The rector’s daughter began to play, and the guests looked eagerly at the closed door. At the tenth bar of the music it opened, and they all clapped loudly. Miss Holm danced out, her skirt caught up with a Roman scarf. It was to be “la grande Napolitaine.” She danced on toetips, she twisted and turned. The audience gazed, dumbfounded, in admiration at the little feet that moved up and down as rapidly as a couple of drumsticks. They cheered and clapped wildly as she stood on one leg for a moment.
She called out “Quicker,” and began to sway again. She smiled and nodded and waved her arms. There was more and more motion of the body from the waist up, more gestures with the arms; the dance became more and more mimic. She could no longer see the faces of her audience; she opened her mouth, smiling so that all her teeth, a few very bad teeth, could be seen; she began to act in pantomime; she felt and knew only that she was dancing a solo—at last a solo, the solo for which she had waited so long. It was no longer the “grande Napolitaine.” It was Fenella who knelt, Fenella who implored, Fenella who suffered, the beautiful, tragic Fenella.
She hardly knew how she had risen from the floor, or how she had come from the room. She heard only the sudden ceasing of the music, and the laughter—the terrible laughter, the laughter she heard and the laughter she saw on all these faces, to which she had suddenly become alive again.
She had risen from her knees, raised her arms mechanically, from force of habit, and bowed amid shouting. In there, in the little room, she stood, supporting herself on the edge of the table. It was all so dark around and in her—so empty. She loosened the scarf from her gown with strangely stiff hands, smoothed her skirts, and went back again to the room where the audience were now clapping politely. She bowed her thanks, standing by the piano, but she did not raise her eyes. The others began to dance again, eager to resume the fun. Miss Holm went about among them, saying farewell. Her pupils pressed the paper packages containing their money into her hands. Peter Madsen’s wife helped her into her cloak, and at the door she was met by the pastor’s daughter and the curate, ready to accompany her home.
They walked along in silence. The young lady from the rectory was very unhappy about the evening’s occurrence, and wanted to excuse it somehow, but didn’t know what to say. The little dancer walked along at her side, pale and quiet.
Finally the curate, embarrassed at the silence, remarked hesitatingly: “You see, miss—these people—they don’t understand tragic art.” Miss Holm did not answer. When they came to her door she bowed and gave them her hand in silence. The rector’s daughter caught her in her arms and kissed her. “Good night, good night,” she said, her voice trembling. Then she waited outside with the curate until they saw a light in the little dancer’s room.
Miss Holm took off her barège gown and folded it carefully. She unwrapped the money from the paper parcels, counted it, and sewed it into a little pocket in her bodice. She handled the needle awkwardly, sitting bowed over the tiny light.
The next morning her champagne basket was lifted onto a wagon of the country post. It rained, and Miss Holm huddled down under a broken umbrella. She drew her legs up under her, and sat on her basket like a Turk. When it was time to leave, the driver ran alongside. The young lady from the rectory came running up bareheaded. She had a white basket in her hands, and said she had brought “just a little food for the journey.”
She bent down under the umbrella, caught Miss Holm’s head in her hands, and kissed her twice. The old dancer broke into sobs, and grasping the young girl’s hand, she kissed it violently.