MR. WEEMS AND HIS PURCHASE.
... Genoa no doubt has its drawbacks. Incessant rain, perennial stink,
and big prices can go to make up a heaven for few people. But for
taking the taste of really bitter hard times out of one's mouth, the
place has its good points.
I'd been catching it bad just before. I'd got on my beam-ends in
Oporto, and couldn't afford to be fastidious about a berth.
Consequently, I'd found myself in a rotten old Genovese tramp barque
that most of the crew had run from because they thought she'd founder
next time she put to sea. Of course the owners didn't want to see her
again, and the skipper had been doing his best to play into their hands
all the way down from the Baltic. His mate had contrived to baulk his
losing her during the previous half of the trip, but got sick of the
job and cleared when he found the chance. It was into the mate's shoes
that I stepped; and having no interest in the insurance policy, and
placing a certain value on my own hide, I continued at the same game.
We'd a beautiful chance four days out. We picked up a sou'easter off
St. Vincent, and the putty began to tumble out, and she got more of a
basket than ever. We'd only ten of a crew all told, and there wasn't a
man of them that had had a whole watch below since we got our
clearance. Fore t'gallant mast had gone like a carrot at the cap, and
mizzen-mast head was so sprung that she wouldn't bear the spanker. She
was squattering along under the two lower topsails only, and we amused
ourselves by betting when they'd split.
She was so infernally full of water that she steered like a haystack;
and as any one in the waist got half-drowned every minute, long spells
at the pumps weren't popular.
We couldn't make our easting a bit, and the old man kept saying that we
should never get through the Straits. That was by way of preparation,
but I understood what he was up to and said nothing.
At last he put it to me squarely. 'Twasn't good enough going on like
this. The barque would have to be "Lost at Sea"--luckily the boat down
yonder amidships was a thumping big one.
I said open-boat cruising in a December Atlantic wasn't an amusement I
hankered after, and then asked him bluntly how much he was going to
clear out of the job.
He said, "Nothing;" called a large squad of saints to witness that the
loss of his vessel would ruin him; and then, changing tack, promised
that I should make a good thing out of it.
But when I tried to pin him, it was no go. He wouldn't make me out a
cheque; he wouldn't put pen to paper in any way; he wouldn't even
pledge his owners for a figure; and I damned him for a slippery
Maccaroni, and swore I'd drive his old tramp in between Genoa pierheads
just to square up his meanness. He daren't knife me, because the crew
would have understood why, and raised a wasp's nest; and he had to play
the sailor, because I promised him if he piled her up anywhere I'd go
to the nearest Italian consul and report him; but I'll give the man
credit for keeping me in blacker Hades during the rest of that crawl
across than I ever knew existed before. However, he got settled with
when once we were snugly into harbour, and was a long fortnight in
hospital repairing damages. That's where an Englishman scores. Whip
away the _coltello_ from the back of his belt, get him to put up
his hands, steer clear of his feet, and you have a southerner on toast.
After living like a brute--and acting, of course, so as not to spoil
the completeness of the part--for all that time, I naturally set to
doing what the sailor man always does under the circumstances. I got
ashore, and started washing the taste out of my mouth. Every man does
this according to his own lights, and perhaps mine were a trifle out of
the general groove. Lodging I was not fastidious about, neither did I
long for drink, nor clothes, nor women. So I put up at a bit of an
upstairs _albergo_ in the Via S. Siro, where one who knows the
ropes can get a decent room for a _lira_, and spent my time and
money in having daily a real good dinner and hearing some tip-top
music. And, by Jove, I did enjoy myself. It seemed almost worth going
through the bad spell, just for the sake of the contrast.
But, more's the pity, my pay had been small, and it fractionized
rapidly. The spree could only be a short one.
However, I wasn't going to run matters too fine this time and get
cornered again, as had been my fate at Oporto, so I loafed amongst the
shipping offices during my mornings, and had the good luck to stumble
into a berth on one of the American liners. It was only as third mate,
to be sure; but then she was a big ship, and I, professionally
speaking, was a small man. I hadn't exactly been schooled for the sea,
you know, so you can guess I was feeling pretty comfortable over it.
It's just spells like those which prove to a man how thoroughly life is
worth living.
The end of my tether was not long in coming. A man, when his shore
riotings are thoroughly systematic, as mine were, can calculate his
days of revelry to a nicety. I had arrived at my last two twenty-lire
notes. I was going to finish up with a ten-lire dinner, then spend four
lire for entrance and a seat at the Carlo Felice to hear "Cavalleria
Rusticana," leaving part of six lire for bed, morning coffee, and other
sundries, besides twenty odd to carry on the war with before I got my
advance on the steamer. Being stone-broke when you go on board doesn't
matter if you ship forward; but aft, to start with bare pockets may get
you a bad name.
I had maundered out to the Campo Santo that last day, and on the road
back, just after passing through the walls, an Englishman who had lost
himself asked the way to the market-place. He was a little bit of a
self-important chap, with a gruff, coarse voice, and schoolmaster
written in large letters all over him. He knew no word of Italian, and
was evidently feeling lonely to a degree; and so, as I had no objection
to chatting with a countryman, we paced off together and dropped into
conversation. He was "doing" North Italy with a circular ticket, and as
he had read it all up with much thoroughness beforehand, he was very
naturally much disappointed with the reality. "S. Mark's was too small,
and Venice was most unhealthy. The sanitation of that part over the
Rialto Bridge, where the butchers' shops were, was a disgrace to the
country. The Duomo at Milan was squat, ugly, overrated, and the hotel
charges in that city were most exorbitant. Turin might be a good place
for shopping, but he had not gone there for that purpose. And Genoa,
again, was unsanitary." In fact, he was the stereotyped travelling
Briton, so full of melancholy discontent and disappointment that one
wondered why he did not commit suicide or go home. And as, add to this,
he laid down the law with the true schoolmaster's dogmaticalness on
every conceivable subject that cropped up, from music to tattooing, you
can guess that he had in him the makings of a very objectionable beast
indeed. However, he was so appallingly ignorant of all the matters he
plunged amongst as to be correspondingly amusing, and for that reason
alone I didn't give him the go-by at once.
We were passing a bookseller's shop, where he caught sight of a mangy,
leather-bound MS. in the window, and said he'd ask the price. He didn't
know in the least what it was about, and didn't seem to care; but
saying that he would make a good profit out of it at Quaritch's, went
into the shop. I didn't offer an opinion about his last statement, but
just followed. He was demanding "How much?"
"Vous parlez francais, m'sieu'?" asked the bookseller.
"Nong, mais this gentleman here parlez Italiano.--I say, will you
translate for me? Ask the fellow what he'll sell this for."
I did, and the bookseller started a long yarn about the MS. having come
out of the Marchese di Somebody-or-other's library, where it had lain
undisturbed for several thousand years. "Signor," said he, "the book is
of inestimable value, and I cannot part with it for less than thirty
lire."
I repeated the gist of this to my man--Weems was his name, by the way,
of New, Oxford, so he said--and told him he could get the thing for
about twelve lire, if he cared about it. And, to cut the yarn short, he
did buy it for twelve-fifty, and left the shop feeling that he had been
swindled out of at least half a crown.
"What's your purchase about?" I asked when we were in the street again.
He hadn't looked; didn't see that it mattered much; the stuff was old,
and that was the main thing. All these old MSS. were valuable, and
Quaritch was sure to buy it at a good price.
I still had my doubts about that last, but didn't argue. It was his
affair, not mine.
Finally, he suggested dining together, and (as he had been in Genoa
exactly twelve hours) laid down the law without the smallest hesitation
as to which was the best place to go to, and what was best to have. By
that time I had got about sick of his society, and said bluntly that,
as I knew Genoa thoroughly, I was not going anywhere in the Galleria
Mazzini, as he suggested, but to somewhere in another direction; and,
further, that as his idea of his menu and mine didn't appear to
coincide in any one item, we had better bid one another good afternoon.
But the horror of loneliness loomed near him again, and for one of the
few times in his life he changed front without argument. He would
grant, upon second thoughts, that I must know best about such a matter,
and would take it as a great favour if he might place himself under my
guidance. After which, of course, I could not say anything except that
I should be proud to act as his _cicerone_.
We had our meal--which was to be my last good one for many a long day
to come--and a beauty it was. Even my North of England grammar-school
master could not but admit the excellence, although he grumbled at the
price. Afterwards we went through into the _caffe_, and I offered
him a good cigar, saying that if he had been undergoing a course of the
local vegetable he would appreciate it. However, the creature didn't
smoke; and as he also didn't drink black coffee, and as I did both, he
took occasion to point out to me at some length that I was deliberately
crumpling up my constitution. To turn the conversation, I suggested
over-hauling his recent purchase. He seemed sorry to cut short his
sermon, but finding that I was paying no attention, asked what the book
was.
"It's a diary," said I, "written in Spanish, or to be more accurate,
Catalan; and," I added rather maliciously, "I'm afraid you won't get
much of a fortune out of Quaritch for it, as there seems to be nothing
here except the merest tittle-tattle."
His face lengthened for a moment at the idea, but the old cocksure
manner came back again, and he pooh-poohed my valuation with lofty
superiority.
"I presume you are not an expert in such matters as these--er--Mr.
Cospatric? No, of course not; it couldn't be expected. But let me
assure you that I did not make this outlay with my eyes shut. Trust me
for knowing what I was about." He turned over some dozen of the yellow
pages, looking at them curiously. "That _y_ there standing by
itself means 'and.' H'm, yes. The thing's clear enough when one looks
into it. I don't profess to translate this old MS. at sight. You see
the--ar--the writing's crabbed; and my time is too much occupied to
study it carefully. No, I shall just sell the thing to the man I
mentioned as it stands. To return to what I was telling you about the
use of tobacco, though. Whether you consider the matter from a
scientific or merely from a rational point of view----" And away he
steamed again, whilst I conned over the tangled quill-work.
My inattention was purposely obvious. I had got thoroughly sick of the
man, and wanted to drive him away. But he had only his own society to
fall back upon, and he had evidently the good taste to object strongly
to that. And so he preached on.
There was only one other person at our end of the _caffe_, a dark,
good-looking man with blue spectacles, who sat at an adjoining table
with an _Eco d'Italia_ before him, sipping cognac and sugar. But
when Weems tried to drag him into conversation, the curse of the Tower
of Babel applied the _cloture_, and, "Ignorant lot, these
Italians," said the schoolmaster, going on to show with many statistics
and arguments that English, being founded on dead languages, was
irrevocably destined by the Fates to become the universal tongue of all
terrestrial peoples.
I looked at the clock. Half an hour yet before the doors of the Carlo
Felice opened. The steep street outside was wet and miserable. I went
back to turning over the old book. The pages were a queer medley,
superbly uninteresting most of them, and tedious to spell out. There
were the usual Spanish flourishes of lettering and expression, and when
one had winnowed away all this chaff, it needed a great deal of hunger
to make one appreciate the grain. In fact, I was on the point of
closing the old scribble book through sheer weariness, when my eye lit
on something which, as I read it further, made me fairly sweat.
Weems droned on with his sermon, and I chucked in question and retort
from time to time, just to keep him at it. I was wanting to gain time
for a little argument of my own. It was a case of should I keep what I
had found to myself, or should I share it with Weems? Common sense
said, "Don't be a fool. If Providence has chucked a good thing in your
way, stick it in your own pocket. That self-sufficient idiot will be
none the wiser." But the plague one calls Honour kept shoving in all
manner of objections. By Jove, how a rational-minded cad would have
scored there!
In the long run Honour, confound it, got a bit of a balancer which
helped it to win. I'd a light purse; Weems seemed better off; he must
supply the trifle of shot necessary for the pair of us; and together we
should split the proceeds. Yes, that would be the idea. And besides, on
second thoughts, there'd be lashings and lavings of plunder for both.
No need for a bit of sharp practice on my part after all. So up I
spoke:--
"See here, signor, you've had the carpet for long enough, so give me a
turn. This twaddling old screed which you were going to sell without
ever skimming it through holds what means nothing more or less than a
thumping great fortune for each of us. You've heard of Raymond Lully?
No? Well, he was an old swell who flourished in the twelve hundreds,
and who was by trade rake, philosopher, quack, fanatic, organizer, and
martyr. He hailed from Mallorca--or Majorca, as you English persist in
calling it--and he wrote books on Apologetic Theology, Dogmatic
Divinity, and Practical Alchemy. Also he penned this diary, which has
evidently been kept pretty snug so far, and thanks to its general
dreary tone, no one has read the memorandum on page the last but one."
"Let me see," interrupted Weems, stretching out his hand for the
volume.
"It's of no use to you, as you can't read Spanish. However, I'll tell
you what's here; only let me gently remind you first that if it hadn't
been for my knowing the language and conning some of this stuff
through, the book would have passed out of your hands without your ever
having learnt a word about it. Shall I go on now? It's a bit
important."
"Yes, we are practically alone here. That person with the blue
spectacles speaks no English, and there is no one else within earshot.
But you are slightly in error about my ignorance of Spanish, Mr.
Cospatric!"
"Yes, yes; you know _y_ means 'and,' don't you, and that _si_
stands for 'yes,' and all the rest? But don't let's bother about that
now. Just marvel at this wonderful find. If the old gentleman had only
written 'R. Lully, His Book,' on the title-page or at the conclusion,
some bibliophile would have picked the thing up for a certainty, and
read it with the view of finding what I have found; and part of the
world's history would be different. But as it is, Lully happily omitted
his signature, and in consequence the memorandum of where the Recipe
could be found has never been read since the day it was written."
"But," broke in Weems, "what is this all about? I can't understand what
you are driving at, except that the book is a diary of Raymond Lully's,
whose name, of course, I recollect clearly enough now."
"My dear sir, whilst this old quack was trafficking with alchemy, and
trying to discover the elixir vital, or the philosopher's stone, or
some other myth like that, he accidentally found out a method whereby
common wood charcoal may be crystallized."
"What!" gasped the schoolmaster, "made into diamonds! Great heavens,
how was it done? Tell me quick."
"He doesn't give it here. This diary was evidently a private one which
he carried about with him, and it was liable to be destroyed. So he
wrote up the Recipe in a quiet place where no one would stumble on it,
and where, as he remarks, he could send his heir to if he thought fit
to do such a thing. But still, I don't think that there is much fear of
the secret having been given away. In the first place, we should
undoubtedly hear of it if any one was manufacturing real diamonds for
the market, as the diamond mines of the world are all known, and their
output most strictly regulated. And, in the second place, he had a
strong reason of his own for not divulging the formula. Listen, and
I'll read. 'If,' he says, 'diamonds were made common and cheap so that
the lower orders of people might obtain them, I can conceive that much
dissension would arise. For the nobles, finding their stored gems to
have become in a sudden of no richness, would be deeply embittered
thereby--they and their woman-kind. And the common folk, being able to
flaunt jewels equal to those of their betters, would wax arrogant and
dissatisfied; and though being in reality no whit better off than
before, would deem themselves the inferiors of none and the superiors
to most; in support of which vain dreams they would strive to their own
sore detriment. For as in the beginning the sons of Adam were equal,
and as of their descendants some rose to be of ruling classes through
mental and physical fitness, so if all men were to be levelled again
to-day, to-morrow they would be uneven once more, and the next day more
uneven, the weak getting trampled under foot, and the strong fighting a
red path upward with their ruthless sword.'"
"I need hardly inform you," interrupted Weems, "that those crude ideas
of political economy are not what we modern thinkers accept. Even John
Stuart--but I will tell you about that afterwards. Please let me hear
how the diamonds are made. Never mind about the other twaddle. It pains
one to listen to it."
"As I told you, the actual Recipe is not in the diary here. Lully wrote
it out, so he says, in imperishable form, in a place where he conceived
it would pass down through the centuries absolutely undisturbed. I am
not quite so confident about that as he is, as I know the
inquisitiveness of the present generation better than he could imagine
it. But to cut the story short, he found a way into one of the Talayots
of Minorca, carved his secret upon the plaster of the interior, hid the
entrance again, and came away. He says that the Talayot was believed by
the Minorcans to be solid throughout, and adds that his only confidant,
the priest who helped him to gain the internal chamber, died of a fever
two days afterwards. Then he mentions the name of the spot--Talaiti de
Talt, near Mercadal--and says if you dig a man's length down in the
middle of the side facing seaward, you'll come across the entrance
passage. Oddly enough, I've been at Mercadal myself, when a brig I was
on was weather-bound in Port Mahon; and though I don't recollect this
Talaiti de Talt, it's very probable I saw it, as we overhauled all the
Talayots in the neighbourhood."
"By the way, what is a Talayot? I'm--ar--sorry to confess
ignorance----"
That last made me grin, which he saw, and didn't like a bit. However, I
pulled my face together again, and explained. "'Talayot' is a generic
term for the groups of prehistoric remains which lie all over the
island. There are monoliths, short underground passages, duolithic
altars, and rude pyramids. Talaiti de Talt is evidently one of these
last."
"Old?"
"Tolerably. The race of men who put them up were extinct before the
Egyptian pyramid-builders came upon the scene."
"I don't quite see how that can be. You must understand, Mr.
Cospatric----"
"Oh, what does it matter, man? If it pleases you, I'll grant that
Cheops and Co. took to architecture first. But, anyway, these Minorcan
pyramids were up long before Lully's time, and that's enough for us.
The Recipe's there, just waiting to be fetched. We must drink success
to this."
A waitress brought us filled glasses, and we toasted one another. Then
I told Weems openly enough about my financial position, and asked him
to advance me enough for passage money. I said I knew the language and
the route and all the rest of it, and the outlay for the pair of us
would be very little more than what it would cost him to go alone. In
fact, I was going on to sketch out the trip, and tot up the items of
cost, when he cut me short, and coldly intimated that he did not intend
to part with a cent. He did not even plead poverty. He gave no reason
whatever.
I stared at him for a minute or so blankly. That he would refuse what I
asked had never occurred to me. At last I blurted out, "Why, good God,
man, I needn't have told you about the thing at all. If I'd held my
tongue, you know very well you'd have parted with the book in absolute
ignorance of what it contained."
"I might or might not have looked into it, Mr. Cospatric. That is as
may be. But the most ordinary honesty would have compelled you to speak
when I did. Perhaps I refused your request too abruptly just now.
Believe me, I am not ungrateful for the service you have rendered. In
fact, I should like to prove my obligation. But I could not have you
labour under the error that you are entitled to a half share of
whatever profits may accrue. This Recipe is mine, entirely mine, Mr.
Cospatric, and it is not likely that I am going to put you in the way
of annexing a share of it. Of course, legally, you have no claim on me;
but as you say you are in indigent circumstances, I am willing to
stretch a point, and do more than I otherwise should. I will give you
the remainder of my circular ticket. That will take you back to
England, let me see--via----"
"You scurvy little blackguard," said I, beginning to lose my temper,
"aren't you afraid of being killed?"
He got very red, and exclaimed pompously, "Don't you attempt bombast
with me, Mr. Cospatric. I am as safe from your personal violence here
as I should be at home."
"Then," said I, "you must live at a tolerably lively place, for here
there are at least four men knifed every week, and more when things are
brisk."
"I shall put myself under the protection of the police if you threaten
me," said he, evidently beginning to feel a bit uneasy.
"And I should like to know how the devil you would set about doing that
same? Why, my blessed rustic, supposing you knew the lingo, which you
don't, and you went up to the local substitute for a bobby, and said
you wanted to get under his cloak, d'ye know what he'd do? Why, run you
in straight away. And in quod you'd stop; there isn't a soul in the
city here who'd say a word for you." Of course all this was a bluff,
but I knew the average Briton has an intense belief in official
lawlessness on the Continent, and I thought I'd reckoned up this
specimen pretty accurately. It looked as if I was right. He changed
tack promptly, dropped the dictatorial schoolmaster, and started
fawning. I seemed to have mistaken his motives. As a man of science, he
naturally took an intense interest in this Recipe, and wished to have
the administration of it entirely in his own hands. But, of course, I
must have known that as a gentleman he would feel bound to divide any
fortune that might proceed from it equally with me.
As a point of fact, I hadn't understood this. I had also overlooked the
item that he was a gentleman, and even then did not recognize it. But I
kept these trifles to myself; and as he was evidently trying to bury
the hatchet, I got out my spade as well. And for the rest of that
evening we were as civil to one another as a couple of smugglers with
one load of bales.
We were to work the thing together on his coin and my experience, both
of which were equally necessary; and as for the plunder, there'd be a
belly-full for the pair of us, and a lot to spare. Thank goodness women
existed; and as long as they didn't die out, the inhabitants of this
globe would always buy diamonds, if the market was not over-glutted.
And we'd start by the train which set off westward along the coast at
7.10 the next morning.
When we get comfortably to Mahon, thought I, I'll tell Mr. Schoolmaster
that the proof of the pudding can be found near the Recipe, for,
according to the illustrious doctor's account, he has buried in the
floor of the Talayot a fist-full of diamonds from his own manufactory.
But as the little chap seems keen enough already, I'll let that stand
over for the present. If at any time he wants an extra spur, it will
come in handy.