As I walked onward against the swooping wind and the plashing rain, I
felt a sort of heroic ardor in the notion of breasting the adverse waves
of life so boldly. It is not every fellow could do this,--throw his
knapsack on his shoulder, seize his stick, and set out in storm and
blackness. No, Potts, my man; for downright inflexibility of purpose,
for bold and resolute action, you need yield to none! It was, indeed, an
awful night; the thunder rolled and crashed with scarce an interval
of cessation; forked lightning tore across the sky in every direction;
while the wind swept through the deep glen, smashing branches and
uplifting large trees like mere shrubs. I was soon completely drenched,
and my soaked clothes hung around with the weight of lead; my spirits,
however, sustained me, and I toiled along, occasionally in a sort of
wild bravado, giving a cheer as the thunder rolled close above my head,
and trying to sing, as though my heart were as gay and my spirits as
light as in an hour of happiest abandonment.
Jean Paul has somewhere the theory that our Good Genius is attached to
us from our birth by a film fine as gossamer, and which few of us escape
rupturing in the first years of youth, thus throwing ourselves at once
without chart or pilot upon the broad ocean of life. He, however, more
happily constituted, who feels the guidance of his guardian spirit,
recognizes the benefits of its care, and the admonitions of its
wisdom,--_he_ is destined to great things. Such men discover new worlds
beyond the seas, carry conquest over millions, found dynasties, and
build up empires; they whom the world regard as demigods having simply
the wisdom of being led by fortune, and not severing the slender thread
that unites them to their destiny. Was I, Potts, in this glorious
category? Had the lesson of the great moralist been such a warning to
me that I had preserved the filmy link unbroken? I really began to think
so; a certain impulse, a whispering voice within, that said, “Go on!”
On, ever onward! seemed to be the accents of that Fate which had great
things in store for me, and would eventually make me illustrious.
No illusions of your own, Potts, no phantasmagoria of your own poor
heated fancy, must wile you away from the great and noble part destined
for you. No weakness, no faint-heartedness, no shrinking from toil, nor
even peril. Work hard to know thoroughly for what Fate intends you; read
your credentials well, and then go to your post unflinchingly. Revolving
this theory of mine, I walked ever on. It opened a wide field, and my
imagination disported in it, as might a wild mustang over some vast
prairie. The more I thought over it, the more did it seem to me the real
embodiment of that superstition which extends to every land and every
family of men. We are Lucky when, submitting to our Good Genius, we
suffer ourselves to be led along unhesitatingly; we are Unlucky when,
breaking our frail bonds, we encounter life unguided and unaided.
What a docile, obedient, and believing pupil did I pledge myself to be!
Fate should see that she had no refractory nor rebellious spirit in me,
no self-indulgent voluptuary, seeking only the sunny side of existence,
but a nature ready to confront the rugged conflict of life, and to meet
its hardships, if such were my allotted path.
I applied the circumstances in which I then found myself to my theory,
and met no difficulty in the adaptation. Blondel was to perform a great
part in my future. Blondel was a symbol selected by fate to indicate a
certain direction. Blondel was a lamp by which I could find my way in
the dark paths of the world. With Blondel, my Good Genius would walk
beside me, or occasionally get up on the crupper, but never leave me or
desert me. In the high excitement of my mind, I felt no sense of bodily
fatigue, but walked on, drenched to the skin, alternately shivering with
cold or burning with all the intensity of fever. In this state was it
that I entered the little inn of Ovoco soon after daybreak, and stood
dripping in the bar, a sad spectacle of exhaustion and excitement My
first question was, “Has Blondel been here?” and before they could
reply, I went on with all the rapidity of delirium to assure them that
deception of me would be fruitless; that Fate and I understood each
other thoroughly, travelled together on the best of terms, never
disagreed about anything, but, by a mutual system of give and take, hit
it off like brothers. I talked for an hour in this strain; and then my
poor faculties, long struggling and sore pushed, gave way completely,
and I fell into brain fever.
I chanced upon kind and good-hearted folk, who nursed me with care and
watched me with interest; but my illness was a severe one, and it
was only in the sixth week that I could be about again, a poor, weak,
emaciated creature, with failing limbs and shattered nerves. There is an
indescribable sense of weariness in the mind after fever, just as if
the brain had been enormously over-taxed and exerted, and that in
the pursuit of all the wild and fleeting fancies of delirium it had
travelled over miles and miles of space. To the depressing influence of
this sensation is added the difficulty of disentangling the capricious
illusions of the sick-bed from the actual facts of life; and in this
maze of confusion my first days of convalescence were passed.
Blondel was my great puzzle. Was he a reality, or a mere creature of
imagination? Had I really ridden him as a horse, or only as an idea?
Was he a quadruped with mane and tail, or an allegory invented to typify
destiny? I cannot say what hours of painful brain labor this inquiry
cost me, and what intense research into myself. Strange enough, too,
though I came out of the investigation convinced of his existence, I
arrived at the conclusion that he was a “horse and something more.” Not
that I am able to explain myself more fully on that head, though, if
I were writing this portion of my memoirs in German, I suspect I could
convey enough of my meaning to give a bad headache to any one indulgent
enough to follow me.
I set out once more upon my pilgrimage on a fine day of June, my steps
directed to the village of Inistioge, where Father Dyke resided. I was
too weak for much exertion, and it was only after five days of the road
I reached at nightfall the little glen in which the village stood. The
moon was up, streaking the wide market-places with long lines of yellow
light between the rows of tall elm-trees, and tipping with silvery sheen
the bright eddies of the beautiful river that rolled beside it. Over the
granite cliffs that margined the stream, laurel, and arbutus, and wild
holly clustered in wild luxuriance, backed higher up again, by tall
pine-trees, whose leafy summits stood out against the sky; and lastly,
deep within a waving meadow, stood an old ruined abbey, whose traceried
window was now softly touched by the moonlight All was still and silent,
except the rush of the rapid river, as I sat down upon a stone bench
to enjoy the scene and luxuriate in its tranquil serenity. I had not
believed Ireland contained such a spot, for there was all the trim
neatness and careful propriety of an English village, with that
luxuriance of verdure and wild beauty so eminently Irish. How was it
that I had never heard of it before? Were others aware of it, or was
the discovery strictly my own? Or can it possibly be that all this
picturesque loveliness is but the effect of a mellow moon? While I
thus questioned myself, I heard the sound of a quick footstep rapidly
approaching, and soon afterwards the pleasant tone of a rich voice
humming an opera air. I arose, and saw a tall, athletic-looking figure,
with rod and fishing-basket, approaching me.
“May I ask you, sir,” said I, addressing him, “if this village contains
an inn?”
“There is, or rather there was, a sort of inn here,” said he, removing
his cigar as he spoke; “but the place is so little visited that I fancy
the landlord found it would not answer, and so it is closed at this
moment.”
“But do visitors--tourists--never pass this way?”
“Yes, and a few salmon-fishers, like myself, come occasionally in the
season; but then we dispose ourselves in little lodgings, here and
there, some of us with the farmers, one or two of us with the priest.”
“Father Dyke?” broke I in.
“Yes; you know him, perhaps?”
“I have heard of him, and met him, indeed,” added I, after a pause.
“Where may his house be?”
“The prettiest spot in the whole glen. If you 'd like to see it in this
picturesque moonlight, come along with me.”
I accepted the invitation at once, and we walked on together. The easy,
half-careless tone of the stranger, the loose, lounging stride of his
walk, and a certain something in his mellow voice, seemed to
indicate one of those natures which, so to say, take the world
well,--temperaments that reveal themselves almost immediately. He talked
away about fishing as he went, and appeared to take a deep interest in
the sport, not heeding much the ignorance I betrayed on the subject, nor
my ignoble confession that I had never adventured upon anything higher
than a worm and a quill.
“I'm sure,” said he, laughingly, “Tom Dyke never encouraged you in such
sporting-tackle, glorious fly-fisher as he is.”
“You forget, perhaps,” replied I, “that I scarcely have any acquaintance
with him. We met once only at a dinnerparty.”
“He's a pleasant fellow,” resumed he; “devilish wideawake, one must say;
up to most things in this same world of ours.”
“That much my own brief experience of him can confirm,” said I, dryly,
for the remark rather jarred upon my feelings.
“Yes,” said he, as though following out his own train of thought “Old
Tom is not a bird to be snared with coarse lines. The man must be an
early riser that catches him napping.”
I cannot describe how this irritated me. It sounded like so much direct
sarcasm upon my weakness and want of acuteness.
“There's the 'Rosary;' that's his cottage,” said he, taking my arm,
while he pointed upward to a little jutting promontory of rock over the
river, surmounted by a little thatched cottage almost embowered in
roses and honeysuckles. So completely did it occupy the narrow limits
of ground, that the windows projected actually over the stream, and the
creeping plants that twined through the little balconies hung in tangled
masses over the water. “Search where you will through the Scottish and
Cumberland scenery, I defy you to match that,” said my companion; “not
to say that you can hook a four-pound fish from that little balcony on
any summer evening while you smoke your cigar.”
“It is a lovely spot, indeed,” said I, inhaling with ecstasy the
delicious perfume which in the calm night air seemed to linger in the
atmosphere.
“He tells me,” continued my companion,--“and I take his word for it, for
I am no florist,--that there are seventy varieties of the rose on and
around that cottage. I can answer for it that you can't open a window
without a great mass of flowers coming in showers over you. I told him,
frankly, that if I were his tenant for longer than the fishing-season, I
'd clear half of them away.”
“You live there, then?” asked I, timidly.
“Yes, I rent the cottage, all but two rooms, which he wished to keep for
himself, but which he now writes me word may be let, for this month and
the next, if a tenant offer. Would you like them?” asked he, abruptly.
“Of all things--that is--I think so--I should like to see them first!”
muttered I, half startled by the suddenness of the question.
“Nothing easier,” said he, opening a little wicket as he spoke, and
beginning to ascend a flight of narrow steps cut in the solid rock.
“This is a path of my designing,” continued he; “the regular approach is
on the other side; but this saves fully half a mile of road, though it
be a little steep.”
As I followed him up the ascent, I proposed to myself a variety of
questions, such as, where and how I was to procure accommodation for the
night, and in what manner to obtain something to eat, of which I stood
much in need? and I had gained a little flower-garden at the rear of the
cottage before I had resolved any of these difficult points.
“Here we are,” said he, drawing a long breath. “You can't see much of
the view at this hour; but to-morrow, when you stand on this spot, and
look down that reach of the river, with Mont Alto in the background, you
'll tell me if you know anything finer!”
“Is that Edward?” cried a soft voice; and at the same instant a young
girl came hastily out of the cottage, and, throwing her arms around my
companion, exclaimed, “How you have alarmed me! What could possibly have
kept you out so late?”
“A broad-shouldered fish, a fellow weighing twelve pounds at the very
least, and who, after nigh three hours' playing, got among the rocks and
smashed my tackle.”
“And you lost him?”
“That did I, and some twenty yards of gut, and the top splice of my
best rod, and my temper, besides. But I 'm forgetting; Mary, here is
a gentleman who will, I hope, not refuse to join us at supper.--My
sister.”
By the manner of presentation, it was clear that he expected to hear my
name, and so I interposed, “Mr. Potts,--Algernon Sydney Potts.”
The young lady courtesied slightly, muttered something like a repetition
of the invitation, and led the way into the cottage.
My astonishment was great at the “interior” now before me; for though
all the arrangements bespoke habits of comfort and even luxury,
there was a studious observance of cottage style in everything; the
bookshelves, the tables, the very pianoforte, being all made of white
unvarnished wood. And I now perceived that the young lady herself,
with a charming coquetry, had assumed something of the costume of the
Oberland, and wore her bodice laced in front, and covered with silver
embroidery both tasteful and becoming.
“My name is Crofton,” said my host, as he disengaged himself of his
basket and tackle; “we are almost as much strangers here as yourself. I
came here for the fishing, and mean to take myself off when it 's over.”
“I hope not, Edward,” broke in the girl, who was now, with the
assistance of a servant-woman, preparing the table for supper; “I hope
you 'll stay till we see the autumn tints on those trees.”
“My sister is just as great an enthusiast about sketching as I am for
salmon-fishing,” said he, laughingly; “and for my own part, I like
scenery and landscape very well, but think them marvellously heightened
by something like sport. Are you an angler?”
“No,” said I; “I know nothing of the gentle craft”
“Fond of shooting, perhaps? Some men think the two sports incompatible.”
“I am as inexpert with the gun as the rod,” said I, diffidently.
I perceived that the sister gave a sly look under her long eyelashes
towards me; but what its meaning, I could not well discover. Was it
depreciation of a man who avowed himself unacquainted with the sports
of the field, or was it a quiet recognition of claims more worthy
of regard? At all events, I perceived that she had very soft,
gentle-looking gray eyes, a very fair skin, and a profusion of beautiful
brown hair. I had not thought her pretty at first I now saw that she was
extremely pretty, and her figure, though slightly given to fulness, the
perfection of grace.
Hungry, almost famished as I was, with a fast of twelve hours, I felt no
impatience so long as she moved about in preparation for the meal. How
she disposed the little table equipage, the careful solicitude with
which she arranged the fruit and the flowers,--not always satisfied with
her first dispositions, but changing them for something different,--all
interested me vastly, and when at last we were summoned to table, I
actually felt sorry and disappointed.
Was it really so delicious, was the cookery so exquisite? I own frankly
that I am not a trustworthy witness; but if my oath could be taken, I
am willing to swear that I believe there never were such salmon-steaks,
such a pigeon-pie, and such a damson-tart served to mortals as these.
My enthusiasm, I suspect, must have betrayed itself in some outward
manifestation, for I remember Crofton laughingly having remarked,--
“You will turn my sister's head, Mr. Potts, by such flatteries; all the
more, since her cookery is self-taught.”
“Don't believe him, Mr. Potts; I have studied all the great masters of
the art, and you shall have an omelette to-morrow for breakfast, Brillat
Savarin himself would not despise.”
I blushed at the offer of an hospitality so neatly and delicately
insinuated, and had really no words to acknowledge it, nor was my
confusion unfavorably judged by my hosts. Crofton marked it quickly, and
said,--
“Yes, Mr. Potts, and I 'll teach you to hook a trout afterwards.
Meanwhile let us have a glass of Sauterne together; we drink it out of
green glasses, to cheat ourselves into the fancy that it's Rhenish.”
“'Am Rhein, am Rhein, da wachsen unsere Reben,'” said I, quoting the
students' song.
“Oh, have you been in Germany?” cried she, eagerly.
“Alas! no,” said I. “I have never travelled.” I thought she looked
disappointed as I said this. Indeed, I already wished it unsaid; but her
brother broke in with,--
“We are regular vagabonds, Mr. Potts. My sister and myself have had
a restless paroxysm for the last three years of life; and what with
seeking cool spots for the summer and hot climates for winter, we are
scarcely ever off the road.”
“Like the gentleman, I suppose, who ate oysters for appetite, but
carried his system so far as to induce indigestion.” My joke failed;
nobody laughed, and I was overwhelmed with confusion, which I was fain
to bury in my strawberries and cream.
“Let us have a little music, Mary,” said Crofton. “Do you play or sing,
Mr. Potts?”
“Neither. I do nothing,” cried I, in despair. “As Sydney Smith says, 'I
know something about the Romans,' but, for any gift or grace which
could adorn society, or make time pass more pleasantly, I am an utter
bankrupt.”
The young girl had, while I was speaking, taken her place at the
pianoforte, and was half listlessly suffering her hands to fall in
chords over the instrument.
“Come out upon this terrace, here,” cried Crofton to me, “and we 'll
have our cigar. What I call a regular luxury after a hard day is to
lounge out here in the cool night air, and enjoy one's weed while
listening to Spohr or Beethoven.”
It was really delightful. The bright stars were all reflected in the
calm river down below, and a thousand odors floated softly on the air as
we sat there.
Are there not in every man's experience short periods in which he seemed
to have lived longer than during whole years of life? They tell us
there are certain conditions of the atmosphere, inappreciable as to the
qualities, which seem to ripen wines, imparting to young fresh vintages
all the mellow richness of age, all the depth of flavor, all the velvety
softness of time. May there not possibly be influences which similarly
affect our natures? May there not be seasons in which changes as great
as these are wrought within us? I firmly believe it, and as firmly that
such a period was that in which I sat on the balcony over the Nore,
listening to Mary Crofton as she sang, but just as often lost to every
sound, and deep in a heaven of blended enjoyments, of which no one
ingredient was in the ascendant. Starry sky, rippling river, murmuring
night winds, perfumed air, floating music, all mingling as do the odors
of an incense, and, like an incense, filling the brain with a delicious
intoxication.
Hour after hour must have passed with me in this half-conscious ecstasy,
for Crofton at last said,--
“There, where you see that pinkish tint through the gray, that's the
sign of breaking day, and the signal for bedtime. Shall I show you your
room?”
“How I wish this could last forever!” cried I, rapturously; and then,
half ashamed of my warmth, I stammered out a good-night, and retired.