Afternoon Calls
"If you climb to our castle's top
I don't see where your eyes can stop."
--ROBERT BROWNING.
Our hotel had a big loggia, as large as a good-sized room, and we
dined in it, with a gorgeous stage setting. The mountains floated in
mid-sky, pearly pale, and magical under the rising moon. The little
circle of light from our pink-shaded candles on the table (I say our,
because Boy and I dined together) gave to the picture a bizarre
effect, which French artists love to put on canvas; a blur of
gold-and-rose artificial light, blending with the silver-green
radiance of a full moon.
I don't know what we had to eat, except that there were trout from the
river, and luscious strawberries and cream; but I know that the dinner
seemed perfect, and that the head waiter, a delightful person, brought
us champagne, with a long-handled saucepan wrapped in an immaculate
napkin, to do duty as an ice-pail. I wondered why I had not come
long ago to this place, named in honour of Augustus Cæsar, and
why everybody else did not come. The ex-Brat was in the game
frame of mind. We talked of more things than are dreamed of in
philosophy--(other people's philosophy)--and there was not a book
which was a dear friend of mine that was not a friend of this strange
child's.
We sat until the moon was high, and the candles low. I felt curiously
happy and excited, a mood no doubt due in part to the climate of
Aosta, in part to the discovery of a congenial spirit, where I had
least expected to find one.
Last night, we had been, at best, on terms of armed neutrality;
to-night we were friends, and would continue friends, though we parted
to-morrow. But parting was not what we thought of at the moment. On
the contrary, half to our surprise, we found ourselves planning to see
Aosta in each other's company.
After ten o'clock, when, deliciously fatigued, I was on my way to my
room along a great arcaded balcony which ran the length of the house,
I met Joseph, lying in wait for me. My conscience pricked. I had
forgotten to send the poor, tired fellow definite instructions for the
next day. He had come to solicit them, but, if I could judge by
moonlight, he looked far from jaded; indeed, he had an air of
alertness, for him almost of gaiety.
"You and Finois can have a rest to-morrow and the day after," said I,
"while I do some sightseeing. I hear that I shall need one day at
least for the town, and another for a drive to the châteaux and
show-places of the neighbourhood. I hope you will be able to amuse
yourself."
"Monsieur must not think of me. I shall do very well," dutifully
replied Joseph.
"It is a pity that you and Innocentina do not get on. Otherwise----"
"Ah, perhaps I should tell monsieur that I may have misjudged the
young woman a little. It seems a question of bringing up, more than
real badness of heart. It is her tongue that is in fault; and I am
not even sure that with good influences she might not improve. I have
been talking to her, Monsieur, of religion. She is black Catholic, and
I Protestant, but I think that some of my arguments made a certain
impression upon her mind."
After this, I gave myself no further anxiety about Joseph's to-morrow,
but went to bed, and dreamed of fighting for the Boy's life,
Gulliver-like, against a band of infuriated Brownies.
My first morning thought was to look out of all four windows at the
mountains; my next, to ring for a bath.
Now, as a rule, your morning tub is a function you are not supposed to
describe in detail; but not to picture the ceremony as performed at
Aosta, is to pass by the place without giving the proper dash of local
colour.
I rang. A girl appeared who struck me as singularly beautiful, but I
discovered later that all girls are more or less beautiful at Aosta.
The propriety of this morning visit was insured by the white cap,
which was, so to speak, an adequate chaperon. On my request for a
bath, the beauty looked somewhat agitated, but, after reflection, said
that she would fetch one, and vanished, tripping lightly along the
balcony.
Twenty minutes then passed, and at the end of that time the young lady
returned, almost obliterated by an enormous linen sheet which engulfed
her like an avalanche. She was accompanied by a man and a boy,
staggering under a strange object which resembled a vast arm-chair, of
the grandfather variety. When placed on the floor, I became aware that
it was a kind of cross between a throne and a bath-tub, and, having
seen the huge sheet flung over it, I still rested in doubt as to the
latter's purpose. The man and boy, who had not stood upon the order of
their going, returned after an embarrassing absence, with pails of
water, the contents of which, to my surprise, they flung upon the
sheet.
I tried to explain that, if this were a bath, I preferred it without
the family linen, but the _femme de chambre_ seemed so shocked at
these protestations, that I ceased uttering them, and determined to
make the best of things as they stood.
When I was again alone, after several rehearsals I found a way of
accommodating the human form to the hybrid receptacle, and was amazed
at its luxuriousness. The secret of this lay in the sheet, which was
fragrant of lavender, and protected the body from contact with a cold,
base metal which hundreds of other bodies must have touched before.
"'Twas mine, 'tis his, and has been slave to thousands," might be said
of a hotel bath-tub as well as of a stolen purse; and having once
known the linen-lined bath of Aosta, I was promptly spoiled for
common, un-lined tubs. This was a lesson not to form hasty opinions;
but being a normal man, I shall no doubt continue to do so until the
day of my death.
The Boy and I broke our fast together on the loggia, which was even
more entertaining as a _salle-à-manger_ by morning than by night. The
coffee was exquisite; the hot, foaming milk had but lately been drawn
from its original source, a little biscuit-coloured Alderney with the
pleading eyes of that fair nymph stricken to heiferhood by jealous
Juno. The strawberries and figs came to the table from the hotel
garden, and so did the luscious roses, which filled a bowl in the
centre of our small white table.
This was Arcadia. The very simplicities of the hotel endeared it to
our hearts, and there was no real comfort lacking which we could have
obtained in London or in Paris.
After breakfast we set off with our cameras to the town, a walk of ten
or fifteen minutes. It was strange, in this pilgrimage of mine, how
often I found myself running back into the Feudal or Middle Ages, as
far removed from the familiar bustle of modern days as if an iron door
had been shut and padlocked behind me.
There was little of the Twentieth Century in Aosta (named by Augustus
the "Rome of the Alps"), except the monument to "Le Roi Chasseur," and
the bookshops, which seemed extraordinarily well supplied with the
best literature of all countries. The type of face we met was
primitive; scarcely one which would have been out of place on some old
Roman coin. Here, at the end of a narrow, shadowed street, where St.
Anselm first saw the light (it must have been with difficulty) we came
upon a magnificent archway, built to do honour to Augustus Cæsar's
defeat of the brave Salasses, four and twenty years before the world
had a Saviour. A few steps further on, and we were under the majestic
mass of the Porta Pretoria; or we were crossing a Roman bridge, or
gazing at the ruins of Roman ramparts. Or, we lost our way in
searching for the amphitheatre, and found ourselves suddenly skipping
over centuries into the Middle Ages, represented by the mysterious
Tour Bramafam, the Tour des Prisons, or the Tour du Lepreux, round
which Xavier Maistre wrote his pathetic dialogue. Then, there was the
cathedral with its extraordinary painted façade, like a great coloured
picture-book; and the tall cross, straddling a spring in a paved
street, put up in thanksgiving by the Aostans when they joyfully saw
Calvin's back for the last time.
We spent all day in sightseeing, and had another moonlight evening on
the loggia. We were great pals now, Boy and I. I had never met anyone
in the least like him. At one moment he was a human boy, almost a
child; at another his brain leaped beyond mine, and he became a poet
or a philosopher; again he was an elfin sprite, a creature for whom
Puck was the one thinkable name. There was a single thing only, about
which you could always be sure. He would never be twice the same.
Still, though we were friends, "Boy" and "Man" we remained. He kept
his name a secret, and he had forbidden me to mention mine. Nor had he
spoken of his route or destination, after Aosta. As to this I was
curious, for I knew now that it would be a wrench to part with the
strange little being whose ears I had tingled to box three days (or
was it three years?) ago. Already he had done me good; and though I
had hardly reached the point of confessing as much to myself, as a
plain matter of fact I would not have exchanged his quaint
companionship for that of my lost love. How she would have hated this
idyllic Arcadia! How _triste_ she would have been; how weary after a
day's tour among relics of past ages; and how much she would have
preferred Bond Street to the Arch of Augustus, or the park to our snow
mountains and green valley! Even Davos she would have found
intolerable had it not been for the tobogganing, the dances and the
theatricals, in all of which she had played a leading part. Deep down
in the darkest corner of my soul, I now knew that I would not have
fallen in love with Helen Blantock had I first met her in Aosta.
The Boy and I agreed that our head waiter was one of the nicest men we
had ever met, and when he pledged his personal honour that a day's
wandering among neighbouring castles would be "very repaying," we
determined to bolt the five he most recommended in one gulp, on our
second and last afternoon. If he could, he would have sent us spinning
like teetotums from one concentric ring of historic châteaux to
another, until goodness knows how far from Aosta, Finois, Souris, and
Fanny-anny, we should have ended. He would also have despatched us on
a two or three days' excursion to Courmayeur; and I fear that his
respect for us went down like mercury in a chilled thermometer, when
he understood that we had not come to the country to do any of the
famous climbs. He named so many, dear to the hearts of my Alpine Club
acquaintances, that it would have taken us well into the new year to
accomplish half; and he accepted with mild, disapproving resignation
our fiat that there were other parts of the world worth seeing.
As we had to cover a radius of many miles, in our rounds of visits at
the few sample châteaux we had selected from the waiter's list, we
decided to spare our legs and those of the animals. It was hardly
playing the game we had set out to play--we two strangely-met
friends--to amble conventionally from show-house to show-house, in a
carriage, with guide-books in our hands, like everyday tourists;
nevertheless, we did this unworthy thing. Perhaps, therefore, I
deserved the punishment which fell upon me.
Little did I dream, when I flippantly spoke of our expedition as
"driving out to pay calls," how nearly my thoughtless words were to be
realised. We started immediately after an early _déjeuner_, sitting
side by side in a little low-swung carriage, a superior phaeton, or
poor relation of a victoria. The day was hot, but a delicious breeze
came to us from the snow mountains, and there was a peculiar buoyancy
in the air.
Our first castle was Sarre, the Château Royal, an enormous brown
building with a disproportionately high tower. This hunting-lodge of
the King would have been grimly ugly, were it not for its rocky
throne, high above the river bed, and its background of glistening
white mountains. The huge pile looked like a sleeping dragon with its
hundreds of window-eyes close-lidded, and I could not imagine it an
amusing place for a house party. I was glad that the Boy was not
animated with that wild mania for squeezing the last drop from the
orange of sightseeing which makes some travelling companions so
depressing. The castle was closed to visitors, yet many people would
have insisted on climbing the steep hill for the barren satisfaction
of saying that they had been there. I rejoiced that my little Pal was
not one of these; but I should have been more prudent had I waited.
We drove on, after a pause for inspection, along a road which would
have rejoiced the motor-loving heart of Jack Winston, and I made a
note to tell him what a magnificent tour he might have in this
enchanted country one day with his car, tooling down from Milan. As I
mentally arranged my next letter to the Winstons, the Boy gave a
little cry of delight. "Oh, what a queer, delightful place! It's all
towers, just held together by a thread of castle. It must be
Aymaville."
I looked up and beheld on a high hill an extraordinary château,
something like four chess castles grouped together at the corners of a
square heap of dice. It does not sound an attractive description, yet
the place deserved that adjective. It was charming, and wonderfully
"liveable," among its vineyards, commanding such a view as is given to
few show-places in the world.
"The descendants of the original family have restored it, and live
there, don't they?" asked the Boy in Italian of the _cocher_.
The man answered that this was the case, and was inspired by my evil
genius to enquire if _ces messieurs_ would like to go over the
château.
"Is it allowed?" the Boy questioned eagerly.
"But certainly. Shall I drive up to the house? It will be only an all
little ten minutes."
Without waiting for my answer, the Boy took my consent for granted,
and said yes.
Instantly we left the broad white road, and began winding up a narrow,
steep, and stony way, among vineyards. The _cocher's_ all little ten
minutes lengthened into half an hour, but at last we halted before a
garden gate--a high, uncompromising, reserved-looking gate.
"The fellow must be mistaken," said I. "This place has not the air of
encouraging visitors;" but, before the words were out of my mouth, the
enterprising _cocher_ had rung the gate bell.
After an interval a gardener appeared, and betrayed such mild,
ingenuous surprise at sight of us that I wished ourselves anywhere
else than before the portals of the Château d'Aymaville. Gladly would
I have whipped up our fat, barrel-shaped nag, and driven into the
nearest rabbit-hole, but it was too late. The gardener took the
enquiry as to whether visitors were admitted, with the gravity he
would have given to a question in the catechism: Is your name N. or
M.? Can one see your master's house?
Oh, without doubt, one could see the house. Would _les messieurs_
kindly accompany him? His aspect wept, and mine (unless it belied me)
copied his. "Isn't it hateful?" I asked, _sotto voce_, of the Boy,
expecting sympathy which I did not get. "No, I think it's great fun,"
said he.
"But I'm sure they are not in the habit of showing the house. You can
tell by the man's manner. He's nonplussed. I should think no one has
ever had the cheek to apply for permission before."
"Then they ought to be complimented because we have."
I was silenced, though far from convinced; but if you have made an
engagement with an executioner, it is a point of honour not to sneak
off and leave him in the lurch, when he has taken the trouble to
sharpen his axe, and put on his red suit and mask for your benefit.
We arrived, after a walk through a pretty garden, upon a terrace where
there was a marvellous view. The gardener showed it to us solemnly, we
pacing after him all round the château, as if we played a game. At the
open front door we were left alone for a few minutes, heavy with
suspense, while our guide held secret conclave with a personable woman
who was no doubt a housekeeper. Astonished, but civil, with dignified
Italian courtesy she finally invited us in, and I was coward enough
to let the Boy lead, I following with a casual air, meant to show that
I had been dragged into this business against my will; that I was, in
fact, the tail of a comet which must go where the cornet leads.
Everywhere, inside the castle, were traces that the family had fled
with precipitation. Here was a bicycle leaning abject against a wall;
there, an open book thrown on the floor; here, a fallen chair; there,
a dropped piece of sewing.
Once or twice in England, I had stayed in a famous show-house, and my
experience on the public Thursdays there had taught me what these
people were enduring now. At Waldron Castle we had been hunted from
pillar to post; if we darted from the hall into a drawing-room, the
public would file in before we could escape to the boudoir; the lives
of foxes in the hunting season could have been little less disturbed
than ours, and we were practically only safe in our own or each
other's bedrooms--indeed, any port was precious in a storm.
By the time that the Boy and I had been led, like stalled oxen,
through a long series of living-rooms, I knowing that the rightful
inhabitants were panting in wardrobes, my nerves were shattered. I
admired everything, volubly but hastily, and broke into fireworks of
adjectives, always edging a little nearer to the exit, though not, I
regret to say, invariably aided by the Boy. He, indeed, seemed to find
an impish pleasure in my discomfiture.
During the round, I was dimly conscious that the entire staff of
servants, most of them maids, and embarrassingly beautiful, flitted
after us like the ghosts who accompanied Dante and his guide on their
tour of the Seven Circles. As, at last, we returned to the square
entrance hail, they melted out of sight, still like shadows, and I had
a final moment of extreme anguish when, at the door, the housekeeper
refused the ten francs I attempted to press into her haughty Italian
palm.
"No more afternoon calls on châteaux for me, after _that_ experience,"
I gasped, when we were safely seated in the homelike vehicle which I
had not sufficiently appreciated before.
"Oh, I shall be disappointed if you won't go with me to the Château of
St. Pierre which we saw in the photograph--that quaint mass of towers
and pinnacles, on the very top of a peaked rock," said the Boy. "I've
been looking forward to it more than to anything else, but I shan't
have courage to do it alone."
"Courage?" I echoed. "After the brazen way in which you stalked
through the scattered belongings of the family at Aymaville, you would
stop at nothing."
"In other words, I suppose you think me a typical Yankee boy? But I
really was nervous, and inclined to apologise to somebody for being
alive. That's why I can't go through another such ordeal without
company; yet I wouldn't miss this eleventh-century castle for a bag of
your English sovereigns."
"If only it had been left alone, and not restored!" I groaned. "In
that case we should meet no one but bats."
"We? Then you will go with me?"
"I suppose so," I sighed. "It can't add more than a dozen grey hairs,
and what are they among so many?"
A few kilometres further on we reached the "bizarre monticule," from
which sprouted a still more bizarre château. From our low level, it
was impossible to tell where the rock stopped, and where the castle
began, so deftly had man seized every point of vantage offered by
Nature--and "points" they literally were.
The ascent from the road to the château was much like climbing a
fire-escape to the top of a New York sky-scraper, but we earned the
right to cry "Excelsior!" at last, had we not by that moment been
speechless. History now repeated itself. I rang; the castle gate was
opened, but this time by a major-domo who had already in some
marvellous way learned that strangers might be expected.
Never was so appallingly hospitable a man, and I trusted that even the
Boy suffered from his kindness. Madame la Baronne, who was away for
the afternoon, would chide him if guests were allowed to leave her
house without refreshment. Eat we must, and drink we must, in the
beautiful hall evidently used as a sitting-room by the absent
châtelaine. Her wine and her cakes were served on an ancient silver
tray, almost as old as the family traditions, and it was not until we
had done to both such justice as the major-domo thought fair that he
would consent to let us go further.
The house was really of superlative interest, though spoiled here and
there by eccentric modern decoration. Much of the window glass had
remained intact through centuries; the walls were twelve feet thick;
the oak-beamed ceilings magnificent, and the secret stairways and
rooms in the thickness of the walls, bewildering; but when our
conductor began leading us into the bedrooms in daily use by the
ladies of the castle, my gorge rose. "This is awful," I said. "I can't
go on. What if Madame la Baronne returns and finds a strange man and a
boy in her bedroom? Good heavens, now he's opening the door of the
bath!"
"We must go on," whispered the Boy, convulsed with silent laughter.
"If we don't, the major-domo won't understand our scruples. He'll
think we're tired, and don't appreciate the castle. It would never do
to hurt his feelings, when he has been so kind."
"To the bitter end, then," I answered desperately; and no sooner were
the words out of my mouth than the bitter end came. It consisted of a
collision with the Baronne's dressing-jacket, which hung from a hook,
and tapped me on the shoulder with one empty frilled sleeve, in soft
admonition. I could bear no more. One must draw the line somewhere,
and I drew the line at intruding upon ladies' dressing-jackets in
their most sacred fastnesses.
If I had been a woman, my pent-up emotion at this moment would have
culminated in hysterics, but being a man, I merely bolted, stumbling,
as I fled, over my absent hostess' bedroom slippers. I scuttled down a
winding flight of tower stairs, broke incontinently into a lighted
region which turned out to be a kitchen, startled the cook, apologised
incontinently, and somehow found myself, like Alice in Wonderland,
back in the great entrance hail. There, starting at every sound, lest
a returning family party should catch me "lurking," I awaited the Boy.
We left, finally, showering francs and compliments; but I crawled out
a decrepid wreck, and refused pitilessly to do more than view the
exterior of other châteaux. It was evening when we saw our white hotel
once more, and a haze of starlight dusted the sky and all the blue
distance with silver powder.
[Illustration]