Maradick at Forty: A Transition

by Hugh Walpole

And then, best of all, it was a Dance of Hearts. It was the great moment at which certainty came to you, and, as you followed that drum down the curving street, you knew that the most wonderful thing in the world had come to you, and that you would never be quite the same person again; perhaps she had danced with you down the street, perhaps she had watched you and listened to the drum and known that there was no question any more. I do not know how many marriages in Treliss that drum had been answerable for, but it knew its business.

The crowd began to form into some kind of order with a great deal of pushing and laughter and noise. There were whistles and little flags and tin horns. It was considered to bring good luck in the succeeding year, and so every kind of person was struggling for a place. If you had not danced then your prospects for the next twelve months were poor indeed, and your neighbours marked you down as some one doomed to misfortune. Very old women were there, their skirts gathered tightly about them, their mouths firm set and their eyes on the drum. Old men were pushed aside by younger ones and took it quietly and with submission, contenting themselves with the thought of the years when they had done their share of the fighting and had had a place with the best. Towards the front most of the young men were gathered. The crowd wound round the market, serpent-wise, coiling round and over the booths and stalls, twisting past the grey tower, and down finally into grey depths where the pepper-pot houses bent and twisted under the red flare of the lights.

Maradick and Tony were wedged tightly between flank and rear; as things were it was difficult enough to keep one’s feet. At Maradick’s side was an old woman, stout, with her bonnet whisked distractingly back from her forehead, her grey hairs waving behind her, her hands pressed tightly over a basket that she clasped to her waist.

“Eh sirs . . . eh sirs!” pantingly, breathlessly she gasped forth, and then her hand was hurriedly pressed to her forehead; with that up flew the lid of the basket and the scraggy lean neck of a hen poked miserably into the air and screeched frantically. “Down, Janet; but the likes of this . . . never did I see.” But nevertheless something triumphant in it all; at least she kept her place.

Already feet were beating to the tune of the drum; a measured stamp, stamp on the cobbles spoke of an itching to be off, a longing for the great moment. Waves of excitement surged through the crowd. For a moment it seemed as though everyone would be carried away, feet would lose their hold of the pavement and the multitude would tumble furiously down the hill; but no, the wave surged to the little red drum and then surged back again. The drum was not ready; everyone was not there. “Patience”—you could hear it speak, stolidly, resolutely, in its beats—“Patience, the time is coming if you will only be patient. You must trust me for the great moment.”

Maradick was crushed against the old lady with the basket; for an instant, a movement in the crowd flung him forward and he caught at the basket to steady himself. Really, it was too ridiculous! His hat had fallen to the back of his head, he was hot and perspiring, and he wanted to fling off his overcoat, but his hands were pressed to his sides. Mechanically his feet were keeping time with the drum, and suddenly he laughed. An old man in front of him was crushed sideways between two stalwart youths, and every now and again he struggled to escape, making pathetic little movements with his hands and then sinking back again, resigned. His old, wrinkled face, with a crooked nose and an expression of timid anxiety, seemed to Maradick infinitely diverting. “By Jove,” he cried, “look at that fellow!” But Tony was excited beyond measure.

He was crushed against Maradick, his cap balancing ridiculously on the back of his head; his mouth was smiling and his feet were beating time. “Isn’t it a rag? I say, isn’t it? Such fun! Oh, I beg your pardon, I’m afraid that I stepped on you. But there is a crowd, isn’t there? It’s really awfully hard to help it. Oh! let me pick it up for you—a cucumber, you said? Oh, there it is, rolled right away under that man there.” “Oh thank you, if you wouldn’t mind!” “No, it’s none the worse, missis. I say, Maradick, aren’t they decent; the people, I mean?”

And then suddenly they were off. The red coat of the town-crier waved in the wind and the drum moved.

For a moment a curious silence fell on the crowd. Before, there had been Babel—a very ocean of voices mingled with cries and horns and the blaring of penny whistles—you could scarcely hear yourself speak. But now there was silence. The drum beat came clearly through the air—one, two, one, two—and then, with a shout the silence was broken and the procession moved.

There was a sudden linking of arms down the line and Tony put his through Maradick’s. With feet in line they passed down the square, bending forward, then back; at one moment the old woman’s basket jumped suddenly into Maradick’s stomach, then he was pushed from behind. He felt that his cap was wobbling and he took it off, and, holding it tightly to his chest, passed on bareheaded.