by John Buchan
I
THE COMPANY OF THE MARJOLAINE
"Qu'est-c'qui passe ici si tard, Compagnons de la Marjolaine," --CHANSONS DE FRANCE
...I came down from the mountain and into the pleasing valley of theAdige in as pelting a heat as ever mortal suffered under. The wayunderfoot was parched and white; I had newly come out of a wildernessof white limestone crags, and a sun of Italy blazed blindingly in anazure Italian sky. You are to suppose, my dear aunt, that I had hadenough and something more of my craze for foot-marching. A fortnightago I had gone to Belluno in a post-chaise, dismissed my fellow tocarry my baggage by way of Verona, and with no more than a valise onmy back plunged into the fastnesses of those mountains. I had a fancyto see the little sculptured hills which made backgrounds forGianbellini, and there were rumours of great mountains built wholly ofmarble which shone like the battlements.
...1 This extract from the unpublished papers of the Manorwater familyhas seemed to the Editor worth printing for its historical interest.The famous Lady Molly Carteron became Countess of Manorwater by hersecond marriage. She was a wit and a friend of wits, and her nephew,the Honourable Charles Hervey-Townshend (afterwards our Ambassador atThe Hague), addressed to her a series of amusing letters while making,after the fashion of his contemporaries, the Grand Tour of Europe.Three letters, written at various places in the Eastern Alps anddespatched from Venice, contain the following short narrative....
of the Celestial City. So at any rate reported young Mr. Wyndham, whohad travelled with me from Milan to Venice. I lay the first night atPieve, where Titian had the fortune to be born, and the landlord at theinn displayed a set of villainous daubs which he swore were the earlyworks of that master. Thence up a toilsome valley I journeyed to theAmpezzan country, valley where indeed I saw my white mountains, but,alas! no longer Celestial. For it rained like Westmorland for fiveendless days, while I kicked my heels in an inn and turned a canto ofAristo into halting English couplets. By-and-by it cleared, and Iheaded westward towards Bozen, among the tangle of rocks where theDwarf King had once his rose-garden. The first night I had no inn butslept in the vile cabin of a forester, who spoke a tongue half Latin,half Dutch, which I failed to master. The next day was a blaze ofheat, the mountain-paths lay thick with dust, and I had no wine fromsunrise to sunset. Can you wonder that, when the following noon I sawSanta Chiara sleeping in its green circlet of meadows, my thought wasonly of a deep draught and a cool chamber? I protest that I am a greatlover of natural beauty, of rock and cascade, and all the properties ofthe poet: but the enthusiasm of Rousseau himself would sink from thestars to earth if he had marched since breakfast in a cloud of dustwith a throat like the nether millstone.
Yet I had not entered the place before Romance revived. The littletown--a mere wayside halting-place on the great mountain-road to theNorth--had the air of mystery which foretells adventure. Why is itthat a dwelling or a countenance catches the fancy with the promise ofsome strange destiny? I have houses in my mind which I know will someday and somehow be intertwined oddly with my life; and I have faces inmemory of which I know nothing--save that I shall undoubtedly cast eyesagain upon them. My first glimpses of Santa Chiara gave me this earnestof romance. It was walled and fortified, the streets were narrow pitsof shade, old tenements with bent fronts swayed to meet each other.Melons lay drying on flat roofs, and yet now and then would come ahigh-pitched northern gable. Latin and Teuton met and mingled in theplace, and, as Mr. Gibbon has taught us, the offspring of thisadmixture is something fantastic and unpredictable. I forgot mygrievous thirst and my tired feet in admiration and a certain vagueexpectation of wonders. Here, ran my thought, it is fated, maybe, thatromance and I shall at last compass a meeting. Perchance some princessis in need of my arm, or some affair of high policy is afoot in thisjumble of old masonry. You will laugh at my folly, but I had anexcuse for it. A fortnight in strange mountains disposes a man to lookfor something at his next encounter with his kind, and the sight ofSanta Chiara would have fired the imagination of a judge in Chancery.
I strode happily into the courtyard of the Tre Croci, and presently hadmy expectation confirmed for I found my fellow,--a faithful rogue I gotin Rome on a Cardinal's recommendation,--hot in dispute with a lady'smaid. The woman was old, harsh-featured--no Italian clearly, though shespoke fluently in the tongue. She rated my man like a pickpocket, andthe dispute was over a room.
"The signor will bear me out," said Gianbattista. "Was not I sent toVerona with his baggage, and thence to this place of ill manners? WasI not bidden engage for him a suite of apartments? Did I not dulychoose these fronting on the gallery, and dispose therein the signor'sbaggage? And lo! an hour ago I found it all turned into the yard andthis woman installed in its place. It is monstrous, unbearable! Isthis an inn for travellers, or haply the private mansion of theseMagnificences?"
"My servant speaks truly," I said firmly yet with courtesy, having nomind to spoil adventure by urging rights. "He had orders to take theserooms for me, and I know not what higher power can countermand me."
The woman had been staring at me scornfully, for no doubt in my dustyhabit I was a figure of small count; but at the sound of my voice shestarted, and cried out, "You are English, signor?"
I bowed an admission. "Then my mistress shall speak with you," shesaid, and dived into the inn like an elderly rabbit.
Gianbattista was for sending for the landlord and making a riot in thathostelry; but I stayed him, and bidding him fetch me a flask of whitewine, three lemons, and a glass of eau de vie, I sat down peaceably atone of the little tables in the courtyard and prepared for thequenching of my thirst. Presently, as I sat drinking that excellentcompound of my own invention, my shoulder was touched, and I turned tofind the maid and her mistress. Alas for my hopes of a glorious being,young and lissom and bright with the warm riches of the south! I saw ashort, stout little lady, well on the wrong side of thirty. She hadplump red cheeks, and fair hair dressed indifferently in the Romanfashion. Two candid blue eyes redeemed her plainness, and a certaingrave and gentle dignity. She was notably a gentlewoman, so I got up,doffed my hat, and awaited her commands.
She spoke in Italian. "Your pardon, signor, but I fear my goodCristine has done you unwittingly a wrong."
Cristine snorted at this premature plea of guilty, while I hastened toassure the fair apologist that any rooms I might have taken were freelyat her service.
I spoke unconsciously in English, and she replied in a halting parodyof that tongue. "I understand him," she said, "but I do not speak himhappily. I will discourse, if the signor pleases, in our first speech."
She and her father, it appeared, had come over the Brenner, and arrivedthat morning at the Tre Croci, where they purposed to lie for somedays. He was an old man, very feeble, and much depending upon herconstant care. Wherefore it was necessary that the rooms of all theparty should adjoin, and there was no suite of the size in the inn savethat which I had taken. Would I therefore consent to forgo my right,and place her under an eternal debt?
I agreed most readily, being at all times careless where I sleep, sothe bed be clean, or where I eat, so the meal be good. I bade myservant see the landlord and have my belongings carried to other rooms.Madame thanked me sweetly, and would have gone, when a thought detainedher.
"It is but courteous," she said, "that you should know the names ofthose whom you have befriended. My father is called the Countd'Albani, and I am his only daughter. We travel to Florence, where wehave a villa in the environs."
"My name," said I, "is Hervey-Townshend, an Englishman travellingabroad for his entertainment."
"Hervey?" she repeated. "Are you one of the family of Miladi Hervey?"
"My worthy aunt," I replied, with a tender recollection of thatpreposterous woman.
Madame turned to Cristine, and spoke rapidly in a whisper.
"My father, sir," she said, addressing me, "is an old frail man, littleused to the company of strangers; but i
n former days he has hadkindness from members of your house, and it would be a satisfaction tohim, I think, to have the privilege of your acquaintance."
She spoke with the air of a vizier who promises a traveller a sight ofthe Grand Turk. I murmured my gratitude, and hastened afterGianbattista. In an hour I had bathed, rid myself of my beard, andarrayed myself in decent clothing. Then I strolled out to inspect thelittle city, admired an altar-piece, chaffered with a Jew for a cameo,purchased some small necessaries, and returned early in the afternoonwith a noble appetite for dinner.
The Tre Croci had been in happier days a Bishop's lodging, andpossessed a dining-hall ceiled with black oak and adorned with frescos.It was used as a general salle a manger for all dwellers in the inn,and there accordingly I sat down to my long-deferred meal. At firstthere were no other diners, and I had two maids, as well asGianbattista, to attend on my wants. Presently Madame d'Albanientered, escorted by Cristine and by a tall gaunt serving-man, whoseemed no part of the hostelry. The landlord followed, bowing civilly,and the two women seated themselves at the little table at the fartherend. "Il Signor Conte dines in his room," said Madame to the host, whowithdrew to see to that gentleman's needs.
I found my eyes straying often to the little party in the cool twilightof that refectory. The man-servant was so old and battered, and ofsuch a dignity, that he lent a touch of intrigue to the thing. He stoodstiffly behind Madame's chair, handing dishes with an air of greatreverence--the lackey of a great noble, if I had ever seen the type.Madame never glanced toward me, but conversed sparingly with Cristine,while she pecked delicately at her food. Her name ran in my head witha tantalizing flavour of the familiar. Albani! D'Albani! It was aname not uncommon in the Roman States, but I had never heard it linkedto a noble family. And yet I had somehow, somewhere; and in the vaineffort at recollection I had almost forgotten my hunger. There wasnothing bourgeois in the little lady. The austere servants, the highmanner of condescension, spake of a stock used to deference, though,maybe, pitifully decayed in its fortunes. There was a mystery inthese quiet folk which tickled my curiosity. Romance after all was notdestined to fail me at Santa Chiara.
My doings of the afternoon were of interest to me alone. Suffice it tosay that when at nightfall I found Gianbattista the trustee of aletter. It was from Madame, written in a fine thin hand on a delicatepaper, and it invited me to wait upon the signor her father, thatevening at eight o'clock. What caught my eye was a coronet stamped ina corner. A coronet, I say, but in truth it was a crown, the same assurmounts the Arms Royal of England on the sign-board of a Courttradesman. I marvelled at the ways of foreign heraldry. Either thisfamily of d'Albani had higher pretensions than I had given it creditfor, or it employed an unlearned and imaginative stationer. Iscribbled a line of acceptance and went to dress.
The hour of eight found me knocking at the Count's door. The grimserving-man admitted me to the pleasant chamber which should have beenmine own. A dozen wax candles burned in sconces, and on the tableamong fruits and the remains of supper stood a handsome candelabra ofsilver. A small fire of logs had been lit on the hearth, and before itin an armchair sat a strange figure of a man. He seemed not so muchold as aged. I should have put him at sixty, but the marks he borewere clearly less those of time than of life. There sprawled before methe relics of noble looks. The fleshy nose, the pendulous cheek, thedrooping mouth, had once been cast in looks of manly beauty. Heavyeyebrows above and heavy bags beneath spoiled the effect of a cholericblue eye, which age had not dimmed. The man was gross and yet haggard;it was not the padding of good living which clothed his bones, but aheaviness as of some dropsical malady. I could picture him in health agaunt loose-limbed being, high-featured and swift and eager. He wasdressed wholly in black velvet, with fresh ruffles and wristbands, andhe wore heeled shoes with antique silver buckles. It was a figure ofan older age which rose to greet me, in one hand a snuff-box and apurple handkerchief, and in the other a book with finger marking place.He made me a great bow as Madame uttered my name, and held out a handwith a kindly smile.
"Mr. Hervey-Townshend," he said, "we will speak English, if you please.I am fain to hear it again, for 'tis a tongue I love. I make youwelcome, sir, for your own sake and for the sake of your kin. How isher honourable ladyship, your aunt? A week ago she sent me a letter."
I answered that she did famously, and wondered what cause ofcorrespondence my worthy aunt could have with wandering nobles of Italy.
He motioned me to a chair between Madame and himself, while a servantset a candle on a shelf behind him. Then he proceeded to catechise mein excellent English, with now and then a phrase of French, as to thedoings in my own land. Admirably informed this Italian gentlemanproved himself. I defy you to find in Almack's more intelligentgossip. He inquired as to the chances of my Lord North and the mind ofmy Lord Rockingham. He had my Lord Shelburne's foibles at his fingers'ends. The habits of the Prince, the aims of the their ladyships ofDorset and Buckingham, the extravagance of this noble Duke and thatright honourable gentleman were not hid from him. I answereddiscreetly yet frankly, for there was no ill-breeding in his curiosity.Rather it seemed like the inquiries of some fine lady, now buried deepin the country, as to the doings of a forsaken Mayfair. There washumour in it and something of pathos.
"My aunt must be a voluminous correspondent, sir," I said.
He laughed, "I have many friends in England who write to me, but I haveseen none of them for long, and I doubt I may never see them again.Also in my youth I have been in England." And he sighed as atsorrowful recollection.
Then he showed the book in his hand. "See," he said, "here is one ofyour English writings, the greatest book I have ever happened on." Itwas a volume of Mr. Fielding. For a little he talked of books andpoets. He admired Mr. Fielding profoundly, Dr. Smollet somewhat less,Mr. Richardson not at all. But he was clear that England had amonopoly of good writers, saving only my friend M. Rousseau, whom hevalued, yet with reservations. Of the Italians he had no opinion. Iinstanced against him the plays of Signor Alfieri. He groaned, shookhis head, and grew moody.
"Know you Scotland?" he asked suddenly.
I replied that I had visited Scotch cousins, but had no greatestimation for the country. "It is too poor and jagged," I said, "forthe taste of one who loves colour and sunshine and suave outlines." Hesighed. "It is indeed a bleak land, but a kindly. When the sun shinesat all he shines on the truest hearts in the world. I love itsbleakness too. There is a spirit in the misty hills and the harshsea-wind which inspires men to great deeds. Poverty and courage gooften together, and my Scots, if they are poor, are as untamable astheir mountains."
"You know the land, sir?" I asked.
"I have seen it, and I have known many Scots. You will find them inParis and Avignon and Rome, with never a plack in their pockets. Ihave a feeling for exiles, sir, and I have pitied these poor people.They gave their all for the cause they followed."
Clearly the Count shared my aunt's views of history--those views whichhave made such sport for us often at Carteron. Stalwart Whig as I am,there was something in the tone of the old gentleman which made me feela certain majesty in the lost cause.
"I am Whig in blood and Whig in principle," I said,--"but I have neverdenied that those Scots who followed the Chevalier were too good towaste on so trumpery a leader."
I had no sooner spoken the words than I felt that somehow I had beenguilty of a betise.
"It may be so," said the Count. "I did not bid you here, sir, to argueon politics, on which I am assured we should differ. But I will askyou one question. The King of England is a stout upholder of the rightof kings. How does he face the defection of his American possessions?"
"The nation takes it well enough, and as for his Majesty's feelings,there is small inclination to inquire into them. I conceive of thewhole war as a blunder out of which we have come as we deserved. Theday is gone by for the assertion of monarchic rights against the willof a
people."
"May be. But take note that the King of England is suffering to-dayas--how do you call him?--the Chevalier suffered forty years ago. 'Thewheel has come full circle,' as your Shakespeare says. Time haswrought his revenge."
He was staring into a fire, which burned small and smokily.
"You think the day for kings is ended. I read it differently. Theworld will ever have need of kings. If a nation cast out one it willhave to find another. And mark you, those later kings, created by thepeople, will bear a harsher hand than the old race who ruled as ofright. Some day the world will regret having destroyed the kindly andlegitimate line of monarchs and put in their place tyrants who governby the sword or by flattering an idle mob."
This belated dogma would at other times have set me laughing, but thestrange figure before me gave no impulse to merriment. I glanced atMadame, and saw her face grave and perplexed, and I thought I read awarning gleam in her eye. There was a mystery about the party whichirritated me, but good breeding forbade me to seek a clue.
"You will permit me to retire, sir," I said. "I have but this morningcome down from a long march among the mountains east of this valley.Sleeping in wayside huts and tramping those sultry paths make a manthink pleasantly of bed."
The Count seemed to brighten at my words. "You are a marcher, sir, andlove the mountains! Once I would gladly have joined you, for in myyouth I was a great walker in hilly places. Tell me, now, how manymiles will you cover in a day?"
I told him thirty at a stretch.
"Ah," he said, "I have done fifty, without food, over the roughest andmossiest mountains. I lived on what I shot, and for drink I hadspring-water. Nay, I am forgetting. There was another beverage, whichI wager you have never tasted. Heard you ever, sir, of that eau de viewhich the Scots call usquebagh? It will comfort a traveller as no thinItalian wine will comfort him. By my soul, you shall taste it.Charlotte, my dear, bid Oliphant fetch glasses and hot water andlemons. I will give Mr. Hervey-Townshend a sample of the brew. YouEnglish are all tetes-de-fer, sir, and are worthy of it."
The old man's face had lighted up, and for the moment his air had thejollity of youth. I would have accepted the entertainment had I notagain caught Madame's eye. It said, unmistakably and with seriouspleading, "Decline." I therefore made my excuses, urged fatigue,drowsiness, and a delicate stomach, bade my host good-night, and indeep mystification left the room.
Enlightenment came upon me as the door closed. There in the thresholdstood the manservant whom they called Oliphant, erect as a sentry onguard. The sight reminded me of what I had once seen at Basle when bychance a Rhenish Grand Duke had shared the inn with me. Of a sudden adozen clues linked together--the crowned notepaper, Scotland, my auntHervey's politics, the tale of old wanderings.
"Tell me," I said in a whisper, "who is the Count d'Albani, yourmaster?" and I whistled softly a bar of "Charlie is my darling."
"Ay," said the man, without relaxing a muscle of his grim face. "It isthe King of England--my king and yours."
