Chapter I The Vagabond
“Wealth I seek not, hope nor love,
Nor a friend to know me;
All I seek, the heaven above
And the road below me.”
R. L. STEVENSON.
The traveller sat upon the milestone just where the road, skirting the brow of the hill, branched off into the forest. At his feet lay the detached wheel; further away, in pathetic attitude, the remainder of the chaise itself. A stout bay, seemingly unconscious of as handsome a pair of broken knees as ever horse displayed, was tethered to a stump of tree, browsing such tender grass or leafage as grew within his reach. The situation spoke for itself; and the young traveller’s face spoke for the situation as eloquently as Nature (who had bestowed upon him a markedly disdainful and somewhat impassive set of features) would permit.
Behind him rose the cool gloom of the forest. Below lay the plain, gold-powdered by the level rays of a sinking sun. Between the edge of the road and the forest margin ran a stream. A robin sang to the glowing west from the topmost branch of a fir tree. But he on the milestone was blind to the gold of the valley, deaf to the gold of the song. “Now, here’s a pretty kettle of fish!” was the burden of his thoughts.
To have been stuck a whole hour upon a stone, while a postilion ranged the country on horseback in one direction, and a valet a-foot in the other, and no help as yet forthcoming; not to have had himself within hail, all those weary minutes, one single human being—between intervals of drowsiness he cursed the peaceful valley land, with its fair fields and orchards, as the most God-forsaken of countries!
Presently his moody eye quickened. On the road below a moving object was approaching. Only a pedestrian, alas! Nevertheless, he might prove of use for succour or advice.
But, as the oncomer drew nearer and began to foot the ascent, the glimmer of hope died in the discontented gentleman’s heart. Here was no sturdy native, likely guide to smithy or village inn. ’Twas a mere ambulant musician, as strange, doubtless, to the country as himself: the sun-rays were even now glinting back, roseate, from the varnish of a fiddle.—The traveller relapsed into moodiness.
At the steep curve of the hillside, man and fiddle vanished from view. Nevertheless, that he was still climbing, the advance (in interrupted measure) of a singular little tune, half sourdine, half pizzicato, soon proclaimed. It seemed at first so woven in with the babble of the brook, the deep choiring of the forest and the song of the robin, that the youth on the milestone hardly realized its separate existence. But, as it hovered ever closer, he was forced to listen and even to follow. It seemed the very song of the rover; of the rover on foot, humble and yet proud; without a penny, without a bond; glad of the free water to drink and the hunk of bread by the roadside—a song of the nodding grass and the bird in the hedge, of the dancing leaf, the darting swallow, the wide kindly skies. Oh, the road is full of gay things, and tender things, of sweetness and refreshment, of wholesome fatigue and glorious sleep, for those that know its secrets!
“Good evening to you, young sir.”
The little tune had stopped. A man’s figure, exaggeratedly thin, black against the sunset, had emerged over the knuckle of the hill and, with a wide sweep of the arm, was saluting.
The gesture of the black silhouette seemed so courtly, the voice that came from it so refined, that the young gentleman almost rose to return the salutation: but, in time, he caught sight of the violin curves.... Pooh, it was the fiddling vagabond! Ashamed of his impulse, he drew forth a florin and flung it.
The musician skipped nimbly on one side; the coin fell, flashing in the red sun-shafts. He looked from it to the imperious donor, whose face he scanned keenly for a moment, then smiled; and his teeth shone as white as a wolf’s in the deep tan of his face. Then off went his battered hat again and out was stretched a sinewy leg in dusty blue stocking, to accompany a bow such as twenty years ago might have roused the envy of your finest Versailles marquis.
“I greet you! I salute you, my young lord!” The fiddler rose from his inclination and burst out laughing. “Oh, cease fondling those pistols in your pocket, worthy sir,” cried he, “for by Calliope, daughter of Jove and Mnemosyne, ’tis not your money-bags I covet just now, but, oh! your golden youth!”
“The fellow has a wild eye,” thought the gentleman. Now, it is a question whether even a highway robber were not more agreeable to encounter on a lonely road than a madman.
“If it be madness to honour in you such a gift of the gods,” said the singular vagrant, reading the thought, “why then, yes, I am mad, sir—stark, staring.”
He fell back on one foot and bent the advanced knee, tucked his instrument under his chin, where it settled like a bird to its nest, and drew his bow across the strings with a long plaint.
“O youth!” he intoned between two sighs of the catgut. “O spring! O wings of the soul! O virginity of the heart, expectation, unknown mysteries of life! O wealth of strength and yearning!—See, now, how you sit,” he cried, dropping into speech again, “on the fringe of the forest, in a strange land, with the sunset valley at your feet, and the stream running you know not where beside you, and the bird over your head singing the desires of your soul. Why, by Apollo, young man, here are you in your youth, in the spring of your world, in the very middle of an adventure, and——”
Again limber fingers moved along the strings; and, with a sense of wonder, the traveller felt within his being some answering outcry. But he stiffened himself against it.
“Harkee, my man,” said he, trying to frown, “I am in no mood for fooling. Take up your florin, and begone.—Or, stay, earn another by telling me, if you can, where I am, and how far lies the nearest village?”
“Sir,” replied the other, urbanely, “fellow-travellers should assist each other without any sordid consideration. (Ah, had you offered me of your youth, now!) You are, an it please you, just between the border of that old, steady-going principality of Schwarzburg and the new-fangled, patchwork kingdom which appertaineth to his Majesty King Jerome—himself one of the crowning products of the Great Revolution!”
“Faugh!” said the gentleman.
The fiddler’s restless eye lighted.
“My lord is an Englishman? In verity and beyond doubt, none but an Englishman could wear so lofty a front. I need scarce have asked.”
The young man stared haughtily. The other considered him awhile in silence with a sort of grave mockery, and pursued then reflectively—
“This English aloofness, ’tis an excellent prescription for pride and disdain and such-like high essences. Only be careful, my brother-wayfarer, that you be not above your own fair youth, and contemn not its splendid opportunities.
‘Singula de nobis annipraedantur euntes’
O young man!...
‘Eripuere jocos, Venerem, convivia, ludum’
think of it!”
So saying, he shouldered his instrument, and with a valedictory wave of his bow seemed about to take his departure; but, as if upon a second thought, stood still, and once again observed the young man.
Now it struck the stranded traveller that there was a dignity in the vagrant’s gaze, a refinement about his person, which scarce accorded with the gipsy appearance, the shabby clothes; that it was not usual for beggars to quote Horace with delicate accents of culture; that his salutation had been a pattern of courtliness; above all, that he was not the least impressed by a young nobleman’s most noble demeanour. And he, on his milestone, began to feel slightly foolish—an ingenuous blush, indeed, crept to his cheeks.
The player hitched round his fiddle till it lay across his breast, and pinched a couple of strings as a man might pinch the cheek of the wench he loved.
“Pardi,” he said, speaking into its curved ear, “that flag of crimson would proclaim that there’s hope for the youth yet.—Sir,” proceeded he then, gaily, “I think I can be of use to you. I place myself at your service. May I crave to know whom I have the honour of addressing?”
“You address,” responded the other, “Steven Lee, Graf zu Waldorff-Kielmansegg, an Austrian gentleman (if you must know) travelling towards his estate in the south.” He had an irrepressible satisfaction in the recital.
“Austrian?” echoed the listener, with a cock of one of his expressive eyebrows. “’Tis a safer nationality to proclaim than the English, for travellers in great Cæsar’s dominions nowadays. Oh, you are right, quite right! ’Twould be the height of rashness to proclaim even a drop of English blood, these days, where Monsieur Buonaparte rules!”
The taunt struck home. Red mantled again on the gentleman’s smooth cheek.
“Despite an Austrian father, I have by my dead mother enough English blood in these veins,” cried he, hotly, “to hate the usurper and despite his upstart brothers—if that is what you mean; and I care not who knows it!”
The fiddler’s smile grew broader. “Youth,” whispered he to his violin, “may pretend to abjure itself, but it will out. The stripling has spirit, though it be but the spirit of scorn.—But the ceremony is not complete,” pursued he. “I have now to return your compliment. Above all things, let us be polite. Here, then, comrade, you see before you an individual known all over the country as the crazy musician, sometimes more tersely as Geiger-Hans—what in your English you might call Fiddle-John. Some call me the Scholar Vagabond, and some, the children (bless them), Onkel. Like your own, my nationality is a matter of indecision. Some say I am French, some German, some from over the Alps—take your choice; your choice, too, of my title: Geiger-Hans, Fiddle-John, or Geiger-Onkel. Or you may dub me, if you please, the Singer of Youth.”
But by this time, Steven Lee, Count Kielmansegg, was disgusted with himself for having betrayed so much of his feelings to a beggar vagrant.
“Doubtless,” remarked he, with infinite arrogance, “it may prove more convenient for you, at times, to hide your name, good fellow. Reassure yourself, I have no curiosity to learn it.”
Whereupon Geiger-Hans gathered his brows into so deep a frown that the whole hillside seemed to grow black. He struck the strings of his instrument, and they called out as with anger.
“My name,” he said under his breath, “my name, boy, is dead—as dead as my youth.” Then he grew calm as suddenly as he had stormed. “Some happy ones there are who die and whose names live: I live, and my name is dead. Let that suffice to you. Why, see,” he cried next, with another swift change of tone, while Count Steven stared at him, his slow Austrian blood, his deliberate English wits, unable to keep pace with such vivacity of mood, “it is getting dark... the sun has dropped behind the valley line... the forest is full of night already! Do not the lights of unknown shelter beckon you—the chimney-corner, the strange hospitality? Why, Heaven knows what sweet hostess may not greet your youthship to-night! And if your soul cries not out for fair adventure in forest depth, there, at least, is a poor dumb thing that craves stable and corn.” As he spoke, he stepped nimbly to the injured horse and unhitched the reins from the tree. “Might you not have bathed those cut knees?” he exclaimed, shooting a look of rebuke over the animal’s meek head. “And the kindly brook running charity at your elbow!”
He led the creature to the stream; and the deed of compassion accomplished, again turned to his companion with a smile, which seemed to show knowledge of all the latter’s vacillating thoughts of vexation and shame.
“Lend me a hand with the wheel, comrade, and let us see if we cannot improvise a linchpin. And then, if you push behind, this forgiving beast will do his best to draw your goods into safety.”
But it was the musician who mended the wheel, while the traveller watched in wonder the work of the brown hands. And then, in the falling dusk, they set upon their slow way: Steven Lee, Graf zu Waldorff-Kielmansegg, pushing behind even as bid, the fiddler marching ahead with the reins slung over his arm and humming a hunting song under his breath.
Leaving the stones and dust of the high-road, he led the way along a wide path that seemed to cut the forest in two and run downhill into the horizon. Beneath their feet was now an elastic carpet of pine-needles. On each side of them the serried ranks of trees held the night already in a thousand arms and murmured to it with a voice as of the sea. Before them, at the end of the nave, and set like a cathedral window, shone a span of sky, primrose and green, with one faint star. And presently Steven saw, to one side far ahead, an orange square of light, and knew it for the unknown forest shelter beckoning to him.
“But what,” cried he, struck by a sudden thought, “of my postilion and my valet?”
Geiger-Hans looked back at him over his shoulder and grinned. He slid the reins above his elbow and grasped his violin.
“To the devil,” it sang mockingly, through the glade, “to the devil with postilions and valets! to the devil with prudence and forethought! O youth, enjoy your youth! O youth, be young!”