OF FURTHER PASSAGES AT THE INN
UPON this action, the innkeeper came forward fearfully, for he felt
that destruction threatened. When he had replenished the cup of his
remarkable guest, I was fain to observe its curious nature. Its mouth
was as wide as a bowl; and as the body which contained the wine was
in a right proportion to the rim, it had rather the appearance of a
pancheon than a cup of sherry. It was cast in silver, was gorgeously
chased, while its whole device was quaint and ingenious. Indeed, I
marvelled how one so poor as this innkeeper should have an article of
so much worth and beauty in his possession.
After the Englishman had fitted his mouth to the rim for so long a
period that he must have come near to looking upon the bottom, he gave
back the cup to the innkeeper, and ordered it to be refilled. It was
then handed to me, and I was invited to drink.
“That is if you can,” said he. “It is such a damnable liquor that
personally I hardly durst touch it. But I suspect your stomach is not
so proud as mine, you strong-toothed rogue. You see, we English are a
most delicate people.”
I drank a copious draught of the wine, which was excellent, or at least
my great thirst of the day had made it so. Then said the Englishman,
eyeing me with approval:
“Well, my young companion, and what do you think of the pot?”
“The pot is worthy of notice,” said I, examining its rare contexture.
“It has been admired in Europe, and it has been admired in Asia,” said
the Englishman. “That it merits attention I have been informed by
half the great world. For example, the Emperor Maximilian broached a
cask of Rhenish in its homage, and would, I doubt not, have fallen as
drunk as a Cossack, had it been possible for a great crowned person
to embrace these indecent courses. He offered me a thousand guilders
for that pot; but said I, ‘Honest Max’--I must tell you, Spaniard,
there is no crowned person of my acquaintancy for whom I entertain
a higher regard--‘honest Max,’ I said, ‘offer your old gossip the
Baltic ocean, the sun, the moon, and the most particular stars of
heaven, and that pot will still remain faithful to my house.’ ‘Why,
so, honest Dick?’ said the Emperor. ‘It is in this wise, my old bully
rook,’ said I, fetching him a buffet along the fifth rib with a
kindly cordiality, ‘that pot was given many years ago by the famous
Charlemagne to my kinsman, Sir Cadwallader Pendragon, for his conduct
upon the field of battle.’ ‘In that case, worthy Richard, friend of
my youth and beguiler of my maturity,’ said the Emperor, embracing
me with the greatest affection and filling my old sack cup with gold
dollars--all the dollars are gold in Turkey--‘I do not ask it of you;
let it remain an heirloom in your house.’ Therefore you will see at
once, good Spaniard, that this pot is in some sort historical. And in
all my travels I bear it at my saddle-bow; so whether I happen to lie
down with fleas in a villainous Spanish venta hard by to purgatory; or
whether I happen to sit at the right hand of potentates in England,
Germany, and France, I can take my sack as I like to take it--that is,
easily and copiously, with a proper freedom for the mouth, and with a
brim that’s wide enough to prevent the nose from tapping against the
sides.”
Curious as I had been from the first in regard to this strange
individual, the nature of his conversation rendered me more so. In
spite of his remarkable appearance, his costume might once have been
that of a person of condition, however lamentably it failed to be so
now; while his manners, although none of those of the great of my own
country, may yet have been accustomed to receive consideration from the
world. Therefore I said with a bow, “Good Sir Englishman, under your
worshipful indulgence I would make so bold as to ask your name.”
Such a request seemed to give him great pleasure.
“That is a very proper question,” said he, “for my name happens to be
one that has been favourably mentioned in every nation of the civilized
globe.”
“Yes, sir, I feel sure of it,” said I; for as he spoke his dignity grew
of the finest nature.
“You ask my name, good Spaniard; well now, what do you think of Richard
Pendragon for a name?”
“A truly fine name,” said I, being led to this statement by the love of
politeness, although I am not sure that I did not feel it to be a very
barbarous name after all.
“Sir Richard Pendragon, knight; yes, by my hand, that’s a name! I have
seen Goths and Arabs turn pale at it; it has been embraced by the
foremost in valour; it has lain in the bed of queens. Yet the bearer of
that name is gentle enough, by my soul; for it is the name of a good
and true man, a simple knight, a valiant friend, a courteous enemy; a
humble-minded seeker of light who is addicted to reading the stars and
the works of nature. I have seen the wearer of this most inimitable
name wipe the blood of a Barbary pirate off his sword with the hem of
his pourpoint, and sit down and write a ballad. I have never seen his
superior in female company. You may well ask my name, good Spaniard,
for, without making a boast, which I abhor, where shall you find such
performance united to such simplicity, such chaste austerity to such
constancy in love? I tell thee, Spaniard, had I not been nurtured in
humility, had I not been inducted to it by my sainted mother, even as
the young kid is taught to bleat by the reception of its milk, I must
have been a boaster, for I am of royal lineage, and the blood of kings
flows under my doublet.”
“Hombre de dios!” I cried excitedly, for my own brains seemed
overmounted by his enthusiasm, “you have indeed a great name. I would
love to hear of those kings of whom you appear to be such a worthy
descendant.”
“This is a proper curiosity, my honest youth. The name of my father
is no less than Edward of England. I am his son, but not his heir. If
every man walked according to his merit, the royal offspring that
bespeaks you would have the crown of Great Britain tilted upon his left
eyebrow at an angle of forty-five degrees.”
“For what reason have you not, sir, if you are indeed the king’s son
and the crown is yours in the course of nature?”
“There was a little irregularity connected with my birth, which
at the time of its occurrence I was not in a situation to adjust.
Thenceforward a race of knaves and formalists have taken the wall of
honest Dick, and have placed another upon the throne of England. But
mark me, my son, the hour will strike when one who has grown old in the
love of virtue will make good his estate, for he can show a line of
kings upon both sides of his family. Upon the side of his dam is one
Uthyr Pendragon, and of the seed of him sprang Arthur, who many years
ago was a sovereign lord of Britain. It was many years ago, I say, but
this Arthur was a good prince, a man of integrity, and his name is
still mentioned favourably in his native country.”
“When, sir, do you propose to make this attempt upon the throne of
England?”
At this question Sir Richard Pendragon assumed an air of magnificence,
which did not consort very well with the hole in his scabbard and the
condition of his hose and doublet.
“All in a good season,” he said majestically. “If not to-day it will
be to-morrow. The truth is the machinations of the wicked have left me
somewhat light in purse, and have also blown upon my reputation. But
I don’t doubt that some fair morning when the larks are singing, the
first-born son of a sainted mother, for all his misfortune and his
plaguy dry throat, will land at Dover and march to London city at the
head of twenty thousand Christian gentlemen who have sworn to redress
his injuries.”
“May I be one of so fair a company!” said I, feeling the spell of his
passion.
“Amen to that, honest youth.” He spoke superbly. “Give old honest
Dickon your hand upon it. There is no sort of doubt that I shall hold
you to a vow that does such honour to your nation and your character.
By the way, is that a ring I see upon your finger, honest youth?”
“It is an heirloom of my house,” said I. “It was given by my father to
my mother when he came to woo her.”
The Englishman raised his eyebrows with an aspect of grave interest.
“Was that so, my young companion? Given by your father to your
mother--was that really the case? And set with agates, unless my eyes
deceive me.”
“Yes, they are agates.”
“The sight of agates puts me in mind of a ring I had of my old friend,
the Sophy. I used always to affect it on the middle finger of the right
hand, just as you affect your own, my son, until it was coveted by my
sainted mother upon a wet Ash Wednesday.”
Still exhibiting the tokens of a lively regard, the Englishman began to
fondle the ring as it lay on my finger.
“An honest band of gold, of a very chaste device. It looks uncommonly
choice on the hand of a gentleman. Does it not fit somewhat loosely, my
young companion?”
Speaking thus, and before I could suspect his intention, Sir Richard
Pendragon drew the ring off my finger. He held it up to the light, and
proceeded to examine it with the nicest particularity.
“I observe it was made in Milan,” said he. “It must have lain for years
in a nobleman’s family. My own was fashioned in Baghdat, but I would
say this is almost as choice as the gift of the Sophy. And as I say, my
son, it certainly makes an uncommonly fine appearance on the hand of a
gentleman.”
Thereupon Sir Richard Pendragon pressed the slender band of metal upon
the large fat middle finger of his right hand.
“It comes on by no means so easy as the Sophy’s gift,” said he; “but
then, to be sure, my old gossip had a true circumference taken by the
court jeweller. I often think of that court jeweller, such an odd,
brisk little fellow as ’a was. ’A had a cast in the right eye, and I
remember that when he walked one leg went shorter than its neighbour.
But for all that ’a knew what an agate was, and his face was as open as
a fine evening in June.”
With an air of pleasantry that was impossible to resist, Sir Richard
passed his cup and exhorted me to drain it. I drank a little of the
wine, yet with some uneasiness, for it was sore to me that my father’s
talisman was upon the hand of a stranger.
“I shall thank you, sir, to restore the ring to my care.”
“With all the pleasure in life, my son.” The Englishman took hold of
his finger and gave it a mighty pull, but the ring did not yield.
He shook his head and began to whistle dolefully.
“Why, as I am a good Christian man this plaguy ring sticks to my hand
like a sick kitten to a warm hearthstone. Try it, my son, I pray you.”
I also took a pull at the ring, which was wedged so firmly upon his
hand, but it would not budge.
“This is indeed a terrible matter,” said Sir Richard Pendragon. “What
is to be done, young Spaniard?”
He called the innkeeper and bade him bring a bowl of cold water. Into
this he dipped his finger; and although he held it in the water for
quite a long time, the ring and his right hand could not be induced to
part company.
“What is the price you set upon this ring, my young companion?”
“The ring is beyond price--it was my mother’s--and has ever been in the
keeping of an ancient house.”
“If it is beyond price there is an end to the question. I was about to
offer you money, but I see you have one of those lofty spirits that can
brook no vulgar dross. Well, well, pride of birth is a good thing, and
money is but little. Yet one who has grown old in the love of virtue
would like to requite you in some way. Had we not better throw a main
with the dice? If I win I wear the ring for my lawful use; and if I
lose you shall have the good tuck that was given to me by the King of
Bavaria for helping him against the Dutch.”
I did not accept this suggestion, as you may believe. Yet it gave
me sore concern to see my father’s heirloom upon the hand of this
foreigner. In what fashion it was to be lured from his finger I was at
a loss to know; and in my inexperience of the world I did not know what
course to embrace.