Conrad Aiken - The Collected Short Stories of Conrad Aiken

“You know”—he said—“I’ve been frantic for a cigarette—absolutely frantic. Ran out half an hour ago, and not a soul around the place, and myself alone here, so that I couldn’t leave—nothing safe, you know, with these gypsies round—thanks!”

“You smoke a lot?”

“Afraid I do. I don’t know, in this sort of business you need something to do in between-times, something to steady your nerves—you know what I mean? When you aren’t riding. And in the morning, especially in the morning!”

“The morning?”

“It’s a long wait in the morning—we were disappointed to find this town so small, you know, it means you can’t have any morning performances—bad luck, too, just when we could do with some extra cash—and it’s bad in this kind of business when you haven’t got anything to do. You can’t drink, not in this game—so there’s nothing to do but smoke. I’m a chain smoker—so’s the kid.”

“The kid—?”

“My wife.”

“Well, I suppose that’s natural. I should think it would get on your nerves.”

“Yes. You want to keep going. On the move all the time—that’s the trouble with a little third-rate fair like this, they only hit the small towns, and there isn’t enough in it.…”

He smiled, the blue eyes looking lightly at me, and then beyond me, as if to something in the future—something quite definitely bigger and better than this third-rate fair. But then he waved his cigarette toward the merry-go-round, and added—

“But it’s all right, you know, and you’ve got to make a beginning somewhere, haven’t you? So I suppose we were lucky, at that.”

There was a pause, he blew the ash off the cigarette, and then after a moment I told him how much I admired the looks of the Drome—in which Nash, who was an artist, agreed with me. He was delighted with this.

“It is pretty, isn’t it—?” he said. “Yes, it is pretty. A little shipyard at Southampton did the building, and they did a lovely job of it. Look at that woodwork—like a yacht, it is—everything of the finest! Much better built than the Yankee ones—much. You know, it’s a tricky piece of work to do, too—there’s got to be a lot of give and play in it, not too rigid—but not too slack either. Have you noticed when we go round there’s a kind of ripple of the whole structure that goes with us—? Well, that has to be just right. We have to tune it up, keep it tuned, just like a fiddle. That’s what the stays are for—we tighten ’em or loosen ’em—watch ’em all the time. And it’ll get better as it ages a bit—got to weather, you know, like everything else. It’s already improving—gets a little more supple.”

We looked up together at the varnished woodwork of the Drome, the sunlight gleaming on its smooth brown flanks, he reached out his hand and touched one of the heavy wire stays—yes, it was true, it did remind one of a yacht—or even, yes, of a fiddle.

“Nash has taken some very good photos of it,” I said.

“Has he?”

“Of you and your wife, too.”

“Oh? I’d like to see them—I’d like to see them. He’s quite an artist, isn’t he?”

“Very fine. One of the best.”

We smoked in silence for a minute, and then, to my great surprise, he said—

“And what do you think of my wife?”

“Your wife—? How do you mean?”

“I mean, in the show.”

“Well, of course—I think she’s wonderful.”

“You do, eh?”

He was frowning at me, a little anxious, a little puzzled. I was uncertain where his questions were leading, so I merely repeated—

“Oh yes, we all do. And of course she’s remarkably beautiful—”

“Yes—she is.… I say, would you mind if I cadged another fag—?”

I handed him the cigarettes, he lit one from the stub, and then, frowning again, he went on—

“You see, it’s a problem.”

“A problem?”

“Yes. This show business isn’t so simple. Of course, she’s good, I know that—”

“Oh, she is!”

“She’s good, but there’s more to it than that. You’ve got to think of the effect. On the people.”

“How do you mean, exactly?”

He looked at me searchingly for a second, as if somehow weighing me personally in the light of what he was going to say next—a troubled look, too, and somehow a little pathetic.

“Well”—he said—“take yourself. Or Mr. Nash.”

“Yes?”

“You come to our show, and, as you say, of course, you like my wife, and that’s all right. But then, you see, there is this ‘star’ business. You see what I mean? There’s always got to be a star. One of the performers has got to be outstanding—otherwise, you’ve got no climax.”

“I see. Yes.”

“You see?” He was visibly relieved at my agreement—he smiled, and went on a shade more confidently. “You’ve got to have that climax. People want a show to be built up to something. And that’s what the kid won’t see.”

“No?”

“No. And that’s what the trouble is. We can’t both of us do the fancy stuff, can we? And what I say is, the audience wants to see the man do that, not the woman. Don’t you think so?”

“Yes, I think perhaps you’re right.”

“Of course I’m right! But she won’t see it—no, she won’t see it.”

He shook his head, gazing perplexedly down at his swinging feet, and the grass, where the stub of a cigarette was smoking, and repeated once more—

“She just won’t see it. Mind you, I know she could do some of the things, some of them—she’s got all the nerve in the world, anybody can see that—but that isn’t the point. And then, besides, there’s the risk. No woman is quite as good as a man—she’s more liable to nerves, more liable to make a slip—and in this business there can’t be any slips. Well, I tell her that, but it doesn’t do any good. She’s after me from morning to night, wanting this or that, just to try it once, or try it twice—you know how a woman is, and if you give in you’re gone.…”

He looked at me quickly, and away—and I felt sorry for him.

“Well”—I said a little lamely—“I think you’re perfectly right. The show, as it is, is as good as it could possibly be. Your wife, with her beauty, just adds the right touch—but if I were you I certainly wouldn’t let her do anything else! Not me.”

“You think that?”

“I do indeed.”

“Well, I wish someone could persuade her—but when she gets an idea—!”

He laughed, frankly, boyishly, and affectionately too, as if he were thinking very precisely of his wife’s beautiful stubbornness, and then he swung himself down to the ground, and I saw that his assistant, the mechanic, was approaching.

“Well,” I said, “I expect you’ll see us again later!”

“Right-o. And I say, will you tell Mr. Nash I’d like to see some of those photographs?”

“Yes—of course.”

He was off then, with a quick nervous wave of the hand, and I had already turned away toward the cliff steps that led to the town when I heard him add—

“And please excuse me, will you? Got a little tuning to do!”—

I waved—he waved in answer—it was the last time we were to exchange greetings, though not by any means, the last time I was to see him.… That was to be a year later.

III.

A year later—yes. And almost to the day.

By that time, we had all but forgotten him, hadn’t we—? and the beautiful girl who had been killed at Folkstone, while riding blindfold in a “novelty show”—so the newspaper phrased it—called the Drome of Death. We had read about it, only a few days after they had left us; and we had been inexpressibly shocked and saddened; and then the boy had written to Paul, and asked if he could have some of the photographs; and Paul had sent them.…