by George Moore
It was that afternoon that Hugh and Percy discovered that what seemed one island was two, a narrow channel or gutter, as the boatmen called it, dividing the southern end from the northern; and the bare chance a boat would have descending through the rocky gutter where the tide swept seemingly at ten miles an hour, was argued till Mr. Williams called to his charges to look up, and at the top of the cliffs they caught sight of what remained of the herd of wild goats that from time immemorial had browsed upon whatever grass grew between the rocks. Hugh and Percy were told that a landing was very difficult and the height of the rocks so great that the goats lingered on, reduced occasionally when a great storm raged and carried some of the herd over the edge. The boat rounded the southern ness, and when the net was raised the fish in it were distributed between the boatmen, themselves, and the farmer, whose wife came to the bungalow and helped them to cook their share of it. Another night passed, and on the morrow Percy said he would like to devote some hours to making drawings. For never shall we see such cliffs as these again. And then another day went by helping their host in his business of rabbit-catching. They bring, so it is said, sir, three hundred a year, but I’d like to see the man who could get that much out of them. No man has ever done what he thought with rabbits, the farmer added as he put the slow ferret into the hole. Sounds came from underground. The ferret is rattling them now, said Mr. Evans, and a moment after a bunny was kicking in the net, and another and another; and at the close of day fifty brace were brought back in a wheelbarrow, to be taken that night to St. David’s. To make this island pay, said the farmer, we should have to have a railway station. There are sixteen good miles, to say nothing of the Sound, between the island and Fishguard. But we’ll get out another fifty brace to-morrow. And as we are leaving ourselves the day after, said Hugh, we will undertake the carriage for you, a promise for which the farmer was thankful. But it was, he said, a great disappointment to him that Mr. Monfert could not make up his mind to buy the island. It is a disappointment to me, Hugh answered, and he felt that he might have yielded to the temptation to acquire a hermitage had he not been certain that the only way he could rid himself of his present life was to take Orders. He had not yet confided his project to Percy, the feeling being strong in him that to disclose it would distract their thoughts from the island, and it was not till after a whirling passage across the Sound that he found himself unable to withhold it any longer.
Mr. Williams, who had accompanied them from the shore lest they should miss their way, had just pointed out the road to them, saying that there was but one, and looking ahead of them they caught sight of it straggling through a meagre plain between scrub and tussocked grass, with nothing to catch the eye but a hobbled goat, a tired horse turned out after his day’s work to graze, and some spires showing against the quiet evening sky. It was one of those evenings when the soul talks to itself if there be no sympathetic ear to speak into, yet in the midst of soliciting Nature a shyness sealed Hugh’s lips again and again; but at last the secret broke from him, and stopping suddenly he said: Percy, I cannot return to my lonely life with my mother. Percy, who was thinking at that moment of the drawings he had done on the island, withdrew his thoughts from them and answered: How is that, Hugh? You are sympathetic, Percy, but you don’t understand and I can’t blame you, for your father allows you freedom to choose your life. I am going to take Orders, Percy replied, to escape from worse, my father having proposed the Indian Army to me as a profession. The Army, he said, is better paid in India, and an officer can live on his pay. As a counter to the Army I spoke to him of Orders. So he proposed an exile to you in India? Hugh said, his voice trembling with emotion as he spoke the words, and whilst he considered the lack of perception which the proposal seemed to betray in Dr. Knight, his pricking conscience questioned Percy’s lack of scruples. To take Orders to escape the Army was doubtless a great sin, and to understand Percy better, he said: But you hoped that you would discover a vocation in yourself before — Yes, I thought of that, Percy answered indifferently, but I hoped meanwhile to be able to do something with my drawings. My father is a clever man, but without eyes to distinguish a good line from a bad, and very little sense of the different keys. You know I am deputy organist at Stanislaus, and when he sings Mass he often drops half a tone, and a nice clashing there would be if I didn’t keep a close watch on his drawl. But your drawings are what interest me, said Hugh, and it seems to me that you have only to go to London to show them, to sell them and to get work. A book illustrated by you — Ah, a book illustrated by me! That’s what I have often thought I would like to do; subject pictures are not in my line, not altogether, but a decorative page attracts me — the old print of the seventeenth century, a missal, anything of that kind, and it has just struck me, Hugh, that the book about knight-errantry you spoke to me of, about Ferabras, a Saracen who went to Italy at the head of an army, not for gold or precious stones, but to rob Rome of the relics which the Crusaders had brought back from the Holy Land, would suit me. I think I could embellish it with a frontispiece, full-page drawings, and of all, tail-pieces; nothing is so fascinating as sparkling little tail-pieces.
Of course you are quite right, Percy. I wonder I didn’t think of it before. Ferabras is a great story which has been adapted, mutilated, for centuries, so perhaps the time has come to return to the original story. But you haven’t got it right, or I may have bungled it in the telling. The story you are thinking of, and of which Ferabras is the hero, begins with a raid made by Charlemagne into Spain, which at that time was of course in the hands of the Saracens, with a view to recapturing the relics that they had robbed from Rome. Oliver was in command of the raiders, and at first he seems to have been successful; he pillaged and burnt every town, gathering a large booty wherever he went, till a great host of Saracens surrounded his army; but Roland and the Crusaders came to his rescue, despite their belief that they would never see the light of another day. The tide of battle turned when Charlemagne, with a reserve of hardened warriors, came to their aid. As soon as the news of the defeat reached the ears of Ferabras, he was filled with shame and anger, and calling for his horse he armed himself from head to heel and rode to where the Crusaders were encamped; and when he was near enough to be heard he raised his voice and cried that he had come to challenge Roland or Oliver in single combat, or any other Crusader who cared to accept his challenge. His words, the story tells, were like thunder in the ears of the Christians, and having spoken he dismounted, disarmed, and with insolent disdain lay down to rest himself under a tree, waiting for the champion or champions to present themselves. And all this assurance was not mere bravado, for he lacked nothing to prove himself the greatest knight on the top of the earth; he had a horse of a special breed, a carnivorous animal, a man-eater, and he had three swords like to which there were no three others in the world. But all these advantages were nothing in comparison with two little barrels which he carried on either side of the pommel of his saddle, for these were part of the relics of the Passion and were brought from Jerusalem to Rome, where they had been found by Ferabras on the expedition that he had headed against that town.
A single touch of the balm they contained would heal the most grievous wound, for the balm was the very one with which the Magdalen had anointed Jesus Christ. But you don’t believe, Hugh, that Ferabras possessed two little barrels filled with — One never knows, Hugh answered. I do not like to express opinions as to the truth of pious beliefs or practices; they do no harm and may be helpful. Christianity commits us to a belief in miracles, and who shall say that the age of miracles is ended? Ferabras had a sister of great beauty — Yes, of course, Percy interrupted, but among the many volumes you have of that literature perhaps there’s another story, a more human one, something less exaggerated.
I will try to think of one, Hugh said, and the friends continued their walk through the spare, silent country, their eyes on the Cathedral tower which rose above the valley. I dare say that no story conveys a better idea of the
knightly mind than that of Ferabras, but a contrast is needed, said Percy. People will always be interested in chivalry, but they like something else besides; chivalry and nothing but chivalry would be monotonous. It may be I shall remember something that will suit you better, Percy. It would be a great pleasure to me to help you, as you know well, and I should take the same pleasure in your work as I would in my own. We both love art; you can do it, I can but love it. My dear Hugh, you are more original than any of us, Percy answered. Sometimes I think, Hugh said meditatively, that there is a self in me that belongs to me and to me alone; but I have not been lucky, though many, of course, would think that I was the very luckiest. Money is like a web; we who have it find ourselves entangled whichever way we turn; we can never be ourselves. The only thing that I am sure of is that I would escape from Wotton Hall if I could, and a little while ago the way of escape seemed clear; now it is blocked again. How is that? asked Percy, and Hugh answered in a disappointed tone: A little while ago I was telling that I had come to a resolution to take Orders. And what prevents you from taking Orders if you are so minded, Hugh? I do not know that it would have occurred to me to take Orders if you had not set the example, Percy. I never had a friend except you, and I am not reconciled to losing you, or even part of you, which I should do if I took Orders and you remained among the laity. Art is a potent magnet. We should be drawn apart. Oh, I know it. Percy, don’t you understand?
VIII
The lads had planned to leave St. David’s next morning in time to catch the express from Fishguard, but the flyman had overslept himself, and the shower of gravel with which he had promised to awaken them was not thrown against the window pane till four o’clock. The express left Fishguard at five, and unless we had wings we could not have done the distance in an hour, said Percy afterwards. I am in no wise anxious to reach Stanislaus College, but to loiter here another long day is damnable. And if he should be late to-morrow! I’m not sure that it wouldn’t be as well to start at midnight! Anything rather than miss the train again. But why, Hugh, do you want to go to Stanislaus College with me? I am glad of your company and I appreciate it — I know that it’s very kind of you; but Stanislaus College is such a loathly place in my eyes that I can’t understand how you can want to go there, and you do. You talk of becoming a priest and living there. And upon this Percy elaborated a theory that Yarrow should always remain unvisited, dwelling on the fact that our memories should never be brought into conflict with realities, there being two things in man — the moment in which he lives, and the moment that he remembers separate things, hostile as fire and water. The only circumstance in which he could understand the revisiting of Yarrow was if one had developed a grudge against Yarrow and wished to indulge in one’s contempt, thereby frightening Hugh with wisdom unnatural in a healthy body. Only consumptives are thus apt, he said to himself. If I were the owner of Wotton Hall, said Percy suddenly, I shouldn’t be returning to Stanislaus College. You might, Hugh replied, if you knew what my life was. But I do know, said Percy; your mother wants you to marry and you won’t. I should hate the thought of passing all my life with a woman and might end by hating her. Oh, then you do feel like that, Percy? A woman by me night and day would interfere with my work. But I can’t see what fault you find with your mother. To me she seems a very agreeable woman indeed. You might have suited her better than I do, Hugh muttered. And as for the women, Percy continued, that she brings down to Wotton Hall, no doubt some of the girls are very pretty, and I am sure I should be able to spend some pleasant hours with them; but no such luck for me! A great many of the women that she brings down are very vulgar, Hugh replied, but I have noticed, Percy, that although you object to vulgar, common, uneducated men, you don’t mind vulgar, common, uneducated women. So long as they are women, you are satisfied.
Percy laughed and answered that the very fact of being a woman was a romance from a man’s point of view. And I wonder you don’t feel as I do, Hugh, for you are romantic in many ways. Yes, I know I am, said Hugh, but I am not romantic about women. I think if you saw Beatrice you would be romantic about her, Percy replied. The first person you spoke to me about, Percy, was your sister. Is she then very wonderful? And Percy talked of her till the Church bells began to ring, and then Hugh’s conscience smiting him he said: If we had only caught that train we would have arrived at Birmingham in time for Mass; we have missed Mass here. There’s a holy well in the neighbourhood, said Percy; we might visit it. Hugh consented, but the visit to the holy well did not soothe his conscience and he was as unhappy after luncheon as he was before it. Percy proposed a visit to the flyman, who was apologetic, and from him they learnt the dreadful news that there was no boat train from Ireland on Sunday night and therefore no morning train to London, and the thought of another day in St. David’s broke them down. But the day passed, though they thought it never would pass, and on Monday morning they were driving through the dusk to catch a later train, Hugh still thinking of the Mass that he had missed the day before and Percy of the rating he would get from his father for having remained away many days after the appointed time. It’s just occurred to me, Hugh, he said, that we are both in the same boat; you don’t like going to Wotton Hall to meet your mother, and I don’t like going to Stanislaus College to meet my father. In the same boat and in the same train, Hugh answered sleepily, and they sat almost stupid, side by side, watching the great sky above them and the small dark patch through which they were driving, the tedium of the drive relieved a little by the torch-like splendour of the star, now and again obscured by a cloud but shining forth again always, shining as brilliantly when they arrived at Fishguard as when they left St. David’s. And then the great harbour took their eyes and drew a few words from them, but they were too sleepy, too stupid, to think any more about it.
It was now broad day and they sat in the railway carriage, Percy already anxious for talk but Hugh inert, deep in a stupor in which he saw and heard hardly anything. He was often like this, and after a few attempts at conversation Percy turned for interest to his own thoughts, and very soon began to discover himself different from what he was when he set out from Wotton Hall. St. David’s, above all, seemed to have revealed much about himself that he did not know before. The attack of blood-spitting that he had had on the road after leaving the inn might mean little or much, but it seemed to foretell that his life would not be a very long one. He might live for some years still; he might even decline into old age if he became a priest and lived abroad in a climate that suited him; but of what good would that be? A few more years of life mean nothing; life consists in doing what we come into the world to do, and with care he might live for several years in England, expressing himself, for that was how he liked to think of life, as a term for self-revelation. As a priest he would be but a mummy; and his thoughts ran on that if he had hesitated till now between religion and art, it was because he did not know his own powers as an artist. But these had been revealed to him. He liked the St. David’s drawings as well as any he had ever done, and overlooking them he indulged in the belief that as line, as penmanship, they exceeded in beauty any that he knew in modern times, than any, unless the miracles of the past were matched against him. All the same, he realised that they did not exhibit him fully, only his hand and some delicate observation. There was something more in him, which he would be able to get out if he managed to escape the priesthood and if a suitable book came to him for illustration. Ferabras might be the very one; and lying back in the railway carriage his mind seemed to overflow with strange, intricate fancies, lovely embroideries that the story Hugh had told him awakened, and it seemed to him that it would be a pity if he went out of the world without giving shape to these. The story that Hugh had told him took possession of him; he saw the frontispiece and the tail-pieces and a hundred embellishments, devices of all kinds. If they want more, they shall have more, he said, carried forward on a wave of confidence. On turning to another part of the story his mind overflowed again with new imaginations, sur
prising him by their strangeness and their beauty, wicked, superlative things that would at once exasperate and please. Though he paid for it with his life, he must get some of himself onto paper, and though he had a weak chest he was not a consumptive; all he asked was ten years. And he looked at Hugh, saying to himself: He must do that translation for me; be is good enough for that.
