure bent over it. “Sei
buon' Italiano?” she said. The answer was a surly “Si.” Emilia cried
convulsively “Addio!” Her brain had become on a sudden vacant of a
thought, and all she knew was that she descended.