Complete Works of D.H. Lawrence (Illustrated), page 249
Ciccio did not come during the first week. Alvina had a post-card from Madame, from Cheshire: rather far off. But such was the buzz and excitement over her material future, such a fever was worked up round about her that Alvina, the petty-propertied heroine of the moment, was quite carried away in a storm of schemes and benevolent suggestions. She answered Madame’s post-card, but did not give much thought to the Natcha-Kee-Tawaras. As a matter of fact, she was enjoying a real moment of importance, there at the centre of Wood-house’s rather domineering benevolence: a benevolence which she unconsciously, but systematically frustrated. All this scheming for selling out and making reservations and hanging on and fixing prices and getting private bids for Manchester House and for the Endeavour, the excitement of forming a Limited Company to run the Endeavour, of seeing a lawyer about the sale of Manchester House and the auctioneer about the sale of the furniture, of receiving men who wanted to pick up the machines upstairs cheap, and of keeping everything dangling, deciding nothing, putting everything off till she had seen somebody else, this for the moment fascinated her, went to her head. It was not until the second week had passed that her excitement began to merge into irritation, and not until the third week had gone by that she began to feel herself entangled in an asphyxiating web of indecision, and her heart began to sing because Ciccio had never turned up. Now she would have given anything to see the Natcha-Kee-Tawaras again. But she did not know where they were. Now she began to loathe the excitement of her property: doubtfully hers, every stick of it. Now she would give anything to get away from Woodhouse, from the horrible buzz and entanglement of her sordid affairs. Now again her wild recklessness came over her.
She suddenly said she was going away somewhere: she would not say where. She cashed all the money she could: a hundred-and-twenty-five pounds. She took the train to Cheshire, to the last address of the Natcha-Kee-Tawaras: she followed them to Stockport: and back to Chinley: and there she was stuck for the night. Next day she dashed back almost to Woodhouse, and swerved round to Sheffield. There, in that black town, thank heaven, she saw their announcement on the wall. She took a taxi to their theatre, and then on to their lodgings. The first thing she saw was Louis, in his shirt sleeves, on the landing above.
She laughed with excitement and pleasure. She seemed another woman. Madame looked up, almost annoyed, when she entered.
“I couldn’t keep away from you, Madame,” she cried.
“Evidently,” said Madame.
Madame was darning socks for the young men. She was a wonderful mother for them, sewed for them, cooked for them, looked after them most carefully. Not many minutes was Madame idle.
“Do you mind?” said Alvina.
Madame darned for some moments without answering. “And how is everything at Woodhouse?” she asked.
“I couldn’t bear it any longer. I couldn’t bear it. So I collected all the money I could, and ran away. Nobody knows where I am.”
Madame looked up with bright, black, censorious eyes, at the flushed girl opposite. Alvina had a certain strangeness and brightness, which Madame did not know, and a frankness which the Frenchwoman mistrusted, but found disarming.
“And all the business, the will and all?” said Madame.
“They’re still fussing about it.”
“And there is some money?”
“I have got a hundred pounds here,” laughed Alvina. “What there will be when everything is settled, I don’t know. But not very much, I’m sure of that.”
“How much do you think? A thousand pounds?”
“Oh, it’s just possible, you know. But it’s just as likely there won’t be another penny — ”
Madame nodded slowly, as always when she did her calculations. “And if there is nothing, what do you intend?” said Madame. “I don’t know,” said Alvina brightly.
“And if there is something?”
“I don’t know either. But I thought, if you would let me play for you, I could keep myself for some time with my own money. You said perhaps I might be with the Natcha-Kee-Tawaras. I wish you would let me.”
Madame bent her head so that nothing showed but the bright black folds of her hair. Then she looked up, with a slow, subtle, rather jeering smile.
“Ciccio didn’t come to see you, hein?”
“No,” said Alvina. “Yet he promised.”
Again Madame smiled sardonically.
“Do you call it a promise?” she said. “You are easy to be satisfied with a word. A hundred pounds? No more?”
“A hundred and twenty — ”
“Where is it?”
“In my bag at the station — in notes. And I’ve got a little here — ” Alvina opened her purse, and took out some little gold and silver.
“At the station!” exclaimed Madame, smiling grimly: “Then perhaps you have nothing.”
“Oh, I think it’s quite safe, don’t you — ?”
“Yes — maybe — since it is England. And you think a hundred and twenty pounds is enough?”
“What for?”
“To satisfy Ciccio.”
“I wasn’t thinking of him,” cried Alvina.
“No?” said Madame ironically. “I can propose it to him. Wait one moment.” She went to the door and called Ciccio.
He entered, looking not very good-tempered.
“Be so good, my dear,” said Madame to him, “to go to the station and fetch Miss Houghton’s little bag. You have got the ticket, have you?” Alvina handed the luggage ticket to Madame. “Midland Railway,” said Madame. “And, Ciccio, you are listening — ? Mind! There is a hundred and twenty pounds of Miss Houghton’s money in the bag. You hear? Mind it is not lost.”
“It’s all I have,” said Alvina.
“For the time, for the time — till the will is proved, it is all the cash she has. So mind doubly. You hear?”
“All right,” said Ciccio.
“Tell him what sort of a bag, Miss Houghton,” said Madame. Alvina told him. He ducked and went. Madame listened for his final departure. Then she nodded sagely at Alvina.
“Take off your hat and coat, my dear. Soon we will have tea — when Cic’ returns. Let him think, let him think what he likes. So much money is certain, perhaps there will be more. Let him think. It will make all the difference that there is so much cash — yes, so much — ”
“But would it really make a difference to him?” cried Alvina.
“Oh my dear!” exclaimed Madame. “Why should it not? We are on earth, where we must eat. We are not in Paradise. If it were a thousand pounds, then he would want very badly to marry you. But a hundred and twenty is better than a blow to the eye, eh? Why sure!”
“It’s dreadful, though — !” said Alvina.
“Oh la-la! Dreadful! If it was Max, who is sentimental, then no, the money is nothing. But all the others — why, you see, they are men, and they know which side to butter their bread. Men are like cats, my dear, they don’t like their bread without butter. Why should they? Nor do I, nor do I.”
“Can I help with the darning?” said Alvina.
“Hein? I shall give you Ciccio’s socks, yes? He pushes holes in the toes — you see?” Madame poked two fingers through the hole in the toe of a red-and-black sock, and smiled a little maliciously at Alvina.
“I don’t mind which sock I darn,” she said.
“No? You don’t? Well then, I give you another. But if you like I will speak to him — ”
“What to say?” asked Alvina.
“To say that you have so much money, and hope to have more. And that you like him — Yes? Am I right? You like him very much? — hein? Is it so?”
“And then what?” said Alvina.
“That he should tell me if he should like to marry you also — quite simply. What? Yes?”
“No,” said Alvina. “Don’t say anything — not yet.”
“Hé? Not yet? Not yet. All right, not yet then. You will see — ”
Alvina sat darning the sock and smiling at her own shamelessness. The point that amused her most of all was the fact that she was not by any means sure she wanted to marry him. There was Madame spinning her web like a plump prolific black spider. There was Ciccio, the unrestful fly. And there was herself, who didn’t know in the least what she was doing. There sat two of them, Madame and herself, darning socks in a stuffy little bedroom with a gas fire, as if they had been born to it. And after all, Woodhouse wasn’t fifty miles away.
Madame went downstairs to get tea ready. Wherever she was, she superintended the cooking and the preparation of meals for her young men, scrupulous and quick. She called Alvina downstairs. Ciccio came in with the bag.
“See, my dear, that your money is safe,” said Madame.
Alvina unfastened her bag and counted the crisp white notes.
“And now,” said Madame, “I shall lock it in my little bank, yes, where it will be safe. And I shall give you a receipt, which the young men will witness.”
The party sat down to tea, in the stuffy sitting-room.
“Now, boys,” said Madame, “what do you say? Shall Miss Houghton join the Natcha-Kee-Tawaras? Shall she be our pianist?”
The eyes of the four young men rested on Alvina. Max, as being the responsible party, looked business-like. Louis was tender, Geoffrey round-eyed and inquisitive, Ciccio furtive.
“With great pleasure,” said Max. “But can the Natcha-Kee-Tawaras afford to pay a pianist for themselves?”
“No,” said Madame. “No. I think not. Miss Houghton will come for one month, to prove, and in that time she shall pay for herself. Yes? So she fancies it.”
“Can we pay her expenses?” said Max.
“No,” said Alvina. “Let me pay everything for myself, for a month. I should like to be with you, awfully — ”
She looked across with a look half mischievous, half beseeching at the erect Max. He bowed as he sat at table.
“I think we shall all be honoured,” he said.
“Certainly,” said Louis, bowing also over his tea-cup.
Geoffrey inclined his head, and Ciccio lowered his eyelashes in indication of agreement.
“Now then,” said Madame briskly, “we are all agreed. Tonight we will have a bottle of wine on it. Yes, gentlemen? What d’you say? Chianti — hein?”
They all bowed above the table.
“And Miss Houghton shall have her professional name, eh? Because we cannot say Miss Houghton — what?”
“Do call me Alvina,” said Alvina.
“Alvina — Al-vy-na! No, excuse me, my dear, I don’t like it. I don’t like this ‘vy’ sound. Tonight we shall find a name.”
After tea they inquired for a room for Alvina. There was none in the house. But two doors away was another decent lodging-house, where a bedroom on the top floor was found for her.
“I think you are very well here,” said Madame.
“Quite nice,” said Alvina, looking round the hideous little room, and remembering her other term of probation, as a maternity nurse.
She dressed as attractively as possible, in her new dress of black voile, and imitating Madame, she put four jewelled rings on her fingers. As a rule she only wore the mourning-rite of black enamel and diamond, which had been always on Miss Frost’s finger. Now she left off this, and took four diamond rings, and one good sapphire. She looked at herself in her mirror as she had never done before, really interested in the effect she made. And in her dress she pinned a valuable old ruby brooch.
Then she went down to Madame’s house. Madame eyed her shrewdly, with just a touch of jealousy: the eternal jealousy that must exist between the plump, pale partridge of a Frenchwoman, whose black hair is so glossy and tidy, whose black eyes are so acute, whose black dress is so neat and chic, and the rather thin Englishwoman in soft voile, with soft, rather loose brown hair and demure, blue-grey eyes.
“Oh — a difference — what a difference! When you have a little more flesh — then — ” Madame made a slight click with her tongue. “What a good brooch, eh?” Madame fingered the brooch. “Old paste — old paste — antique — ”
“No,” said Alvina. “They are real rubies. It was my great-grandmother’s.”
“Do you mean it? Real? Are you sure — ”
“I think I’m quite sure.”
Madame scrutinized the jewels with a fine eye.
“Hm!” she said. And Alvina did not know whether she was sceptical, or jealous, or admiring, or really impressed.
“And the diamonds are real?” said Madame, making Alvina hold up her hands.
“I’ve always understood so,” said Alvina.
Madame scrutinized, and slowly nodded her head. Then she looked into Alvina’s eyes, really a little jealous.
“Another four thousand francs there,” she said, nodding sagely. “Really!” said Alvina.
“For sure. It’s enough — it’s enough — ”
And there was a silence between the two women.
The young men had been out shopping for the supper. Louis, who knew where to find French and German stuff, came in with bundles, Ciccio returned with a couple of flasks, Geoffrey with sundry moist papers of edibles. Alvina helped Madame to put the anchovies and sardines and tunny and ham and salami on various plates, she broke off a bit of fern from one of the flower-pots, to stick in the pork-pie, she set the table with its ugly knives and forks and glasses. All the time her rings sparkled, her red brooch sent out beams, she laughed and was gay, she was quick, and she flattered Madame by being very deferential to her. Whether she was herself or not, in the hideous, common, stuffy sitting-room of the lodging-house she did not know or care. But she felt excited and gay. She knew the young men were watching her. Max gave his assistance wherever possible. Geoffrey watched her rings, half spell-bound. But Alvina was concerned only to flatter the plump, white, soft vanity of Madame. She carefully chose for Madame the finest plate, the clearest glass, the whitest-hafted knife, the most delicate fork. All of which Madame saw, with acute eyes.
At the theatre the same: Alvina played for Kishwégin, only for Kishwégin. And Madame had the time of her life.
“You know, my dear,” she said afterward to Alvina, “I understand sympathy in music. Music goes straight to the heart.” And she kissed Alvina on both cheeks, throwing her arms round her neck dramatically.
“I’m so glad,” said the wily Alvina.
And the young men stirred uneasily, and smiled furtively.
They hurried home to the famous supper. Madame sat at one end of the table, Alvina at the other. Madame had Max and Louis by her side, Alvina had Ciccio and Geoffrey. Ciccio was on Alvina’s right hand: a delicate hint.
They began with hors d’oeuvres and tumblers three parts full of Chianti. Alvina wanted to water her wine, but was not allowed to insult the sacred liquid. There was a spirit of great liveliness and conviviality. Madame became paler, her eyes blacker, with the wine she drank, her voice became a little raucous.
“Tonight,” she said, “the Natcha-Kee-Tawaras make their feast of affiliation. The white daughter has entered the tribe of the Hirondelles, swallows that pass from land to land, and build their nests between roof and wall. A new swallow, a new Huron from the tents of the pale-face, from the lodges of the north, from the tribe of the Yenghees.” Madame’s black eyes glared with a kind of wild triumph down the table at Alvina. “Nameless, without having a name, comes the maiden with the red jewels, dark-hearted, with the red beams. Wine from the pale-face shadows, drunken wine for Kishwégin, strange wine for the braves in their nostrils, Vaali, à vous.”
Madame lifted her glass.
“Vaali, drink to her — Boire à elle — ” She thrust her glass forwards in the air. The young men thrust their glasses up towards Alvina, in a cluster. She could see their mouths all smiling, their teeth white as they cried in their throats: “Vaali! Vaali! Boire à vous.”
Ciccio was near to her. Under the table he laid his hand on her knee. Quickly she put forward her hand to protect herself. He took her hand, and looked at her along the glass as he drank. She saw his throat move as the wine went down it. He put down his glass, still watching her.
“Vaali!” he said, in his throat. Then across the table “Hé, Gigi-Viale! Le Petit Chemin! Comment? Me prends-tu? L’allée — ”
There came a great burst of laughter from Louis.
“It is good, it is good!” he cried. “Oh Madame! Viale, it is Italian for the little way, the alley. That is too rich.”
Max went off into a high and ribald laugh.
“L’allée italienne!” he said, and shouted with laughter.
“Alley or avenue, what does it matter,” cried Madame in French, “so long as it is a good journey.”
Here Geoffrey at last saw the joke. With a strange determined flourish he filled his glass, cocking up his elbow.
“A toi, Cic’ — et bon voyage!” he said, and then he tilted up his chin and swallowed in great throatfuls.
“Certainly! Certainly!” cried Madame. “To thy good journey, my Ciccio, for thou art not a great traveller — ”
“Na, pour ça, y’a plus d’une voie,” said Geoffrey.
During this passage in French Alvina sat with very bright eyes looking from one to another, and not understanding. But she knew it was something improper, on her account. Her eyes had a bright, slightly-bewildered look as she turned from one face to another. Ciccio had let go her hand, and was wiping his lips with his fingers. He too was a little self-conscious.
“Assez de cette éternelle voix italienne,” said Madame. “Courage, courage au chemin d’Angleterre.”
“Assez de cette éternelle voix rauque,” said Ciccio, looking round. Madame suddenly pulled herself together.
“They will not have my name. They will call you Allay!” she said to Alvina. “Is it good? Will it do?”
“Quite,” said Alvina.
And she could not understand why Gigi, and then the others after him, went off into a shout of laughter. She kept looking round with bright, puzzled eyes. Her face was slightly flushed and tender looking, she looked naïve, young.
