The Moon Endureth: Tales and Fancies
Page 3
II
In the small hours of the next morning I was awoke by a most unearthlysound. It was as if all the cats on all the roofs of Santa Chiara weresharpening their claws and wailing their battle-cries. Presently outof the noise came a kind of music--very slow, solemn, and melancholy.The notes ran up in great flights of ecstasy, and sunk anon to thetragic deeps. In spite of my sleepiness I was held spellbound and themusician had concluded with certain barbaric grunts before I had thecuriosity to rise. It came from somewhere in the gallery of the inn,and as I stuck my head out of my door I had a glimpse of Oliphant,nightcap on head and a great bagpipe below his arm, stalking down thecorridor.
The incident, for all the gravity of the music, seemed to give a touchof farce to my interview of the past evening. I had gone to bed withmy mind full of sad stories of the deaths of kings. Magnificence intatters has always affected my pity more deeply than tatters with nosuch antecedent, and a monarch out at elbows stood for me as the lastirony of our mortal life. Here was a king whose misfortunes could findno parallel. He had been in his youth the hero of a high adventure,and his middle age had been spent in fleeting among the courts ofEurope, and waiting as pensioner on the whims of his foolish butregnant brethren. I had heard tales of a growing sottishness, adecline in spirit, a squalid taste in pleasures. Small blame, I hadalways thought, to so ill-fated a princeling. And now I had chancedupon the gentleman in his dotage, travelling with a barren effort atmystery, attended by a sad-faced daughter and two ancient domestics.It was a lesson in the vanity of human wishes which the shallowestmoralist would have noted. Nay, I felt more than the moral. Somethinghuman and kindly in the old fellow had caught my fancy. The decadencewas too tragic to prose about, the decadent too human to moralise on.I had left the chamber of the--shall I say de jure King of England?--asentimental adherent of the cause. But this business of the bagpipestouched the comic. To harry an old valet out of bed and set himdroning on pipes in the small hours smacked of a theatrical taste, orat least of an undignified fancy. Kings in exile, if they wish to keepthe tragic air, should not indulge in such fantastic serenades.
My mind changed again when after breakfast I fell in with Madame on thestair. She drew aside to let me pass, and then made as if she wouldspeak to me. I gave her good-morning, and, my mind being full of herstory, addressed her as "Excellency."
"I see, sir," she said, "That you know the truth. I have to ask yourforbearance for the concealment I practised yesterday. It was a poorrequital for your generosity, but is it one of the shifts of our sadfortune. An uncrowned king must go in disguise or risk the laughter ofevery stable-boy. Besides, we are too poor to travel in state, even ifwe desired it."
Honestly, I knew not what to say. I was not asked to sympathise, havingalready revealed my politics, and yet the case cried out for sympathy.You remember, my dear aunt, the good Lady Culham, who was ourDorsetshire neighbour, and tried hard to mend my ways at Carteron?This poor Duchess--for so she called herself--was just such another. Awoman made for comfort, housewifery, and motherhood, and by no meansfor racing about Europe in charge of a disreputable parent. I couldpicture her settled equably on a garden seat with a lapdog andneedlework, blinking happily over green lawns and mildly rating anerrant gardener. I could fancy her sitting in a summer parlour, veryorderly and dainty, writing lengthy epistles to a tribe of nieces. Icould see her marshalling a household in the family pew, or ridingserenely in the family coach behind fat bay horses. But here, on aninn staircase, with a false name and a sad air of mystery, she waswoefully out of place. I noted little wrinkles forming in the cornersof her eyes, and the ravages of care beginning in the plump rosiness ofher face. Be sure there was nothing appealing in her mien. She spokewith the air of a great lady, to whom the world is matter only for anafterthought. It was the facts that appealed and grew poignant fromher courage.
"There is another claim upon your good nature," she said. "Doubtlessyou were awoke last night by Oliphant's playing upon the pipes. Irebuked the landlord for his insolence in protesting, but to you, agentleman and a friend, an explanation is due. My father sleeps ill,and your conversation seems to have cast him into a train of sadmemories. It has been his habit on such occasions to have the pipesplayed to him, since they remind him of friends and happier days. Itis a small privilege for an old man, and he does not claim it often."
I declared that the music had only pleased, and that I would welcomeits repetition. Where upon she left me with a little bow and aninvitation to join them that day at dinner, while I departed into thetown on my own errands. I returned before midday, and was seated at anarbour in the garden, busy with letters, when there hove in sight thegaunt figure of Oliphant. He hovered around me, if such a figure canbe said to hover, with the obvious intention of addressing me. Thefellow had caught my fancy, and I was willing to see more of him. Hisface might have been hacked out of grey granite, his clothes hungloosely on his spare bones, and his stockined shanks would have done nodiscredit to Don Quixote. There was no dignity in his air, only asteady and enduring sadness. Here, thought I, is the one of theestablishment who most commonly meets the shock of the world's buffets.I called him by name and asked him his desires.
It appeared that he took me for a Jacobite, for he began a rigmaroleabout loyalty and hard fortune. I hastened to correct him, and he tookthe correction with the same patient despair with which he took allthings. 'Twas but another of the blows of Fate.
"At any rate," he said in a broad Scotch accent, "ye come of kin thathas helpit my maister afore this. I've many times heard tell o'Herveys and Townshends in England, and a' folk said they were on thericht side. Ye're maybe no a freend, but ye're a freend's freend, or Iwadna be speirin' at ye."
I was amused at the prologue, and waited on the tale. It soon came.Oliphant, it appeared, was the purse-bearer of the household, andwoeful straits that poor purse-bearer must have been often put to. Iquestioned him as to his master's revenues, but could get no clearanswer. There were payments due next month in Florence which wouldsolve the difficulties for the winter, but in the meantime expenditurehad beaten income. Travelling had cost much, and the Count must havehis small comforts. The result in plain words was that Oliphant hadnot the wherewithal to frank the company to Florence; indeed, I doubtedif he could have paid the reckoning in Santa Chiara. A loan wastherefore sought from a friend's friend, meaning myself.
I was very really embarrassed. Not that I would not have givenwillingly, for I had ample resources at the moment and was mightilyconcerned about the sad household. But I knew that the little Duchesswould take Oliphant's ears from his head if she guessed that he haddared to borrow from me, and that, if I lent, her back would for everbe turned against me. And yet, what would follow on my refusal? In aday of two there would be a pitiful scene with mine host, and as likeas not some of their baggage detained as security for payment. I didnot love the task of conspiring behind the lady's back, but if it couldbe contrived 'twas indubitably the kindest course. I glared sternly atOliphant, who met me with his pathetic, dog-like eyes.
"You know that your mistress would never consent to the request youhave made of me?"
"I ken," he said humbly. "But payin' is my job, and I simply havenathe siller. It's no the first time it has happened, and it's a sairtrial for them both to be flung out o' doors by a foreign hostlerbecause they canna meet his charges. But, sir, if ye can lend to me,ye may be certain that her leddyship will never, hear a word o't. Puirthing, she takes nae thocht o' where the siller comes frae, ony mairthan the lilies o' the field."
I became a conspirator. "You swear, Oliphant, by all you hold sacred,to breathe nothing of this to your mistress, and if she should suspect,to lie like a Privy Councillor?"
A flicker of a smile crossed his face. "I'll lee like a Scotchpackman, and the Father o' lees could do nae mair. You need have nofear for your siller, sir. I've aye repaid when I borrowed, though youmay have to wait a bittock." And the strange fellow str
olled off.
At dinner no Duchess appeared till long after the appointed hour, norwas there any sign of Oliphant. When she came at last with Cristine,her eyes looked as if she had been crying, and she greeted me withremote courtesy. My first thought was that Oliphant had revealed thematter of the loan, but presently I found that the lady's trouble wasfar different. Her father, it seemed, was ill again with his oldcomplaint. What that was I did not ask, nor did the Duchess reveal it.
We spoke in French, for I had discovered that this was her favouritespeech. There was no Oliphant to wait on us, and the inn servants werealways about, so it was well to have a tongue they did not comprehend.The lady was distracted and sad. When I inquired feelingly as to thegeneral condition of her father's health she parried the question, andwhen I offered my services she disregarded my words. It was in truth adoleful meal, while the faded Cristine sat like a sphinx staring intovacancy. I spoke of England and of her friends, of Paris andVersailles, of Avignon where she had spent some years, and of theamenities of Florence, which she considered her home. But it was liketalking to a nunnery door. I got nothing but "It is indeed true, sir,"or "Do you say so, sir!" till my energy began to sink. Madameperceived my discomfort, and, as she rose, murmured an apology. "Prayforgive my distraction, but I am poor company when my father is ill. Ihave a foolish mind, easily frightened. Nay, nay!" she went on when Iagain offered help, "the illness is trifling. It will pass off byto-morrow, or at the latest the next day. Only I had looked forward tosome ease at Santa Chiara, and the promise is belied."
As it chanced that evening, returning to the inn, I passed by the northside where the windows of the Count's room looked over a littleflower-garden abutting on the courtyard. The dusk was falling, and alamp had been lit which gave a glimpse into the interior. The sick manwas standing by the window, his figure flung into relief by thelamplight. If he was sick, his sickness was of a curious type. Hisface was ruddy, his eye wild, and, his wig being off, his scanty hairstood up oddly round his head. He seemed to be singing, but I couldnot catch the sound through the shut casement. Another figure in theroom, probably Oliphant, laid a hand on the Count's shoulder, drew himfrom the window, and closed the shutter.
It needed only the recollection of stories which were the property ofall Europe to reach a conclusion on the gentleman's illness. Thelegitimate King of England was very drunk.
As I went to my room that night I passed the Count's door. There stoodOliphant as sentry, more grim and haggard than ever, and I thought thathis eye met mine with a certain intelligence. From inside the roomcame a great racket. There was the sound of glasses falling, then astring of oaths, English, French, and for all I know, Irish, rapped outin a loud drunken voice. A pause, and then came the sound of maudlinsinging. It pursued me along the gallery, an old childish song,delivered as if 'twere a pot-house catch--
"Qu'est-ce qui passe ici si tard, Compagnons de la Marjolaine--"
One of the late-going company of the Marjolaine hastened to bed. Thisking in exile, with his melancholy daughter, was becoming too much forhim.