Moreover they have nothing to do with that holiday.What has to do with the holiday is that before the day on which the remark was made we had seen Vienna,the Upper Danube,Munich,the Falls of the Rhine,the Lake of Constance--in fact it was a memorable holiday of travel.Of late we had been tramping slowly up the Valley of the Reuss.It was a delightful time.It was much more like a stroll than a tramp.Landing from a Lake of Lucerne steamer in Fluellen,we found ourselves at the end of the second day,with the dusk overtaking our leisurely footsteps,a little way beyond Hospenthal.This is not the day on which the remark was made:in the shadows of the deep valley and with the habitations of men left some way behind,our thoughts ran not upon the ethics of conduct but upon the simpler human problem of shelter and food.There did not seem anything of the kind in sight,and we were thinking of turning back when suddenly at a bend of the road we came upon a building,ghostly in the twilight.
At that time the work on the St.Gothard Tunnel was going on,and that magnificent enterprise of burrowing was directly responsible for the unexpected building,standing all alone upon the very roots of the mountains.It was long though not big at all;it was low;it was built of boards,without ornamentation,in barrack-hut style,with the white window-frames quite flush with the yellow face of its plain front.And yet it was an hotel;it had even a name which I have forgotten.But there was no gold-laced door-keeper at its humble door.A plain but vigorous servant-girl answered our inquiries,then a man and woman who owned the place appeared.It was clear that no travellers were expected,or perhaps even desired,in this strange hostelry,which in its severe style resembled the house which surmounts the unseaworthy-looking hulls of the toy Noah's Arks,the universal possession of European childhood.However,its roof was not hinged and it was not full to the brim of slabsided and painted animals of wood.Even the live tourist animal was nowhere in evidence.We had something to eat in a long,narrow room at one end of a long,narrow table,which,to my tired perception and to my sleepy eyes,seemed as if it would tilt up like a see-saw plank,since there was no one at the other end to balance it against our two dusty and travel-stained figures.Then we hastened upstairs to bed in a room smelling of pine planks,and Iwas fast asleep before my head touched the pillow.
In the morning my tutor (he was a student of the Cracow University)woke me up early,and as we were dressing remarked:
"There seems to be a lot of people staying in this hotel.I have heard a noise of talking up till 11o'clock?"This statement surprised me;I had heard no noise whatever,having slept like a top.
We went downstairs into the long and narrow dining-room with its long and narrow table.There were two rows of plates on it.At one of the many uncurtained windows stood a tall bony man with a bald head set off by a bunch of black hair above each ear and with a long black beard.He glanced up from the paper he was reading and seemed genuinely astonished at our intrusion.By-and-by more men came in.Not one of them looked like a tourist.
Not a single woman appeared.These men seemed to know each other with some intimacy,but I cannot say they were a very talkative lot.The bald-headed man sat down gravely at the head of the table.It all had the air of a family party.By-and-by,from one of the vigorous servant-girls in national costume,we discovered that the place was really a boarding-house for some English engineers engaged at the works of the St.Gothard Tunnel;and I could listen my fill to the sounds of the English language,as far as it is used at a breakfast-table by men who do not believe in wasting many words on the mere amenities of life.
This was my first contact with British mankind apart from the tourist kind seen in the hotels of Zurich and Lucerne--the kind which has no real existence in a workaday world.I know now that the bald-headed man spoke with a strong Scotch accent.I have met many of his kind since,both ashore and afloat.The second engineer of the steamer "Mavis",for instance,ought to have been his twin brother.I cannot help thinking that he really was,though for some reasons of his own he assured me that he never had a twin brother.Anyway the deliberate bald-headed Scot with the coal-black beard appeared to my boyish eyes a very romantic and mysterious person.
We slipped out unnoticed.Our mapped-out route led over the Furca Pass towards the Rhone Glacier,with the further intention of following down the trend of the Hasli Valley.The sun was already declining when we found ourselves on the top of the pass,and the remark alluded to was presently uttered.
We sat down by the side of the road to continue the argument begun half a mile or so before.I am certain it was an argument because I remember perfectly how my tutor argued and how without the power of reply I listened with my eyes fixed obstinately on the ground.A stir on the road made me look up--and then I saw my unforgettable Englishman.There are acquaintances of later years,familiars,shipmates,whom I remember less clearly.He marched rapidly towards the east (attended by a hang-dog Swiss guide)with the mien of an ardent and fearless traveller.He was clad in a knickerbocker suit,but as at the same time he wore short socks under his laced boots,for reasons which whether hygienic or conscientious were surely imaginative,his calves exposed to the public gaze and to the tonic air of high altitudes,dazzled the beholder by the splendour of their marble-like condition and their rich tone of young ivory.He was the leader of a small caravan.The light of a headlong,exalted satisfaction with the world of men and the scenery of mountains illumined his clean-cut,very red face,his short,silver-white whiskers,his innocently eager and triumphant eyes.In passing he cast a glance of kindly curiosity and a friendly gleam of big,sound,shiny teeth towards the man and the boy sitting like dusty tramps by the roadside,with a modest knapsack lying at their feet.His white calves twinkled sturdily,the uncouth Swiss guide with a surly mouth stalked like an unwilling bear at his elbow;a small train of three mules followed in single file the lead of this inspiring enthusiast.Two ladies rode past one behind the other,but from the way they sat I saw only their calm,uniform backs,and the long ends of blue veils hanging behind far down over their identical hat-brims.His two daughters surely.An industrious luggage-mule,with unstarched ears and guarded by a slouching,sallow driver,brought up the rear.My tutor,after pausing for a look and a faint smile,resumed his earnest argument.
I tell you it was a memorable year!One does not meet such an Englishman twice in a lifetime.Was he in the mystic ordering of common events the ambassador of my future,sent out to turn the scale at a critical moment on the top of an Alpine pass,with the peaks of the Bernese Oberland for mute and solemn witnesses?His glance,his smile,the unextinguishable and comic ardour of his striving-forward appearance helped me to pull myself together.
It must be stated that on that day and in the exhilarating atmosphere of that elevated spot I had been feeling utterly crushed.It was the year in which I had first spoken aloud of my desire to go to sea.At first like those sounds that,ranging outside the scale to which men's ears are attuned,remain inaudible to our sense of hearing,this declaration passed unperceived.It was as if it had not been.Later on,by trying various tones I managed to arouse here and there a surprised momentary attention--the "What was that funny noise?"sort of inquiry.Later on it was--"Did you hear what that boy said?
What an extraordinary outbreak!"Presently a wave of scandalised astonishment (it could not have been greater if I had announced the intention of entering a Carthusian monastery)ebbing out of the educational and academical town of Cracow spread itself over several provinces.It spread itself shallow but far-reaching.
It stirred up a mass of remonstrance,indignation,pitying wonder,bitter irony and downright chaff.I could hardly breathe under its weight,and certainly had no words for an answer.
People wondered what Mr.T.B.would do now with his worrying nephew and,I dare say,hoped kindly that he would make short work of my nonsense.
What he did was to come down all the way from Ukraine to have it out with me and to judge by himself,unprejudiced,impartial and just,taking his stand on the ground of wisdom and affection.As far as is possible for a boy whose power of expression is still unformed I opened the secret of my thoughts to him and he in return allowed me a glimpse into his mind and heart;the first glimpse of an inexhaustible and noble treasure of clear thought and warm feeling,which through life was to be mine to draw upon with a never-deceived love and confidence.Practically,after several exhaustive conversations,he concluded that he would not have me later on reproach him for having spoiled my life by an unconditional opposition.But I must take time for serious reflection.And I must not only think of myself but of others;weigh the claims of affection and conscience against my own sincerity of purpose."Think well what it all means in the larger issues,my boy,"he exhorted me finally with special friendliness."And meantime try to get the best place you can at the yearly examinations."The scholastic year came to an end.I took a fairly good place at the exams.,which for me (for certain reasons)happened to be a more difficult task than for other boys.In that respect Icould enter with a good conscience upon that holiday which was like a long visit pour prendre conge of the mainland of old Europe I was to see so little of for the next four and twenty years.Such,however,was not the avowed purpose of that tour.
It was rather,I suspect,planned in order to distract and occupy my thoughts in other directions.Nothing had been said for months of my going to sea.But my attachment to my young tutor and his influence over me were so well known that he must have received a confidential mission to talk me out of my romantic folly.It was an excellently appropriate arrangement,as neither he nor I had ever had a single glimpse of the sea in our lives.
That was to come by-and-by for both of us in Venice,from the outer shore of Lido.Meantime he had taken his mission to heart so well that I began to feel crushed before we reached Zurich.
He argued in railway trains,in lake steamboats,he had argued away for me the obligatory sunrise on the Righi,by Jove!Of his devotion to his unworthy pupil there can be no doubt.He had proved it already by two years of unremitting and arduous care.
I could not hate him.But he had been crushing me slowly,and when he started to argue on the top of the Furca Pass he was perhaps nearer a success than either he or I imagined.Ilistened to him in despairing silence,feeling that ghostly,unrealised and desired sea of my dreams escape from the unnerved grip of my will.
The enthusiastic old Englishman had passed--and the argument went on.What reward could I expect from such a life at the end of my years,either in ambition,honour or conscience?An unanswerable question.But I felt no longer crushed.Then our eyes met and a genuine emotion was visible in his as well as in mine.The end came all at once.He picked up the knapsack suddenly and got on to his feet.
"You are an incorrigible,hopeless Don Quixote.That's what you are."I was surprised.I was only fifteen and did not know what he meant exactly.But I felt vaguely flattered at the name of the immortal knight turning up in connection with my own folly,as some people would call it to my face.Alas!I don't think there was anything to be proud of.Mine was not the stuff the protectors of forlorn damsels,the redressers of this world's wrongs are made of;and my tutor was the man to know that best.
Therein,in his indignation,he was superior to the barber and the priest when he flung at me an honoured name like a reproach.
I walked behind him for full five minutes;then without looking back he stopped.The shadows of distant peaks were lengthening over the Furca Pass.When I came up to him he turned to me and in full view of the Finster-Aarhorn,with his band of giant brothers rearing their monstrous heads against a brilliant sky,put his hand on my shoulder affectionately.
"Well!That's enough.We will have no more of it."And indeed there was no more question of my mysterious vocation between us.There was to be no more question of it at all,nowhere or with any one.We began the descent of the Furca Pass conversing merrily.Eleven years later,month for month,I stood on Tower Hill on the steps of the St.Katherine's Dockhouse,a master in the British Merchant Service.But the man who put his hand on my shoulder at the top of the Furca Pass was no longer living.
That very year of our travels he took his degree of the Philosophical Faculty--and only then his true vocation declared itself.Obedient to the call he entered at once upon the four-year course of the Medical Schools.A day came when,on the deck of a ship moored in Calcutta,I opened a letter telling me of the end of an enviable existence.He had made for himself a practice in some obscure little town of Austrian Galicia.And the letter went on to tell me how all the bereaved poor of the district,Christians and Jews alike,had mobbed the good doctor's coffin with sobs and lamentations at the very gate of the cemetery.
How short his years and how clear his vision!What greater reward in ambition,honour and conscience could he have hoped to win for himself when,on the top of the Furca Pass,he bade me look well to the end of my opening life.
Chapter III.
The devouring in a dismal forest of a luckless Lithuanian dog by my grand-uncle Nicholas B.in company of two other military and famished scarecrows,symbolised,to my childish imagination,the whole horror of the retreat from Moscow and the immorality of a conqueror's ambition.An extreme distaste for that objectionable episode has tinged the views I hold as to the character and achievements of Napoleon the Great.I need not say that these are unfavourable.It was morally reprehensible for that great captain to induce a simple-minded Polish gentleman to eat dog by raising in his breast a false hope of national independence.It has been the fate of that credulous nation to starve for upwards of a hundred years on a diet of false hopes and--well--dog.It is,when one thinks of it,a singularly poisonous regimen.Some pride in the national constitution which has survived a long course of such dishes is really excusable.But enough of generalising.Returning to particulars,Mr.Nicholas B.confided to his sister-in-law (my grandmother)in his misanthropically laconic manner that this supper in the woods had been nearly "the death of him."This is not surprising.What surprises me is that the story was ever heard of;for grand-uncle Nicholas differed in this from the generality of military men of Napoleon's time (and perhaps of all time),that he did not like to talk of his campaigns,which began at Friedland and ended somewhere in the neighbourhood of Bar-le-Duc.His admiration of the great Emperor was unreserved in everything but expression.
Like the religion of earnest men,it was too profound a sentiment to be displayed before a world of little faith.Apart from that he seemed as completely devoid of military anecdotes as though he had hardly ever seen a soldier in his life.Proud of his decorations earned before he was twenty-five,he refused to wear the ribbons at the buttonhole in the manner practised to this day in Europe and even was unwilling to display the insignia on festive occasions,as though he wished to conceal them in the fear of appearing boastful."It is enough that I have them,"he used to mutter.In the course of thirty years they were seen on his breast only twice--at an auspicious marriage in the family and at the funeral of an old friend.That the wedding which was thus honoured was not the wedding of my mother I learned only late in life,too late to bear a grudge against Mr.Nicholas B.,who made amends at my birth by a long letter of congratulation containing the following prophecy:"He will see better times."Even in his embittered heart there lived a hope.But he was not a true prophet.
He was a man of strange contradictions.Living for many years in his brother's house,the home of many children,a house full of life,of animation,noisy with a constant coming and going of many guests,he kept his habits of solitude and silence.
Considered as obstinately secretive in all his purposes,he was in reality the victim of a most painful irresolution in all matters of civil life.Under his taciturn,phlegmatic behaviour was hidden a faculty of short-lived passionate anger.I suspect he had no talent for narrative;but it seemed to afford him sombre satisfaction to declare that he was the last man to ride over the bridge of the river Elster after the battle of Leipsic.
Lest some construction favourable to his valour should be put on the fact he condescended to explain how it came to pass.It seems that shortly after the retreat began he was sent back to the town where some divisions of the French Army (and amongst them the Polish corps of Prince Joseph Poniatowski),jammed hopelessly in the streets,were being simply exterminated by the troops of the Allied Powers.When asked what it was like in there Mr.Nicholas B.muttered the only word "Shambles."Having delivered his message to the Prince he hastened away at once to render an account of his mission to the superior who had sent him.By that time the advance of the enemy had enveloped the town,and he was shot at from houses and chased all the way to the river bank by a disorderly mob of Austrian Dragoons and Prussian Hussars.The bridge had been mined early in the morning and his opinion was that the sight of the horsemen converging from many sides in the pursuit of his person alarmed the officer in command of the sappers and caused the premature firing of the charges.He had not gone more than 200yards on the other side when he heard the sound of the fatal explosions.Mr.Nicholas B.
concluded his bald narrative with the word "Imbecile"uttered with the utmost deliberation.It testified to his indignation at the loss of so many thousands of lives.But his phlegmatic physiognomy lighted up when he spoke of his only wound,with something resembling satisfaction.You will see that there was some reason for it when you learn that he was wounded in the heel."Like his Majesty the Emperor Napoleon himself,"he reminded his hearers with assumed indifference.There can be no doubt that the indifference was assumed,if one thinks what very distinguished sort of wound it was.In all the history of warfare there are,I believe,only three warriors publicly known to have been wounded in the heel--Achilles and Napoleon--demi-gods indeed--to whom the familial piety of an unworthy descendant adds the name of the simple mortal,Nicholas B.
The Hundred Days found Mr.Nicholas B.staying with a distant relative of ours,owner of a small estate in Galicia.How he got there across the breadth of an armed Europe and after what adventures I am afraid will never be known now.All his papers were destroyed shortly before his death;but if there was amongst them,as he affirmed,a concise record of his life,then I am pretty sure it did not take up more than a half-sheet of foolscap or so.This relative of ours happened to be an Austrian officer,who had left the service after the battle of Austerlitz.Unlike Mr.Nicholas B.,who concealed his decorations,he liked to display his honourable discharge in which he was mentioned as unschreckbar (fearless)before the enemy.No conjunction could seem more unpromising,yet it stands in the family tradition that these two got on very well together in their rural solitude.
When asked whether he had not been sorely tempted during the Hundred Days to make his way again to France and join the service of his beloved Emperor,Mr.Nicholas B.used to mutter:"No money.No horse.Too far to walk."The fall of Napoleon and the ruin of national hopes affected adversely the character of Mr.Nicholas B.He shrank from returning to his province.But for that there was also another reason.Mr.Nicholas B.and his brother--my maternal grandfather--had lost their father early,while they were quite children.Their mother,young still and left very well off,married again a man of great charm and of an amiable disposition but without a penny.He turned out an affectionate and careful stepfather;it was unfortunate though that while directing the boys'education and forming their character by wise counsel he did his best to get hold of the fortune by buying and selling land in his own name and investing capital in such a manner as to cover up the traces of the real ownership.It seems that such practices can be successful if one is charming enough to dazzle one's own wife permanently and brave enough to defy the vain terrors of public opinion.The critical time came when the elder of the boys on attaining his majority in the year 1811asked for the accounts and some part at least of the inheritance to begin life upon.It was then that the stepfather declared with calm finality that there were no accounts to render and no property to inherit.The whole fortune was his very own.He was very good-natured about the young man's misapprehension of the true state of affairs,but of course felt obliged to maintain his position firmly.Old friends came and went busily,voluntary mediators appeared travelling on most horrible roads from the most distant corners of the three provinces;and the Marshal of the Nobility (ex-officio guardian of all well-born orphans)called a meeting of landowners to "ascertain in a friendly way how the misunderstanding between X and his stepsons had arisen and devise proper measures to remove the same."A deputation to that effect visited X,who treated them to excellent wines,but absolutely refused his ear to their remonstrances.As to the proposals for arbitration he simply laughed at them;yet the whole province must have been aware that fourteen years before,when he married the widow,all his visible fortune consisted (apart from his social qualities)in a smart four-horse turn-out with two servants,with whom he went about visiting from house to house;and as to any funds he might have possessed at that time their existence could only be inferred from the fact that he was very punctual in settling his modest losses at cards.But by the magic power of stubborn and constant assertion,there were found presently,here and there,people who mumbled that surely "there must be something in it."However,on his next name-day (which he used to celebrate by a great three-days'shooting-party),of all the invited crowd only two guests turned up,distant neighbours of no importance;one notoriously a fool,and the other a very pious and honest person but such a passionate lover of the gun that on his own confession he could not have refused an invitation to a shooting-party from the devil himself.X met this manifestation of public opinion with the serenity of an unstained conscience.He refused to be crushed.Yet he must have been a man of deep feeling,because,when his wife took openly the part of her children,he lost his beautiful tranquillity,proclaimed himself heart-broken and drove her out of the house,neglecting in his grief to give her enough time to pack her trunks.
This was the beginning of a lawsuit,an abominable marvel of chicane,which by the use of every legal subterfuge was made to last for many years.It was also the occasion for a display of much kindness and sympathy.All the neighbouring houses flew open for the reception of the homeless.Neither legal aid nor material assistance in the prosecution of the suit was ever wanting.X,on his side,went about shedding tears publicly over his stepchildren's ingratitude and his wife's blind infatuation;but as at the same time he displayed great cleverness in the art of concealing material documents (he was even suspected of having burnt a lot of historically interesting family papers),this scandalous litigation had to be ended by a compromise lest worse should befall.It was settled finally by a surrender,out of the disputed estate,in full satisfaction of all claims,of two villages with the names of which I do not intend to trouble my readers.After this lame and impotent conclusion neither the wife nor the stepsons had anything to say to the man who had presented the world with such a successful example of self-help based on character,determination and industry;and my great-grandmother,her health completely broken down,died a couple of years later in Carlsbad.Legally secured by a decree in the possession of his plunder,X regained his wonted serenity and went on living in the neighbourhood in a comfortable style and in apparent peace of mind.His big shoots were fairly well attended again.He was never tired of assuring people that he bore no grudge for what was past;he protested loudly of his constant affection for his wife and stepchildren.It was true he said that they had tried their best to strip him as naked as a Turkish saint in the decline of his days;and because he had defended himself from spoliation,as anybody else in his place would have done,they had abandoned him now to the horrors of a solitary old age.Nevertheless,his love for them survived these cruel blows.
And there might have been some truth in his protestations.Very soon he began to make overtures of friendship to his eldest stepson,my maternal grandfather;and when these were peremptorily rejected he went on renewing them again and again with characteristic obstinacy.For years he persisted in his efforts at reconciliation,promising my grandfather to execute a will in his favour if he only would be friends again to the extent of calling now and then (it was fairly close neighbourhood for these parts,forty miles or so),or even of putting in an appearance for the great shoot on the name-day.My grandfather was an ardent lover of every sport.His temperament was as free from hardness and animosity as can be imagined.Pupil of the liberal-minded Benedictines who directed the only public school of some standing then in the south,he had also read deeply the authors of the eighteenth century.In him Christian charity was joined to a philosophical indulgence for the failings of human nature.But the memory of these miserably anxious early years,his young man's years robbed of all generous illusions by the cynicism of the sordid lawsuit,stood in the way of forgiveness.