The Square Peg or The Gun Fella полностью

A red glare from the machine fell upon the curtain; three men in Circassian war-dress gathered about the piano, that same piano which had so distressed Frampton at the concert. One of the three was a wild-looking man with less brow than Frampton had seen on any human head. He tossed back his hair, glanced at his fellows, and with a gesture of contempt struck a jangle on the keys. The tangle and tinkle seemed to be new to him. He glanced again at his fellows, one of whom played the Circassian trompe-marine, with a bow; the other, the Circassian pan-pipes. Together, they swept into the now familiar strains of the Nenuphars Rouges, then new to Frampton, and strangely moving.

The door-keeper came in hurriedly and handed programmes. Frampton bought one and read the foreign names of the musicians. The two young things behind him had not ceased to smoke. Frampton, who disliked their tobacco, wished that one of the Circassians might bowstring them or put them into sacks and then into the Bosphorus, which he had read was usual somewhere in those parts. But he was now caught by the music and gave no heed to the smokers.

The pan-pipes man was a master of his instrument; he was stirred by them to excitement, so that he rose from his seat, faced the audience, swayed about, and almost danced as he piped. Frampton was thrilled to see him. Here was a man who believed in art and showed that he enjoyed it. This was how one should respond to art. The two young things made comment.

“The dear man’s absooty gaga.”

“Priceless. Absooty.”

“Absooty marvous.”

But the prelude to the Nenuphars Rouges is moving work. Before he reached the finale, the pan-pipes man was dancing visibly; then the music leaped to its climax, the light brightened, the curtain lifted and there was the stage, newly planed over along its seams.

The stage had been set for the Red Waterlilies, Scene One. A backcloth representing a wild scene in Mount Ida was now so lit that the waterlilies in the river were red as blood. The music slowly worked its preparation. Presently, the Nymphs of the Gorge glided in sur les pointes, with their faces set in the rigid smiles of the ballet. They danced the dance of the hallowing of the gorge. Frampton watched them. They were not dancing specially well, he thought, yet he watched them with interest, very glad that he had come. He was rapt out of Tatshire and the thoughts of Spirr Wood and the angry ham; he was in Ida, in some century not well defined, but existing in the soul for ever. The music was so uncanny, that even those three men, one of them playing on that impossible old hack piano, and those three muscular young women, made him feel that unearthly beings were moving there.

Presently the immortals had ended; they danced away. The folk of Troy were dancing on, followed by the elders; the three young heroes were going to dance for the hand of the princess. As the Trojans gathered at the back of the stage, the music seemed to Frampton to take another turn round his heart and tighten there.

A young woman came forward to begin the celebrations. Frampton had not seen her, had not at any rate noticed her, till the music brought her forward. Now, as she glided out, he looked at her, and felt the blood rush to his head, so that a red mist covered his eyes for a moment. It was Margaret come back out of the grave. The red mist cleared from his eyes; he could see more clearly. He leaned forward and dug all the nails on his fingers into his knees. The girl was Margaret. He almost cried aloud to her. It was almost more than he could bear.

“It is her wraith, perhaps, come to summon me,” he thought. “Oh please, God, I can be gone from all this folly with her, for she was my Fortune, and I cannot live after my Fortune has gone.”

He looked about the dingy hall. It seemed to have disappeared. He looked back at the stage. There was Margaret dancing; her face, indeed, painted into the mask of the stage, but with that beautiful hair, and exquisite grace of body and movement. It was Margaret come back to him. He watched her, quite breathless, till she almost drew him to the stage. Others were dancing now, but he had no eyes for the others. Who could she be? Who was she? He had a programme in his hand; he tried to read the name, but the light was too dim for him to read it. Besides, he wanted to watch her every movement.