The way of the hero is often very hard, and Amyntas felt as if he would
choke as he walked slowly along. He looked back at every step, wondering
when he would see the old home again. He loitered through the lanes,
taking a last farewell of the nooks and corners where he had sat on
summer evenings with some fair female friend, and he heartily wished
that his name were James or John, and that he were an ordinary farmer's
son who could earn his living without going out for it into the wide,
wide world. So may Dick Whittington have meditated as he trudged the
London road, but Amyntas had no talismanic cat and no church bells rang
him inspiring messages. Besides, Dick Whittington had in him from his
birth the makings of a Lord Mayor--he had the golden mediocrity which is
the surest harbinger of success. But to Amyntas the world seemed cold
and grey, notwithstanding the sunshine of the morning; and the bare
branches of the oak trees were gnarled and twisted like the fingers of
evil fate. At last he came to the top of a little hill whence one had
the last view of the village. He looked at the red-roofed church
nestling among the trees, and in front of the inn he could still see the
sign of the 'Turk's Head.' A sob burst from him; he felt he could not
leave it all; it would not be so bad if he could see it once more. He
might go back at night and wander through the streets; he could stand
outside his own home door and look up at his father's light, perhaps
seeing his father's shadow bent over his books. He cared nothing that
his name was Amyntas; he would go to the neighbouring farmers and offer
his services as labourer--the village barber wanted an apprentice. Ah!
he would ten times sooner be a village Hampden or a songless Milton than
any hero! He hid his face in the grass and cried as if his heart were
breaking.
Presently he cried himself to sleep, and when he awoke the sun was high
in the heavens and he had the very healthiest of appetites. He repaired
to a neighbouring inn and ordered bread and cheese and a pot of beer.
Oh, mighty is the power of beer! Why am I not a poet, that I may stand
with my hair dishevelled, one hand in my manly bosom and the other
outstretched with splendid gesture, to proclaim the excellent beauty of
beer? Avaunt! ye sallow teetotalers, ye manufacturers of lemonade, ye
cocoa-drinkers! You only see the sodden wretch who hangs about the
public-house door in filthy slums, blinking his eyes in the glaze of
electric light, shivering in his scanty rags--and you do not know the
squalor and the terrible despair of hunger which he strives to
forget.... But above all, you do not know the glorious ale of the
country, the golden brown ale, with its scent of green hops, its broad
scents of the country; its foam is whiter than snow and lighter than the
almond blossoms; and it is cold, cold.... Amyntas drank his beer, and he
sighed with great content; the sun shone hopefully upon him now, and the
birds twittered all sorts of inspiring things; still in his mouth was
the delightful bitterness of the hops. He threw off care as a mantle,
and he stepped forward with joyful heart. Spain was a wild country, the
land of the grave hidalgo and the haughty princess. He felt in his
strong right arm the power to fight and kill and conquer. Black-bearded
villains should capture beautiful maidens on purpose for him to rescue.
Van Tiefel was but a stepping-stone; he was not made for the desk of a
counting-house. No heights dazzled him; he saw himself being made a peer
or a prince, being granted wide domains by a grateful monarch. He was
not too low to aspire to the hand of a king's fair daughter; he was a
hero, every inch a hero. Great is the power of beer. Avaunt! ye sallow
teetotalers, ye manufacturers of lemonade, ye cocoa-drinkers!
At night he slept on a haystack, with the blue sky, star-bespangled, for
his only roof, and dreamed luxurious dreams.... The mile-stones flew
past one another as he strode along, two days, three days, four days. On
the fifth, as he reached the summit of a little hill, he saw a great
expanse of light shining in the distance, and the sea glittered before
him like the bellies of innumerable little silver fishes. He went down
the hill, up another, and thence saw Plymouth at his feet; the masts of
the ships were like a great forest of leafless trees.... He thanked his
stars, for one's imagination is all very well for a while, and the
thought of one's future prowess certainly shortens the time; but roads
are hard and hills are steep, one's legs grow tired and one's feet grow
sore; and things are not so rose-coloured at the end of a journey as at
the beginning. Amyntas could not for ever keep thinking of beautiful
princesses and feats of arms, and after the second day he had exhausted
every possible adventure; he had raised himself to the highest possible
altitudes, and his aristocratic amours had had the most successful
outcome.
He sat down by a little stream that ran along the roadside, and bathed
his aching feet; he washed his face and hands; starting down the hill,
he made his way towards the town and entered the gate.