I felt hysterical and delirious, talking and groaning in my sleep; and
during the day roaming about the house like one distraught.
The doctor diagnosed the case at once, and told me plainly that I must
choose one of two things--a lunatic asylum or foreign travel.
Feeling his opinion to be a sound one, I naturally chose the latter
alternative.
Once more I packed up my impedimenta and crossed to Dieppe, from whence
I wandered, without any decided route, across France into Switzerland,
from thence making my way gradually southward into Italy.
I sketched and painted, selling several of my drawings to tourists who
happened to see me at work, and, I suppose, admired my productions.
Painting and wandering were my day amusements, but at night I had
another source of relaxation and forgetfulness, and that was my flute.
Upon this instrument I played fairly well, and it was my constant
practice, whenever I was in a favourable place, after my evening meal,
to bring forth my instrument and set the peasants dancing. They loved
to hear the merry English airs, and became quite excited over the
various dance tunes I played them. Minuets, jigs, strathspeys, reels,
and hornpipes, all found favour with them, and their attempts to keep
step with the more lively measures were sure to bring forth a deal of
good-natured banter, mirth, and merriment. I always placed a tin cup at
my feet, into which the dancers could drop a small coin if they felt so
disposed, and this little collection I invariably gave to relieve any
case of distress or poverty in the village. The poor peasants looked
upon me as a very strange fellow, for they could not understand why
it was I played for money and then gave it all away again, sometimes
adding to the fund from my own somewhat slender purse.
Thus I wandered, week after week, as fancy led me, being sure of
a good reception in each village I stopped at, for my fame as an
artist-musician preceded me, and wherever I stayed for the night a
crowd would invariably assemble outside my window, ready for me to
step out flute in hand when I had finished my evening meal.
One day I found a peculiarly effective “bit” to transfer to my canvas.
It was a lonely, mountainous district I was in, and I had tumbled
across some finely-coloured rocks, picturesquely-disposed trees, a
ruined chapel, and a turbulent, dashing, little waterfall.
I unstrapped my light-folding easel and set to work. It was a beautiful
day, and I toiled on for several hours, singing and whistling quietly
to keep myself in countenance and spirits, for I did not see a soul in
this lonely spot.
At last I began to grow tired of my painting, and, as the shadows
were beginning to lengthen, I packed up, and was about to foot it to
the nearest village some four miles distant, when, mingled with the
peculiar noises made by the sound of falling water, I fancied I could
hear the moaning either of a human being or some animal, apparently in
great distress or pain.
Listening, I caught the sound of what I took to be a faint groan!
I placed my kit upon the ground and looked around. At first I could see
nothing; but after a moment’s search I discovered an old man sitting
among the rocks, moaning and groaning at some serious injury he had
apparently received.
Forgetting where I was, I addressed the old man in English.
“Hallo, old fellow, what’s amiss with you?”
He suddenly brought me to myself by replying in good English (although
spoken with a foreign accent), and informing me that whilst sitting
under a rocky cliff, contemplating the beautiful solitude, a large
portion of stone had become detached, and rolling upon his foot, had
severely crushed and cut it.
He was a man apparently seventy years of age, with an aquiline nose,
piercing dark eyes, whose depth and brilliancy were enhanced by the
whiteness of his over-hanging eyebrows, and a fine flowing white beard.
All this I took in with an artist’s eye, and made a mental note not to
lose an opportunity, by and by, of painting such a wonderfully fine
head, if the old man would allow me.
I tore up my pocket-handkerchief, bound up the poor crushed foot, after
bathing it with cool water from the river, and set my old friend, who
was profuse in his thanks, upon his feet. I ought perhaps say foot, for
he could not place his injured foot to the ground, and consequently was
unable to walk. I was in a dilemma; the nearest village being a smart
hour’s walk away, down in the valley.
“Cheer up, father,” said I; “allow me to try and carry you a little;
possibly we may meet some one as we descend the road.”
“Nay, nay, my son,” the old man replied, “leave me. Perhaps after a
rest I may be able to put my foot to the ground and proceed on my way.”
“No, that will never do, old gentleman; do you not know that wolves
haunt these rocky heights, and would probably devour you in the night
if you were left here by yourself and unarmed?”
“Ah, a sweet death, my son, but, alas! wolves cannot harm me.”
I looked at him in amazement as he uttered these words, but concluded
the pain had made him somewhat delirious and wild in his talk. Then I
took him in my strong young arms and carried him down the rugged path,
halting every now and again to recover breath and rest my aching limbs;
for, although my burden was but a bag of bones, still, on a rough
mountain path, his weight began to tell before I had gone a mile, and
I feared I should become exhausted long before we reached the village
whither we were bound.
Again and again I lifted the old man and carried him onward, but each
time I noticed the distance was less than the previous effort had
covered, and after struggling on for a couple of miles, I was forced to
give in for a long spell of rest. We were now down upon the plain, and
the sun was fast approaching the horizon, when my eye suddenly lighted
upon an ox feeding in a little green hollow a couple of hundred yards
off. Knowing that in Southern Europe oxen, to a great extent, take the
place of horses, I approached it; feeling sure that if it were an ox
broken to work, I could give my old friend a comfortable ride to the
village upon its ample back.
The animal stood and stared at me with its great soft eyes, and
I stared back in return, but having no knowledge of the handling
of cattle, I was at a loss to know what to do next. It was an
intelligent-looking creature, so I coaxingly spoke to it in English,
trusting that if its education had not been neglected it might
understand that I meant it no harm. I took it by one of its horns, and,
to my joy, the gentle beast was good enough to follow me; and as it did
so I looked at its neck and could see where the yoke had galled it, by
which I knew it was used for agricultural purposes.
We soon got to understand each other, and when I lifted the old man on
its back, and supported him there, the ox moved off quietly to the
village, which we reached just as the light had passed through that
stage which poets and learned men call crepuscular.
We found a comfortable inn, and there I attended the old man for two
or three days; but I must own my attention was not altogether due to
philanthropic motives, as I spent much of each day in painting the
grand old head of my patient. As I painted, so the old man talked; and
I soon discovered he had a wonderful memory, especially for historic
subjects: he appeared to have the history of Europe and Western Asia
at his fingers’ ends. He would have made a splendid historian, for he
could remember not only the chief events of the subject he happened to
speak upon, but a great many of the minor details which go to make up
an important episode in history.
His conversation thrilled me, and during some of his vivid recitals I
ceased painting, and sat down to listen as one spellbound. He commenced
with the struggles of the early Christians, graphically described the
decline of the Roman power, and the rise of the Northern and Western
nations.
Then he became eloquent upon the Conquest of England, knowing that
I was a native of that land, and so minutely described the field of
Hastings, that one might have imagined he had been an eyewitness. He
spoke of the persons of William and Harold, the weapons and armour
used, and could answer my queries so exactly, that I began to fear
there was something decidedly uncanny about my model. From the Conquest
he took me, in thought and word, right through the Crusades, and with
sparkling eyes described the principal actors on the bloody fields of
Holy Land, and when describing the prowess and fierceness in battle of
our Richard Cœur de Lion, he became so excited in his recital, that,
despite his injured foot, he rose from his couch in the centre of the
room, and taking up a mahl-stick, struck and thrust in all directions,
to explain to me how he of the lion’s heart bore himself.
I was speechless with amazement; my crippled patient was dancing about
the room with the vigour of a youth of twenty, quite regardless of the
mangled foot, which apparently gave him but little concern, and less
pain.
“My friend,” I exclaimed loudly, “your foot!--think of your injuries!
Your description is wonderful, magnificent, but do not forget your
crippled state!”
“Ha!” he returned, “seven times seven have passed over me, and my foot
is perfect again. See!”
Saying which he tore off the bandages, and exhibited to my startled
eyes a foot without even a scar.
I now began to feel a strange fear creeping over me, and I asked
him what he meant by “seven times seven passing over him?” To which
question, as near as I can recollect, his reply was this.
“My friend, I will tell you what my meaning is, on one condition--that
for three months from now you will not divulge a word of what I am
about to speak to you. If you do, may the burden of your insincerity be
on your own head! You have proved yourself a friend to a stranger, and
the fact of your not knowing whom you have assisted, makes your act one
of greater charity, and your kindness, like that of the Good Samaritan
in my young days, shall be rewarded ere we part.”
What, I thought, does he mean by the Good Samaritan of his youth? I
knew of but one: he of whom we read in the New Testament parable;
and I was about to ask him the meaning of this second enigma, when
he motioned me not to interrupt, and proceeded with his remarkable
monologue.
“By ‘seven times seven’ I mean, that although an accident may befall
me, as it may any other man, yet, after seven times seven hours have
passed away, I shall be sound again.
“I am keenly sensible to pain and to all human feelings, but _I cannot
know death_!
“No, between death and myself a gulf has been fixed by my Master, and
though corporeal pain may for seven times seven hours rack and torture
me, I am at the end of that period whole again, even though I were
wounded ten times fatally.
“I am the deathless one!”
At the aspect and demeanour of my weird companion I could have shrieked
with fear; his eyes were incandescent in their blazing lustre, and the
locks of his beard and hair writhed to my astonished eyes like the
living locks of a Gorgon.
“The stories I told you of past centuries were no mere tales gathered
from books, but were from my own personal observations.
“I stood in Rome when it was in flames; I saw with these very eyes
the martyrdom of the early Christians; I walked through the length
and breadth of Europe while Rome, with all its power and glories, was
passing away. At Hastings I stood beside brave Harold, when a short
arrow, taking him in the eye, pierced brain and skull, and he fell dead
beside me. I have seen the Saracens fall like mast in the autumn before
the trained arms of the bold Crusaders; and when Napoleon’s army fled
from Moscow I too followed them.
“I have felt the fierce rays of the Eastern sun and the biting winds
and frost of dreary Lapland.
“I have courted dangers and death in all forms, but here, after
centuries, I stand before you a living mortal covered with the cloak of
immortality.”
“Heaven help you, poor man!” I cried; “you must be distraught; mayhap
much learning has weakened your brain. Rest, good father, I implore
you. Rest on this couch, you will be better soon.”
“Rest, rest!!” he wildly exclaimed, “there is no rest for me, nay, not
even in the peaceful grave. Often and often have I stood in Death’s
path, and have felt the icy coldness of his breath, but, alas! he has
ever passed me by unheeded.”
“Surely,” said I, “you do not tell me that you are he who is doomed to
walk this rolling earth till the Master bids thy penance be no more?”
“Ay,” he replied, “I am he--he whom men, without knowing my true name,
call ‘The Wandering Jew’!”
I could scarcely believe my senses. Was the man mad? or was I mad? or
was it all a phantasy of my brain?
My guest held out his hand to me, which I mechanically clutched; then
drawing me to the couch, we sat down together.
“Forgive me, my young friend, for the shock I have caused you. Your
kindness has touched my heart, and for that kindness I will repay you,
as in times past I have occasionally rewarded others of my true friends.
“Now,” he continued, lowering the tone of his voice to a kindly pitch,
“I dare say you have read of a certain mighty personage, who, in
the early days of Christianity, was returning with great spoils from
a neighbouring country, when he was hard beset by the enemy, who,
with allies, followed close upon his heels; and how to save the vast
treasures he had taken, turned aside the course of a certain river, and
at dead of night buried his spoils there, deflecting the river to its
true course again ere daydawn.”