A Shadow of Night
"This villain, . . . He dares--I know not half he dares--
But remove him--quick!"
--ROBERT BROWNING.
So early was it still, I feared we had come before the brotherhood
were astir to receive visitors; but as I looked up at the great, grey,
silent building, the noble head of a magnificent St. Bernard dog
appeared in the doorway, at the top of steep stone steps. There could
not have been a more appropriate welcome to this remote dwelling of a
devoted band; and when the dog, after gazing gravely at the newcomers,
vanished into darkness, I knew that he had gone in to tell of our
arrival. I was right, too, for once within, he uttered a deep
bell-note, more sonorous and more musical than lies in the throats of
common dogs, and was answered by a distant baying. One could not say
that these majestic animals "barked." There was as indisputable a
difference between an ordinary bark, and the sound they made, as
between the barrel instrument played in the streets, and a grand
cathedral organ.
Joseph had visited the Hospice many times, and knew the etiquette for
strangers. He bade me go in, and ring the bell at the _grille_, unless
I should meet one of the monks before reaching it. I mounted the
steps, entered the wide doorway which had framed the dog's head, and
found myself in a vast, dusky corridor, resonant with strange
echoings, and mysterious with flitting shadows, which might be ghosts
of the past, or live beings of the present. As my eyes grew accustomed
to the gloom, I saw that there were numerous persons in this great
hall: tall monks in flowing robes of black, beggars come to solicit
alms or breakfast; and dogs, many dogs, who crowded round me, with a
waving of huge tails, and a gleaming of brown jewelled eyes in the
dusk. I did not need to ring the bell of the iron gate beyond which,
according to Joseph, no woman has ever passed. One of the monks came
to me--a tall, spare young man with a grave face, soft in expression,
yet hardened in outline by a rigorous life and exposure to extreme
cold. He gave me welcome in French, with here and there an
interpellation of "Down, Turk," "Be quiet, Jupiter!" Would I like
breakfast, he asked; and then--yes, certainly--to see the chapel, the
_bibliothèque_, the monastery museum, and the Alpine garden? There
would be plenty of time for this, and still to reach Aosta. Another
monk was called, and an introduction effected. I was taken into a
handsomely decorated refectory, where I opened my eyes in some
astonishment at sight of the Imp, drinking coffee from a shallow bowl
nearly as big as his childish head. Innocentina was no doubt at this
moment shocking Joseph by some new depravity, in the _salle-à-manger_
where humbler folk were entertained with the same hospitality as their
(so called) betters.
The Brat set down his bowl, and saw me, as I subsided into a chair on
the opposite side of the long, narrow table. His face flushed, and the
brilliant blue eyes clouded, but he deigned to acknowledge our
acquaintance with a slight bow.
[Illustration: "DOWN, TURK!" "BE QUIET, JUPITER!"]
"I didn't suppose you would have started yet," said I.
"I thought the same thing about you," he retorted. "We got off very
quietly from the Cantine----"
"Ah, you wished to steal a march on me," I broke in, "But really, my
young friend, you need not have feared that I should impose myself
upon you as a travelling companion. My one object in making this
excursion is, if not to enjoy my own society, at any rate to
experiment with it, therefore----"
"I have _two_ objects in making mine," the boy interrupted. "One is to
avoid men; the other is to find materials for writing a book, with no
men in it--only places."
"It will not be owing to me, if you fail in the former," said I. "As
for the latter, naturally it will depend upon yourself. What shall you
call it--'A Chiel takkin' Notes' or 'In Search of the Grail'?"
He blushed vividly. "I haven't decided on the name yet, but it can't
matter to you, as I do not expect you to buy the book when it comes
out; nor need you be afraid that you will figure in the pages. If I
were to call my book 'In Search of--anything,' it would be, 'In Search
of Peace.'"
With this, the strange child rose from the table, and bowing,
departed, leaving me lost in wonder at him. He was but an infant, and
an impertinent infant at that; yet suddenly I had had a glimpse
through the great sea-blue eyes, of a soul, weary after some tragic
experience. At least this was the impression which flashed into my
mind, with the one look I surprised before lashes hid its secret; but
in a moment I was laughing at myself. Ridiculous to have such a
thought in connection with a slip of a boy, seventeen at most! I
lingered over my breakfast, so that the Brat have finished his
sightseeing and got away, before my tour of the Hospice began.
He and I had had the table to ourselves at first, but I sat so long
that others came in, evidently persons who had spent the night at the
monastery. There was a Russian family, of so many daughters that I
wondered their parents had found names for them all; a couple of
German women in plaid blouses so terrible that they set me
speculating. Had the material been chosen by their husbands, with the
view of alienating all masculine admiration, as a Japanese girl, when
married, blackens her teeth? Or had the ladies inflicted the frightful
things upon themselves, by way of penance for some grievous sin? I
should have liked to ask, especially as one of the wearers was very
pretty, with a large, madonna loveliness. But under my dreaming eyes,
she began eating honey with her knife, and I sprang from the table
hastily. As I paused, I heard two stolid Cockneys asking each other
why the--dickens they had come to this "beastly, cold, God-forsaken
hole, with nothing but a lot of ugly mountains to see. There was
better sport in Oxford Street." I should not have considered it murder
if I had killed them where they sat, but I refrained, rather than soil
my hands. And after all, if a primrose on a river's brim, but a yellow
primrose was to them, what did it matter to me?
I visited the _bibliothèque_, which was haunted by a fragrance
intoxicating to booklovers, of dead centuries, leather bindings, and
parchment. I saw the piano given by the King when he was Prince of
Wales; the fine collection of coins and early Roman remains found in
the neighbourhood of the monastery; I dropped a louis into the box of
offerings in the chapel, and then was taken by a mild-eyed,
frail-looking monk to see some of the rooms allotted to guests at the
Hospice. Seeing them, I was inclined to wish that I had pushed on
through the darkness last night, and reached this mountain-top to
sleep. I liked the wainscoted walls, the white, canopied beds, but
most of all, I liked the deep-set windows with their view of the
silent lake, asleep in the bosom of the mountains, and dreaming of the
sky. On most of the walls were votive offerings in the shape of
pictures, sent to the monks by grateful visitors in far-off countries.
One was an engraving which had adorned the nursery in my youth, and
had been a never-failing source of curiosity to me. It was Gustave
Doré's "Christian Martyrs," and I had once been deprived of pudding at
the nursery dinner, because I had remarked (with irreverence wholly
unintentional) that one of the lions seemed ill, and anxious to "climb
up the wall and get away from the nasty martyrs." Thus it is that
children are misunderstood by their elders! and now, as I gazed at the
same picture on the monastery wall, I felt again all the old, impotent
rebellion against injustice and misplaced power.
Later, I wandered through the pathetically interesting Alpine garden,
carefully kept by the monks; and then, sure that by this time the Brat
and his cavalcade must be far on their way, I started, with Joseph and
Finois, to stroll down the Pass towards Aosta.
I had promised Jack and Molly to tell them in my letters, whether it
would be possible for them, with a motor, to go by some of the routes
which I chose. Over the St. Bernard from Martigny to the Hospice they
could not have ventured, even in the stealthy, fly-by-night manner in
which they had "done" the St. Gothard and the Simplon; for on the St.
Bernard the road was always narrow, often stony and dangerous. Beyond,
on the other side, even carriages cannot yet pass, descending to
Aosta, though in another year the new road will be finished. As it is,
for many a generation pilgrims from the Hospice to Italy have been
obliged to go down as far as the mountain village of St. Rhémy either
on foot or mule-back; thus there was no hope for Mercédès there.
I went swinging down the steep and winding path, my heart chanting a
psalm to the mountains. Mountains like cathedrals, with carved,
graceful spires; mountains like frozen waves left by some great sea
when the world was chaos; mountains like leaning towers of Pisa;
mountains like sentinel Titans; mountains silver-grey; mountains
dark-red. The "Pain de Sucre" was strangest of all in form, perhaps,
and Joseph distressed me much by remarking guilelessly that it, and
other white shapes at which he pointed, looked exactly like frosted
wedding-cakes. It was true; they did; but they looked like nobler
things also, and I resented having so cheap a simile put into my head.
With every step the way grew more glorious. This was an enchanted
land. I could hardly believe that thousands of travellers had seen it
before, and would again. I felt as if I had fallen Sindbad-like, into
a valley undiscovered by man; and, like Sindbad's valley, this
sparkled to my dazzled eyes with countless gems. Not all cold, white
diamonds, like his, but gems of every colour. The rocks through which
our path was cut, glowed with rainbow hues, like different precious
metals blended. This effect struck me at first (in the brilliant
sunshine which alone kept me from being nipped with cold) as puzzling,
but in a moment I had solved the "jewel mystery" of the mountains. The
rocks were of porphyry, and marble, and granite, spangled with mica;
and over all spread in patches a lichen of rose, and green, and
yellow, like chipped rubies and emeralds among gold-filings.
So wild and splendid was the scene, composed and painted by a peerless
Master, that I slackened my pace, reluctant to leave so much splendour
behind; but despite all delaying, we came after a time down to
tree-level. The landscape changed; the diamond spray of miniature
cataracts dashed over high cliffs, among balsamic pine forests; the
sunshine brought out the intense green of moss and fern. We met
porters struggling up the height with luggage on their backs, and fat
women riding depressed mules. It was very mediæval, and I had the
sensation of having walked into a picture--round the corner of it,
into the best part which you know must be there, though it can't be
seen by outsiders.
It took us an hour and a half to walk the eleven kilometres down to
St. Rhémy, where we lunched well, and drank a sparkling wine of the
country which may have been meretricious, but tasted good. There was a
_douane_, for we had now passed out of Switzerland into Italy, and my
mule-pack was examined with curiosity; but why I should have been
questioned with insistence as to whether I were concealing sausages, I
could not guess, unless a swashbuckling German princeling who married
into our family eight generations ago, was using my eyes for windows
at the time.
I need not have feared that the best of the journey would be over at
St. Rhémy, for the road (which broadened there, and became "navigable"
for motor cars as well as horse-drawn vehicles), wound down still
among stupendous mountains capped with snow, jagged peaks of dark
granite, and purple porphyry which glowed crimson in contrast with the
dazzling snow.
We did not leave St. Rhémy till long past one, and as we descended
upon lower levels the sun grew hot. More than once I called a halt,
and we had a delicious rest under a tree in some exquisite glade a
little removed from the roadside. It was during one of these, while
Finois cropped an indigestible branch, that Joseph opened his heart,
and told me his life's history. It had been more or less adventurous,
and it had held a tragedy, for Joseph had loved, and the fair had
jilted him on the eve of their marriage, for a prosperous baker. This
fellow-feeling (for had we not both been thrown over for tradesmen?)
made me wondrous kind towards Joseph; and when I had drawn from him
the fact that his great ambition was to own three donkeys, and start
in business for himself, I secretly determined to see what could be
done towards forwarding this end.
We did not hurry, and while we were still far above Aosta, the shadows
lengthened and thinned, like children who have grown too fast. We
exchanged chestnuts for pines, and the pure ethereal blue of Italy
burned in the sky. Everywhere was rich abundance of colour. The green
of trees and grass was luscious; even the shadows were of a
translucent purple. Below us the valley of Aosta lay, so dreamily
lovely, so peaceful, that one could imagine there only happiness and
prosperity.
I remarked this to Joseph, and he smiled his melancholy smile. "It is
beautiful," he said, "and when you are down at the bottom, you will
not be disappointed in the country. But for happiness? it is no better
than elsewhere. Wait till you see the _crétins_; there is a _crétin_
in almost every family. And not long ago there was a dreadful murder
in the neighbourhood of Aosta. The criminal has not yet been caught.
He is supposed to be hiding somewhere in the mountains, and the police
cannot find him. There is a printed notice out, warning people to
beware of the murderer--so I read in a newspaper not long ago and I
have heard that the inhabitants of all these little hamlets we see
here and there, dare not go from village to village after dark, for
fear of being attacked."
"Then, if we should happen to be belated, we might have an adventure?"
I said.
"Indeed, it is not at all unlikely, Monsieur. No doubt the man is
desperate, and if he saw a chance to get a change of clothing, a mule,
and some money, he might risk attacking even two travellers, from
behind. But we shall arrive at Aosta before dark, and I am afraid----"
"I'll warrant you're not afraid of danger."
"That we shall get no such sport, Monsieur."
Even as he spoke there came, with the wind blowing up from the valley,
a loud, long-drawn shriek of fear or distress, uttered by a woman. We
looked at each other, Joseph and I, and then without a word set off
running down the hill, in the direction of the cry. Again it came, "À
moi-à moi!" We could hear the words, now, and then a wild,
inarticulate scream.
I bounded down the winding white road, where the evening shadows lay,
and Joseph followed, somehow dragging Finois--at least, I am sure that
he would not have left his beloved beast behind,--and so at last we
turned a sharp bend of the path, thickly fringed with a dense wood,
where suddenly Innocentina sprang almost into my arms. She ran to me,
blindly, not seeing who it was, but knowing by instinct that help was
at hand. "A robber--a murderer!" she panted. "Oh, save--" and then, I
think, she fainted.
I have a vague recollection of tossing her to Joseph, and plunging
into the dim wood, where something moved, half-hidden by the crowding
trees. It was the donkeys I saw at first, and then I came full upon a
man, dressed all in the brown of the tree trunks, so that at a
distance he would not be seen among them, in the dusk. He had the
_rücksack_ I had noticed at the Cantine de Proz in one hand, and with
the other he had just drawn a knife from the belt under his coat. On
the ground crouched the Boy, shielding his bowed face with a slim,
blue-serge arm.
[Illustration: "ON THE GROUND CROUCHED THE BOY".]