II
It so happened that a year elapsed before I visited the theatre again. During that time I had fallen in love with the most charming girl in the world. In my college days I had patronized her young-maiden adoration; but when she came home, after three years of travel, the most self-possessed, as well as the most beautiful of women, the adoration and the indifference exchanged places. All I seemed to win from her was good-comradeship and confidence; and they were due to the friend of her childhood.
She had travelled with her mother, whose delight was picture-galleries, court-balls, and dinners at embassies. Of unconventional life, Deborah had seen nothing, and she listened eagerly to my descriptions of nooks and corners in New York.
One day her mother yielded. Deborah might go through the foreign quarter with me, if I would promise not to bring her into danger from men or germs.
For our first expedition I chose the Italian theatre. It was safe, picturesque, unique. We drove to the door in a hansom, and I instructed the driver to call for us at eleven o'clock.
As we entered the tiny foyer my companion murmured a little "Ah!" of delight. The walls had been decorated by the manager himself with wonderful pictures of kings, queens, knights, and ladies. The colors were green, red, and white, because those were the paints Pietro had on hand. Upon one side Orlando and Olliviero were fighting their famous duel in the presence of Charlemagne and his gorgeous court. Pietro's admiration was for legs. Those of Orlando had muscles unknown to anatomists, and those of his cousin were big enough for two Ollivieros.
Beatrice was making an angel.
While Deborah was trembling with pleasure in this work of art, I heard the latch of the ticket-office door click, and, turning, saw Beatrice. She stood upon the threshold, gazing not at me but at Deborah. In a year she had grown tall. Her hair was coiled upon her neck, and her eyes seemed to be deeper and tawnier than ever.
"What a pretty child!" exclaimed my companion.
"It's Beatrice," I answered. "How do you do, little girl? How is Pietro?"
"My father is well," replied the girl; but her scrutiny still rested upon my companion's face and yellow hair. Under this inspection Deborah was flushing, and I hastened to end it.
"This is Miss Speedwell, Beatrice." I said. "She has come with me to see the play. You must give us good seats."
Beatrice touched Deborah's glove with a soiled paw, and, without a word of reply, led the way through the door of the theatre and along the aisle.
We had arrived early, and the theatre was empty. The place was fascinating enough, but I noticed that my companion, who was commonly both curious and self-reliant, followed me closely.
"What a beautiful, strange child," she whispered.
"H—m! child!" I said to myself, and fell to musing upon my last visit to the theatre.
"She promised herself to both last night."
"Beatrice," I asked, "are you married yet?"
"No, Signore," answered the girl, without turning her head.
"What has become of Anselmo?" I went on.
"He is 'ere. 'E is our helper."
"And Giuseppe?"
"'E is 'ere. My father cood not-a get better helpers. Why dey go away?"
This I could not answer. Beatrice had a way of making me shamefaced.
"Dese are your seats," she said, pausing at the third row of settees. "Now I begga to pardon, I must go to my father."
"But you'll come back, won't you, Beatrice?" I asked. "We have forgotten some of our Italian, and we need you to interpret for us—just as you used to interpret for me."
This attempt to establish old-time relations fell flat. Beatrice replied, "Yes, Signore," in calm tones, and left us. When she had closed the door, Deborah drew a long breath.
Had once been a stable.
"I'm glad she's gone," said Deborah. "She made me feel uncanny."
"Nonsense," I laughed. "She's only a queer little girl. Look at Pietro's paintings; they are more wholesome."
The dingy little theatre had once been a stable. Pietro had turned the loft into a gallery, with tiers of benches receding high into the gloom. He had cut off the stall-room with a wooden proscenium. Upon it twined a mastodon of a vine, the like of which no botanist ever beheld. The toy curtain bore, upon its forty-eight square feet of canvas, a representation of a Roman triumph that would have insured Pietro's admission into any Academy with a sense of humor.
It cheered Deborah amazingly, and the audience, which burst in at eight o'clock, caused her to clasp her hands. It was chiefly composed of men—laborers, chestnut venders, and bootblacks, with swarthy skins, gleaming eyes, and gleaming teeth. They rushed, shouting, down the single aisle, sprang over settees, scrambled and pushed to win the seats nearest the stage. In three minutes the theatre was a bewilderment of bobbing heads and active hands, and a tumult of voices and laughter. Not a seat was vacant except those upon our settee. The Italians had respected the presence of strangers. The men in front of us and on either hand turned about to greet the American lady and to smile a welcome.
Deborah returned every smile and every bow. Her eyes were bright with excitement.
"How nice they are! How polite!" she exclaimed. Presently she laid a clinging hand upon my arm.
"How can I ever thank you," she whispered, "for bringing me here!"
I tried to tell her by a look, but her attention was not for me.
"See," she went on, "see the faun!"
A slender boy appeared in the proscenium doorway. His hair clustered about deep red cheeks, and his great dark eyes looked mournfully over the house. I fancied he was seeking someone. The audience hailed him with applause and he descended two or three steps to the street-piano, which served as orchestra, and began to turn the crank. Deborah started, raised eyebrows of dismay, and pressed her hands over her ears. Never before had she heard the Intermezzo from Cavalleria rendered by a street-piano in a twenty by forty foot room.
She wheeled about and stamped her foot. "Silence, pigs!" she screamed.
Beatrice, appearing at my side, evidently perceived the gesture. Her face turned crimson and she drew herself up proudly.
"Gaiterno!" she called, "stop that noise."
The boy paused, and, still bent over at the lower curve of his stroke, turned an astonished face toward us. The chatter from the seats hushed.
"Stop the music," repeated Beatrice, imperiously.
A grumble sounded in the rear and increased from seat to seat until it was a growl. The corners of Beatrice's mouth curled up like those of an angry cat. She wheeled about and stamped her foot.
"Silence, pigs!" she screamed.
The tumult fell away. For a moment the girl stood poised as if ready to spring, and then turned, and, in the hush passed beyond us to a seat at Deborah's farther side. My companion shrank slightly toward me and once more laid a hand upon my arm. Her face was turned toward Beatrice, whose color had died down and whose eyes were perfectly indifferent.
The raising of the curtain put an end to the strain. The audience, forgetting their disappointment, bent excited faces toward the stage, and so, after a few moments, did Deborah.
I fear I was an inattentive spectator. I dared not move lest I should disturb that precious touch upon my arm, and the eager face before me I found a sight more fascinating than the absurd gestures of puppets. But presently, beyond Deborah's face appeared Beatrice's, and a certain self-consciousness in its expression took my notice. The girl's lips were pressed together and her eyes were directed sternly toward the stage, but it was evidently with an effort that she held them thus. A glance about the theatre gave me the clew. The faun by the street-piano was looking full at her, with such a face of adoration as I had read of but never beheld. It was pathetic, but it was funny as well, and I laughed. Glances of scorn from Deborah and Beatrice punished me, and Deborah transferred the hand to her lap.
With such a face of adoration as I had read of.
"Do you understand what is going on?" I whispered. "The scene is in the court of the Soldan of Africa. That trembling creature is an envoy from Carlo Magno, come to demand the Soldan's surrender. The play, you know, is six months long. Each adventure takes up one night."
Here Deborah pointed a monitory finger toward the stage, and I shrugged my shoulders in silence.
Indeed the drama had reached a crisis. The Soldan had committed the envoy to a dungeon. While the prisoner grovelled upon the floor, in stalked the Soldan with the haughty stride, achieved by marionettes only. In his hand he bore a sword.
"The hour of thy choice is come," announced the infidel. "Renounce thy faith. Acknowledge the true God and Mahomet his prophet and thou goest free. If thou refuse, this shall be thy last moment on earth."
Many visits to the theatre had prepared me for the sound of indrawn breaths on every side. Deborah glanced curiously around her, but instantly turned again to the scene. The Christian had struggled to his feet.
"Never!" he said in feeble tones. "I can die, but I cannot be false to my faith."
The Pagan raised his sword.
"Dog of a Christian, die!" he roared, and cut the captive down.
"Infame! infame!" screamed the audience. Settees scraped, shoes pounded, and men sprang to their feet. About us was a hurly-burly of brandished fists, glaring eyes, snarling lips, flashing teeth. Apples, bananas, split peas, and I thought a knife or two, hurtled toward the stage. Deborah uttered a little scream and started up.
The curtain, falling swiftly, shut off the craven monarch from this just indignation, and instantly the raging mob turned into an assemblage of light-hearted citizens, laughing, chaffing, tossing up their heads to drink beer out of bottles or oval tin pails.
Deborah understood, and a smile curved her lips, but her eyes were wide and deep with recent fright.
"Isn't it amazing?" I ventured.
"Infame! Infame!" screamed the audience.
"Yes!" she agreed, faintly. "It's—it's Elizabethan. I wish we Americans could take our theatre as seriously. I don't wonder, though, that they were excited. I was a little under the spell myself. I could easily fancy that those dolls were alive."
"Look at Beatrice," I suggested.
The girl had not yet recovered her composure. Her hands were clinched and her breath came deep and fast. Deborah eyed her sympathetically.
"It seems very real, doesn't it, my dear?" said Deborah.
Beatrice turned upon her.
"It is-a r-real!" she exclaimed. "It was-a te-r-rue! 'E did kill-a da Christiano. It was long ago. You are-a cold, you Americani!"
"Come, come, Beatrice," I interposed. "You must not speak like that to Miss Speedwell. Take us to your father at once. I shall tell him that you are a naughty girl."