Inn at Gutter Vawr—The Hurly-burly—Bara y Caws—Change of Manner—Welsh
Mistrust—Wonders of Russia—The Emperor—The Grand Ghost Story.
The old woman who confronted me in the passage of the inn turned out to
be the landlady. On learning that I intended to pass the night at her
house, she conducted me into a small room on the right-hand side of the
passage, which proved to be the parlour. It was cold and comfortless,
for there was no fire in the grate. She told me, however, that one
should be lighted, and going out, presently returned with a couple of
buxom wenches, who I soon found were her daughters. The good lady had
little or no English; the girls, however, had plenty, and of a good kind
too. They soon lighted a fire, and then the mother inquired if I wished
for any supper.
“Certainly,” said I, “for I have not eaten anything since I left
Llandovery. What can I have?”
“We have veal and bacon,” said she.
“That will do,” said I; “fry me some veal and bacon, and I shan’t
complain. But pray tell what prodigious noise is that which I hear on
the other side of the passage?”
“It is only the miners and the carters in the kitchen making merry,” said
one of the girls.
“Is there a good fire there?” said I.
“Oh yes,” said the girl, “we have always a good fire in the kitchen.”
“Well then,” said I, “I shall go there till supper is ready, for I am wet
to the skin, and this fire casts very little heat.”
“You will find them a rough set in the kitchen,” said the girl.
“I don’t care if I do” said I; “when people are rough I am civil, and I
have always found that civility beats roughness in the long run.” Then
going out I crossed the passage and entered the kitchen.
It was nearly filled with rough unkempt fellows, smoking, drinking,
whistling, singing, shouting or jabbering, some in a standing, some in a
sitting, posture. My entrance seemed at once to bring everything to a
dead stop; the smokers ceased to smoke, the hand that was conveying the
glass or the mug to the mouth was arrested in air, the hurly-burly ceased
and every eye was turned upon me with a strange inquiring stare. Without
allowing myself to be disconcerted I advanced to the fire, spread out my
hands before it for a minute, gave two or three deep “ahs” of comfort,
and then turning round said: “Rather a damp night, gentlemen—fire
cheering to one who has come the whole way from Llandovery—Taking a bit
of a walk in Wales, to see the scenery and to observe the manners and
customs of the inhabitants—Fine country, gentlemen, noble prospects, hill
and dale—Fine people too—open-hearted and generous; no wonder!
descendants of the Ancient Britons—Hope I don’t intrude—other room rather
cold and smoking—If I do, will retire at once—don’t wish to interrupt any
gentleman in their avocations or deliberations—scorn to do anything
ungenteel or calculated to give offence—hope I know how to behave
myself—ought to do so—learnt grammar at the High School at Edinburgh.”
“Offence, intrusion!” cried twenty voices. “God bless your honour! no
intrusion and no offence at all; sit down—sit here—won’t you drink?”
“Please to sit here, sir,” said an old grimy-looking man, getting up from
a seat in the chimney-corner—“this is no seat for me whilst you are here,
it belongs to you—sit down in it,” and laying hold of me he compelled me
to sit down in the chair of dignity, whilst half-a-dozen hands pushed
mugs of beer towards my face; these, however, I declined to partake of on
the very satisfactory ground that I had not taken supper, and that it was
a bad thing to drink before eating, more especially after coming out of a
mist.
“Have you any news to tell of the war, sir?” said a large tough fellow,
who was smoking a pipe.
“The last news that I heard of the war,” said I, “was that the snow was
two feet deep at Sebastopol.”
“I heard three,” said the man; “however, if there be but two it must be
bad work for the poor soldiers. I suppose you think that we shall beat
the Russians in the end.”
“No, I don’t,” said I; “the Russians are a young nation and we are an
old; they are coming on and we are going off; every dog has its day.”
“That’s true,” said the man, “but I am sorry that you think we shall not
beat the Russians, for the Russians are a bad set.”
“Can you speak Welsh?” said a darkish man with black, bristly hair and a
small inquisitive eye.
“Oh, I know two words in Welsh,” said I; “bara y caws.”
“That’s bread and cheese,” said the man, then turning to a neighbour of
his he said in Welsh: “He knows nothing of Cumraeg, only two words; we
may say anything we please; he can’t understand us. What a long nose he
has!”
“Mind that he an’t nosing us,” said his neighbour. “I should be loth to
wager that he doesn’t understand Welsh; and, after all, he didn’t say
that he did not, but got off by saying he understood those two words.”
“No, he doesn’t understand Welsh,” said the other; “no Sais understands
Welsh, and this is a Sais. Now with regard to that piece of job-work
which you and I undertook.” And forthwith he and the other entered into
a disquisition about the job-work.
The company soon got into its old train, drinking and smoking and making
a most terrific hullabaloo. Nobody took any farther notice of me. I sat
snug in the chimney-corner, trying to dry my wet things, and as the heat
was very great, partially succeeded. In about half-an-hour one of the
girls came to tell me that my supper was ready, whereupon I got up and
said:
“Gentlemen, I thank you for your civility; I am now going to supper;
perhaps before I turn in for the night I may look in upon you again.”
Then without waiting for an answer I left the kitchen and went into the
other room, where I found a large dish of veal cutlets and fried bacon
awaiting me, and also a smoking bowl of potatoes. Ordering a jug of ale
I sat down, and what with hunger and the goodness of the fare, for
everything was first-rate, made one of the best suppers I ever made in my
life.
Supper over I called for a glass of whiskey-and-water, over which I
trifled for about half-an-hour and then betook myself again to the
kitchen. Almost as soon as I entered, the company—who seemed to be
discussing some point, and were not making much hurly-burly—became
silent, and looked at me in a suspicious and uneasy manner. I advanced
towards the fire. The old man who had occupied the seat in the
chimney-corner and had resigned it to me, had again taken possession of
it. As I drew near to the fire he looked upon the ground, and seemed by
no means disposed to vacate the place of honour; after a few moments,
however, he got up and offered me the seat with slight motion of his hand
and without saying a word. I did not decline it but sat down, and the
old gentleman took a chair near. Universal silence now prevailed; sullen
looks were cast at me, and I saw clearly enough that I was not welcome.
Frankness was now my only resource. “What’s the matter, gentlemen?” said
I; “you are silent and don’t greet me kindly; have I given you any cause
of offence?” No one uttered a word in reply for nearly a minute, when
the old man said slowly and deliberately: “Why, sir, the long and short
of it is this: we have got it into our heads that you understand every
word of our discourse; now, do you or do you not?”
“Understand every word of your discourse?” said I; “I wish I did; I would
give five pounds to understand every word of your discourse.”
“That’s a clever attempt to get off, sir,” said the old man, “but it
won’t exactly do. Tell us whether you know more Welsh than bara y caws,
or to speak more plainly, whether you understand a good deal of what we
say.”
“Well,” said I, “I do understand more Welsh than bara y caws—I do
understand a considerable part of a Welsh conversation; moreover, I can
read Welsh, and have the life of Tom O’r Nant at my fingers’ ends.”
“Well, sir, that is speaking plain, and I will tell you plainly that we
don’t like to have strangers among us who understand our discourse, more
especially if they be gentlefolks.”
“That’s strange,” said I; “a Welshman or foreigner, gentle or simple, may
go into a public-house in England, and nobody cares a straw whether he
understands the discourse of the company or not.”
“That may be the custom in England,” said the old man, “but it is not so
in Wales.”
“What have you got to conceal?” said I; “I suppose you are honest men.”
“I hope we are, sir,” said the old man; “but I must tell you, once for
all, that we don’t like strangers to listen to our discourse.”
“Come,” said I, “I will not listen to your discourse, but you shall
listen to mine. I have a wonderful deal to say if I once begin; I have
been everywhere.”
“Well, sir,” said the old man, “if you have anything to tell us about
where you have been and what you have seen, we shall be glad to hear
you.”
“Have you ever been in Russia?” shouted a voice, that of the large rough
fellow who asked me the question about the Russian war.
“Oh yes, I have been in Russia,” said I.
“Well, what kind of a country is it?”
“Very different from this,” said I, “which is a little country up in a
corner, full of hills and mountains; that is an immense country,
extending from the Baltic Sea to the confines of China, almost as flat as
a pancake, there not being a hill to be seen for nearly two thousand
miles.”
“A very poor country isn’t it, always covered with ice and snow?”
“Oh no; it is one of the richest countries in the world, producing all
kinds of grain, with noble rivers intersecting it, and in some parts
covered with stately forests. In the winter, which is rather long, there
is a good deal of ice and snow, it is true, but in the summer the weather
is warmer than here.”
“And are there any towns and cities in Russia, sir, as there are in
Britain?” said the old man who had resigned his seat in the
chimney-corner to me; “I suppose not, or if there be, nothing equal to
Hereford or Bristol, in both of which I have been.”
“Oh yes,” said I, “there are plenty of towns and cities. The two
principal ones are Moscow and Saint Petersburg, both of which are
capitals. Moscow is a fine old city, far up the country, and was the
original seat of empire. In it there is a wonderful building called the
Kremlin, situated on a hill. It is partly palace, partly temple, and
partly fortress. In one of its halls are I don’t know how many crowns,
taken from various kings whom the Russians have conquered. But the most
remarkable thing in the Kremlin is a huge bell in a cellar or cave, close
by one of the churches; it is twelve feet high, and the sound it gives
when struck with an iron bar, for there are no clappers to Russian bells,
is so loud that the common Russians say it can be heard over the empire.
The other city, Saint Petersburg, where the Court generally reside, is a
modern and very fine city; so fine indeed, that I have no hesitation in
saying that neither Bristol nor Hereford is worthy to be named in the
same day with it. Many of the streets are miles in length, and straight
as an arrow. The Nefsky Prospect, as it is called, a street which runs
from the grand square, where stands the Emperor’s palace, to the
monastery of Saint Alexander Nefsky, is nearly three miles in length, and
is full of noble shops and houses. The Neva, a river twice as broad and
twice as deep as the Thames, and whose waters are clear as crystal, runs
through the town, having on each side of it a superb quay, fenced with
granite, which affords one of the most delightful walks imaginable. If I
had my choice of all the cities of the world to live in, I would choose
Saint Petersburg.”
“And did you ever see the Emperor?” said the rough fellow, whom I have
more than once mentioned, “did you ever see the Emperor Nicholas?”
“Oh yes: I have seen him frequently.”
“Well, what kind of a man is he? we should like to know.”
“A man of colossal stature, with a fine, noble, but rather stern and
severe aspect. I think I now see him, with his grey cloak, cocked hat,
and white waving plumes, striding down the Nefsky Prospect, and towering
by a whole head over other people.”
“Bravo! Did you ever see him at the head of his soldiers?”
“Oh yes! I have seen the Emperor review forty thousand of his chosen
troops in the Champs de Mars, and a famous sight it was. There stood the
great, proud man looking at his warriors as they manoeuvred before him.
Two-thirds of them were cavalry, and each horseman was mounted on a
beautiful blood charger of Cossack or English breed, and arrayed in a
superb uniform. The blaze, glitter and glory were too much for my eyes,
and I was frequently obliged to turn them away. The scene upon the whole
put me in mind of an immense field of tulips of various dyes, for the
colours of the dresses, of the banners and the plumes, were as gorgeous
and manifold as the hues of those queenly flowers.”
“Bravo!” said twenty voices; “the gentleman speaks like an areithiwr.
Have you been in other countries besides Russia?”
“Oh yes! I have been in Turkey, the people of which are not Christians,
but frequently put Christians to shame by their good faith and honesty.
I have been in the land of the Maugrabins, or Moors—a people who live on
a savoury dish called couscousoo, and have the gloomiest faces and the
most ferocious hearts under heaven. I have been in Italy, whose people,
though the most clever in the world, are the most unhappy, owing to the
tyranny of a being called the Pope, who, when I saw him, appeared to be
under the influence of strong drink. I have been in Portugal, the people
of which supply the whole world with wine, and drink only water
themselves. I have been in Spain, a very fine country, the people of
which are never so happy as when paying other folks’ reckonings. I have
been—but the wind is blowing wildly without, and the rain pelting against
the windows; this is a capital night for a ghost story; shall I tell you
a ghost story which I learnt in Spain?”
“Yes, sir, pray do; we all love ghost stories. Do tell us the ghost
story of Spain.”
Thereupon I told the company Lope de Vega’s ghost story, which is
decidedly the best ghost story in the world.
Long and loud was the applause which followed the conclusion of the grand
ghost story of the world, in the midst of which I got up, bade the
company good-night, and made my exit. Shortly afterwards I desired to be
shown to my sleeping apartment. It was a very small room upstairs, in
the back part of the house; and I make no doubt was the chamber of the
two poor girls, the landlady’s daughters, as I saw various articles of
female attire lying about. The spirit of knight-errantry within me was
not, however, sufficiently strong to prevent me taking possession of the
female dormitory; so, forthwith divesting myself of every portion of my
habiliments, which were steaming like a boiling tea-kettle, I got into
bed between the blankets, and in a minute was fast in the arms of
Morpheus.