CHAPTER II
Poor Lily! She was Trampy’s little wife, his little wife for ever! And life, monotonous and common, followed its usual course: a week here, a week there; and the theater every night at the fixed time, according to the scene-plot which they went and consulted on reaching the stage: “X, Corridor, 9.5; Z, Wood, 10.17; Y, Palace, 11.10,” and so on. And for Trampy it was an everlasting grumbling at his ill-luck, a dull anger at “playing ’em in,” so sure was he of seeing his name first, always—“Garden, 8.30, Trampy Wheel-Pad”—he who had had such a success in England with his red-hot stove. It was no use his saying to himself that it wouldn’t last, that it would be better next week. It was just as though done on purpose. He played ’em in, always, from Bremen to Brunswick, from Leipzig to Madgeburg:
“I wish I knew the son of a gun who has his knife into me!” growled Trampy, persuaded that he was the victim of an agent’s jealousy, or else the stage-managers didn’t understand their business.
“If you had more talent,” thought Lily to herself, “that sort of thing wouldn’t happen. I’d like to see you with Pa: he’d show you, he’d make you stir your stumps, you rusty biker!”
However, she was careful not to say so to him, for fear of blows; and Lily knew that, if ever she received them once, twice, without returning them, it was all up with her, she would lapse under the yoke again, it would become a habit: there would be nothing for it but to leave her husband, if she wished to avoid slaps, just as she had left her family, to avoid whippings.
That would have been too grotesque. She did not want to give Pa and Ma the satisfaction of seeing her unhappily married. Lily armed herself with patience; and she needed it! Trampy was in a frightful temper, said that he would have been the ideal husband, if she had been the little wife he had dreamed of: but to think that she had married him for “that!”
Now it was the constant allusion to “that” which made him die with shame. Everywhere, on the stages of the different music-halls, people had for Lily that sort of sympathetic pity which they feel for a performing dog: they approved of her running away; everybody seemed to know about it. Poland, it must be said, scored a fine revenge against Trampy, without counting the artistes who had seen Lily practising and who knew what harsh treatment meant, the Munich Roofers, among others, real ones, with their blows of the hat, gee!
Among them, it became the fashion, when they saw Lily, to tap the back of their hands, and then to applaud with the tip of the nail, as though to approve her flight. Lily at first was annoyed at the reputation for cruelty which they were giving her Pa. He was right to hit her, she thought, sometimes. She was also annoyed on her own account. She was an artiste, damn it! It was not only a question of smackings! Why, if she hadn’t had it in her...! It was a gift! But, on the other hand, to excuse the folly of her marriage, she let them talk, without protesting, like a poor little thing who would still be with her Pa and Ma if she had been treated “fair.”