A REMOTE INCIDENT:

Timaru Herald, Volume CXXXIII, Issue 18761, 27 December 1930, Page 9

A REMOTE INCIDENT:

Mr. JACKMAN’S DREAM BY W. PETT RIDGE.

Mr Jackman, accustomed to do most things for himself, made no fuss about the early and ungranted departure of his youthful assistant, but himself put up the shutters and gave attention to last-moment customers. A passerby told him he ought to stroll along and see a new cinema poster that had been set on the hoarding; Mr Jackman answered that he would be able to inspect it from the window of his first floor. “I reckon it’s a work of art,” declared the other, as one craving for discussion. “No doubt, no doubt,” said Mi' Jackman, briskly. It was his fixed rule to agree during the hours that he wore his apron. “Probably you’re quite right.” “Anyone who says that picture of a Spanish gel isn’t a work of are don’t know what he’s talking about.” “Exactly” said the little grocer. “Is there thunder about, I wonder ” “Wish I’d met the likes of her,” the other went on, “before I ran across my present missus.” “Life," said Mr Jackman, ‘is crowded with perplexities. If you see anything of Mr Carter near the Free Library mention that I’m ready for him.” “Game of draughts?” “Game of draughts.” “I suppose, now, Mr Jackman, today with you is almost exactly like yesterday and to-morrow?” “Very little difference.” “Whenever I go to the pictures,” the other went on, as one searching for a disputable topic, “I come away with the feeling that my life’s been wasted.” “Oh, no, no.” “Wasted,” he said again, with vehemence. “Absolutely wasted, and so’s yours. You admit as much.” “Pardon me,” said Mr Jackman. “I pardon you for nothing,” shouted the man. “All I’m out for its facts, and the facts are that nothing ever happens to us. Deny it now, if you can, or else admit that I’m right.” “Adventure,” said Mr Jackman, impartially. “isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Within moderate limits, it may be right enough, but the defect of it is that it doesn’t know where to stop. It goes too far. Once caught up by adventure, and your very existence is in peril. And don’t you tell me that there’s anything to be gained by being cut off in the flower of your youth, or the ripeness of your middle age, or—” “But just imagine what a store-house of memory some of these chaps possess. Imagine, when it’s all over, sitting down quietly, and thinking about it!” “Providing they’re still alive!” “I’m assuming that.” “Keep eyes open for Mr Carter,” begged Mr Jackman. He went into the darkened shop, leaving the door slightly open. Upstairs he turned on the electric light, thus giving the usual notice to his friend; he set out refreshments and found the draughts board and the box, placing them near the window. The chair favoured by Carter was brought

forward. At a quarter to nine there came the sound of the closing of the shop door, and of Carter’s footsteps ascending the staircase. “Well, old friend?” “Evening, old friend. How’s the world using you?” “About as usual, about as usual. Mustn’t grumble!” Within five minutes they were at the small table, separating the black pieces from the yellow, and respecting the claims of silence. At twenty past nine, the electric light, inside and outside, failed. “Shall I search for candles?” asked Mr Jackman. His friend, who had been losing, said it was not worth while to do this. The incident reminded him of an experience on a sailing vessel, years ago, and although Jackman had heard it all before, he, as one whose career had been singularly lacking in romance, might like to hear it again. Carter expressed sympathy for those who. like his friend, had never been outside Great Britain.

At this moment a strange event happened. Mr Jackman filled his own glass from a bottle marked Rioja—a sample left that afternoon by an energetic traveller applying for Christmas orders —and pushed the bottle across; Carter’s task of helping himself checked the beginning of his recital. “A full wine,” remarked Mr Jackman. “It’s everything a wine ought to be,” said Carter, “only that it isn’t nice. You can have my share.” Mr Jackman, looking through the window, noted that the moon, appearing suddenly illuminated the poster of which he had heard; he stared at it wuth an intensity and a concentration for which there appeared to be no sufficient grounds. The girl in the poster held a scarlet flower between her lips; she was glancing over her shoulder in an alluring way. Mr Jackman began to speak in a tone of voice that Carter had not before heard. It was deep, firm, resonant. “Sunday in Seville,” he began, “and I am outside a cafe in the Sierpes in the company of Oquilino. Matadors, both. Both engaged for the fights in the Plaza de Toros that afternoon. Both sipping. at the moment, our aguardiente and, between sips, talking with vehemence. A pity that Aquilino and I both love the same woman, for ours is a lifelong friendship, but we Southerns have the defect that we love eagerly, and quarrel easily. “There are dark women and fair women in Seville, and the one worshipped by me and admired by Aquilino was amongst the black-haired. I can scarcely attempt, Carter, to give you any further description, excepting in regard to her eyes. They were the sigj nals she used to indicate her moods. Of these, she made no disguise. If she liked, she liked, and if she hated, | her hate was frank and open. My impression was that there were times | when Aquilino gained her favour, and, i to compensate, she after some dispute I with him. showed extraordinary amiab-

ility towards me. Nobody else was in competition with us. With one out of the way, the victory would rest with the other. You realise all that, Carter?” “Old friend,” said Carter, apologetically, “to tell you the truth, I was closing my eyes, and as near to being asleep as didn’t matter. Tell me what you have been talking about. Something you read in a book?” “Something I actually experienced,” declared Mr Jackman, forcibly. “Make your mind perfectly clear about that. All this actually happened, and happened to me. You know as well as I know that I never read books.” “Get on with it,” urged the other. “At a point where Aquilino and myself are near to blows, folk come up and separate us. “ ‘Remember,’ they say, “that in an hour twenty thousands will be waiting for you.’ “They make it their business to talk soothingly; in Spain, we possess a singular ability to regard the disputes of other folk with calm. So they flatter me, and speak of my great triumphs in the past, and, to my content, they talk derisively of Aquilino. Thus, I am in a good enough mood when I reach the dressing-rooms of the bull ring, and put on my costume, and take my sword and red cloths. I have the feeling in my bones that it is going to be, for me, a notable day. I sing, I caper about. From the arena comes the sound of -people chattering; some are becoming impatient because they have to sit in the sun. Carter . . .” The other man in the darkened room

over the shop started as Mr Jackman uttered his name. He put up a hand as though to appeal for a quick ending, but the other ignored it, and began to walk to and fro. “Carter, I was Czar, King and Emperor as we all marched in. No one else in the whole procession knew the selfsatisfaction that I experienced. The salute was given to the President, the key of the toril was thrown down and picked up by an alguacil. The toreros went to the barriers. The first bull came, and now the twenty thousand were quiet. “But silent for a few moments only. The chulos began to rush about, waving their capes and the bull charged first at one, then at another, perturbed by the number of his adversaries, and maddened by the derisive cries of the people. Carter, there is nothing like the shouting of the human voice to excite man or beast; we, in waiting, could not remain still, and I found myself talking excitedly to Aquilino until I recollected that I had sworn never to exchange words with him again. The banderilleros went into the arena. Alternate cheering came for the bull, and for the men armed with the long barbed darts that would presently be sent into the neck of the . arte'r, are you listening?” The other ceased to fuss with the pieces on the draughts board. “Yes, laddie,” he said, tremulously. “I’m taking it all in. But don’t get carried away. Keep a firm hold on yourself.” “Why do you speak to me in that manner?” “No offence, no offence,” declared Carter.

“Aquilino went first into the ring, carrying his muleta and his sword. Aquilino was a short man; I had attained the height of close upon six feet.” “Oh, no, no,” moaned Carter. “Not close upon six feet. Couldn’t have been.” “We watched him from where we stood, and I felt sure that he, for once, was nervous. Perhaps our quarrel had upset him; I’m not certain. Every matador has his period of ill luck, and Aquilino, when the moment came to use the sword, plunged it into the side of the bull’s neck. ‘Malo matador,’ the people shouted. The trumpets blared, and the bull was enticed to leave the arena. Aquilino was a tragedy, Carter, what a tragedy!—went outside, and shot himself. The howling of the crowd, the apprehension that the woman whom we both loved would sneer at him, the certainty that he would not soon find another engagement, and assuredly never in Seville —all this had been too much for Aquilino. I wept. “Picadors on their lean, elderly horses were again in the ring, and one rode up to the bull and gave him a prod with his long pike; on the instant the bull attacked the horse, and the picador had to fly for his life. Three horses were killed before I marched in. Carter, you Englishmen have your sports, and there may be an element of danger in them; it is hard for you to guess what it is to face a maddened and exasperated animal. Nothing but absolute precision is enough. An inch to the right or to the left of the bull's neck means failure, and, likely enough, an end of the matador’s career. “I, in my brave suit of coffee-colour-ed silk and gold, advance to the President’s box. We exchange a raising of hats. I deliver the matadorial speech. The President gives the signal. I go back and order my men to retire. “I ruffle the crimson cloth. The bull rushes at me, and my good sword on the instant goes into the spot. The trumpets sound once more, and harnessed mules come in to drag the bull away. I take off my hat with a flourish, bow to the President, how to the cheering, exuberant people. There are many, in various lands, whose luck is to enjoy a moment of intense popularity, not one of them can imagine the fervour of the praise given to a successful matador. I see and hear it all now as though it happened but last Sunday. The bull dragged out of the arena; my salute again to the President; my triumphant march around the ring to the music of the orchestra, and, above all, the cheering of the excited people. Hats thrown down, cigars stormed upon me. “I think, Carter, there were five more bulls. I know that I was called together with another to dispatch the last, and I say nothing in criticism of my colleague. The groans which were given to him, he, in my opinion, deserved. For myself, it was my day of days, and I could do no wrong. The

President, before leaving, did me the high honour of sending for me, and I dare not tell you the compliments he offered. Never before, and I may add never since, has anyone been so acclaimed in Seville. I knew that I was admired, I guessed that I was envied. At the moment there was nothing I could not have had for the asking; I recall that through my head fluttered the assurance that here was something which would be an imperishable memory.” The little shopkeeper paused. His friend made the clicking of the tongue that indicates amazement, or sympathy, or indeed almost anything. Outside the shop, heavy snow’ was falling, and Mr Jackman’s sight of the poster was not so clear as it had been. Children raced homewards for shelter, and one, as though impelled by a sense of duty, grabbed at a loose corner of the poster and, tugging, destroyed it. The pained ejaculation of his friend induced Carter to put a question calculated to bring him back to his story. “What became of the girl?” “You mean Juanita?” said Mr Jackman. “Her name wasn’t mentioned.” “There is no reason for concealment,” said the little shopkeeper, manfully. “She and I met that evening, and I, accustomed to praise and flattery since the end of the bull fight, could not help suspecting that her manner was intended to be aloof, chilly. We took a meal together, and all her vivacity seemed to have disappeared. I asked her if she had heard the new r s concerning Aquilino. and she only nodded, offering no comment. But her deportment changed—woman like—when I suggested a visit to the theatre, and on the way, still saying no word of Aquilino, she became cheerful and acectionate. In the listening to the opera, we exchanged kisses when the lovers on the stage exchanged kisses, and our neighbours gave no sign of astonishment at our behaviour. Afterwards we walked towards the river. “Carter, my friend, I want you to pay attention now’, because I am going to relate an incident characterstic of my people and of my country Our woment are variable in temperament, and we expect it of them.” He spoke as one anxious to maek everything clear to a lower intelligence. “In strolling along, Juanita and I, a reference was again made to Aquilino. From which of us it came, I am unable to say: if I made it, the blunder must be placed to my discredit. ‘I loved him,’ she cried, in a tragic voice, and w r hen I began to argue with her she whirled around upon me with something like fury. A sudden jerk of her elbow’, and I found myself in the water, and amongst the crowded shipping there.” “That w ? as unlucky,” said Carter, still entering into the spirit of his friend’s talk. He rose to go, judging that the end of the story was near, and anxious to get away, and decide on the course to be taken. “Very unlucky indeed. Who was it who managed to save you?” “No one saved me,” answered Jack-