CHAPTER XXX. CONSOLATIONS OF DIPLOMACY
The first revulsion of feeling over, the terrible shock of that fall from the pinnacle of wealth and greatness to the lowly condition of a prisoner unfriended and destitute,—I actually began to enjoy my life, and feel something wonderfully like happiness. I do not pretend to say that my disappointment was not most acute and painful, or that I suffered little from the contemplation of my ruined hopes. No, far from it; but my grief, like the course of a mountain torrent, soon ran off, and left the stream of my life clear and untroubled as ever. It is true, thought I, this is a terrible contrast to what I was a week ago; but still, is it not a long way in advance of what my original condition promised? I am a prisoner in a Spanish fortress: is not even that better than a peasant in an Irish hovel? The very cares with which I am surrounded bespeak a certain consequence pertaining to me; I am one whom ministers of State think and speak about, whose name is often on their lips, whose memory haunts them in their half-waking moments. Is not this something? Is it not a great deal to one whose whole ideal was to avoid the bypaths of life, and take his course in its very widest and busiest thoroughfares?
The occupations in which I passed my days greatly contributed to sustain this pleasant illusion. I was eternally writing letters, memorials, statements of facts, and what not, of interminable narratives, to all our ministers and consuls, invoking their aid, and protesting in the name of the British nation against the unwarrantable tyranny of my imprisonment. It is quite true that these lengthy documents of mine seemed to meet but sorry acceptance. For a length of time no acknowledgment of their reception ever reached me; but at last the following dry epistle informed me that my memorials had reached their destination:—
“Sir,—I am directed by the Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs to acknowledge the receipt of your memorials dated the 9th, 12th, 18th, 23rd, and 25th of last month, together with various letters bearing on the same subjects since that time, and to state, in reply, that the matter of your complaint is at present under investigation with the authorities of the Spanish Government.
“His Lordship the Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs desires me to add his regrets that even in the event of your liberation he can hold out no prospect whatever that any compensation will be made to you for the loss of property you allege to have suffered, and which, of course, was incurred as one of the many risks natural to the course of such an expedition as you were engaged in.
“I have the honor to be, sir,
“F. O., London,
“Your most obedient servant,
“Oct. 18—.
“Joseph Backslip.
“To Cornelius Cregan, Esq.”
This was a sad damper! To think that I was to lose the immense amount of property with which I had embarked,—the gems and jewels, the rare objects of art, the equipages, the beautiful horses of purest Mexican blood! not to speak of that far greater loss,—the large sum in actual money! But, then, what a consolation to remember that a Secretary of State was mingling his sorrows with my own on the subject; that he actually gave an official character to his grief, by desiring the Under-Secretary to convey “his regrets” in a despatch! his regrets—to me, Con Cregan! What inestimable words! That ever I should live to know that the Right Honorable Lord Puzzleton, the adored cherub of fashion, the admired of coteries, the worshipped of “the Commons,” the favored guest of Windsor, should, under the big seal of his office, assure me of his heartfelt sympathy!
I closed my eyes as I read the paragraph, and imagined that we were weeping together, like the “Babes in the Wood.” “How they wrong this man,” thought I, “in England; what calumnies they circulate about his levity, his heartlessness, and so forth; and see! look at him here mingling in the private sorrows of an individual, and taking part in all the private woes of Con Cregan.” By this beautiful artifice I contrived to raise the aforesaid Con to a very considerable elevation in his own esteem; and thus, worthy reader, by pleasant fancies and ingenious illusions,—wares that every man can fashion at will,—did I contrive to make my prison at Malaga a most endurable resting-place, and even now to make its retrospect full of sweet memories.
Nor were my imaginings limited to such visions as these, for I loved to compare my condition with that of other exalted prisoners, and fancy how my conduct would read by the side of theirs. If I were less piously resigned, less submissive, than Silvio Pellico, assuredly I showed more dignity in my fall than the Exile of St. Helena. I bore all the little vexations of my lot with a haughty reserve that entirely subdued every sign of a querulous nature, and seemed to say, “My time will come yet!”
At last it appeared either as if my memorials were never opened, or, if opened, never read. No answer came whatever! and even the Malaga newspapers, which, in the dearth of shipping intelligence, would often insert some little notice of me, stating how “the 'Conde' walked yesterday for an hour upon 'the leads';” “the 'Condé' partook with an appetite of a partridge, and conversed freely with the officer on duty,” and so on,—now they never by any chance alluded to me; and I seemed, for all the interest the world manifested about me, to have suffered a species of moral decease. It was the unhealthy season of the year, and the Consul had absented himself, leaving his functions to his “Vice,” who, having also a “constitution,” had departed likewise, bequeathing the traditions and cares of office to his Dutch colleague, who neither spoke nor read any other tongue than that muddy language begotten of dikes and fogs. Wearied possibly by the daily arrival of half a quire of my remonstrances, or curious to see the machine by which these broad sheets were struck off with such unfailing celerity, this official arrived one day at the prison with an order from the Governor, permitting him to see the “Condé.”
I was, as usual, writing away, when the turnkey announced his Excellency (every official is Excellency if too low for Highness), Mynheer van Hoagendrius, and a very short and immensely fat personage, dressed in a kind of black-and-white plaid jacket and trousers, entered. He looked like a huge chess-board set on legs. A grunt, a snort, a thick sound like a struggle between choking and gurgling, ensued, which I concluded to be something in Dutch, and he seated himself opposite me.
I made my compliments to him, polyglot-wise, in French, English, Spanish, and at last German,—the last evidently striking a spark out of the embers of his cold intelligence, for he fixed his dull eyes upon me, and seemed as though he would soon wake up. Animated by this hope, I proceeded in my very best “Deutsch” to expound my sorrows to him. Fortunately for me, my German had been acquired in the low companionship of “skippers” and sailors, and consequently bore a nearer resemblance to its half-brother of Holland than the more cultivated tongues of professors and philosophers.
I cannot, to this hour, say whether it arose from any interest in the narrative, or whether proceeding from the laudable desire to come at the truth in a question of much difficulty, but the Mynheer now came to me each morning, and usually stayed two hours, during which I talked and he smoked incessantly. Often, when he left me, have I asked myself “what progress I had made in his good opinion? how far had I made him master of my case?” but the question remained without an answer; for if occasionally a stray flash of intelligence would light up his dull features, on following the direction of his eyes I could perceive that the animation arose from the sight of some fishing-boat returning loaded with turbot, or that the savory odor of salt cod had saluted him from the shore. I felt at length as though I were sailing without a log-line,—nothing to mark my progress or say in what latitude I cruised.
My Dutch friend had now been visiting me for above six weeks, during which, if he had not supplied himself with every detail of my calamity, he had at least smoked all the choice tobacco which, as a favor from the Governor, I was permitted to land for my own use; and as yet he had given no signs of life other than the act of fumigation aforesaid. I was half angry, half amused, at the little act of dexterity with which he emptied the last remnant of my pure Havannah into his pipe, and heard, with a kind of malicious satisfaction, the little sigh with which he pushed the empty canister from him.
He seemed lost for some time in the slough of his Dutch reflections, but at length he fixed his eyes upon me, and in a low, suffocating tone said, “Hast a file?”
“No,” said I.
“There, then,” said he, giving me a small parcel tightly tied up in paper. “Farewell!” and he moved towards the door before I could recover from my surprise to thank him. As he reached it, he turned about, and in a very significant voice said, “Der bood est hardt,”—a species of Plat-Deutsch I might not have understood if unaccompanied by a gesture which implied that the ground was hard beneath my window, as a caution to me in the event of a leap.
No sooner was I alone than I opened my precious packet, which, besides two files, contained a small phial of aquafortis and another of oil,—the latter a useful adjunct to prevent the grating noise being heard. Having concealed the implements in a rat-hole, I proceeded to examine the iron bars of the window, which, although seemingly of great size and strength, were in reality coated with a rust of more than half their actual thickness. This was a most inspiriting discovery, and at once animated me with glowing hopes of success.
As I could only work during the night, I affected illness as a reason for keeping my bed during the day, when I slept profoundly and refreshingly.
The non-success of all my efforts to interest diplomacy in my cause was just beginning to impress me with a sense of gloom and despondency, when this new incident occurred to rally my drooping courage. Life had now an object; and that, if not always enough for happiness, is sufficient at least to rouse those energies which, when stagnant, produce despair. How I longed for night to come, that I might resume my labor! with what resolute industry I worked on during the dark hours, only ceasing when the change of the sentries brought the guard close beneath my window, and even grudging the few seconds thus wasted! With what delight I used to measure the fissure which, at first only deep enough for my nail, was now sufficient to cover the file! This I used to conceal each morning with bread colored by the rusty powder that fell from the filing, so that, to all seeming, everything was in its usual order.
This was almost the only period of my life in which I remembered my father: from some similarity in our condition, perhaps, he was now seldom out of my thoughts. I used to wonder if he were still alive, and how situated; whether he was yet a convict going forth in chains to daily toil, or a “ticket-of-leave” man working at some settlement in the “Bush.” Did he ever think of me? Did he ever dream of his native land, or wish to return to it? And what prospect of escape did fortune hold out to him? That, after all, was the great link which bound him to my thoughts! Was there any silent and sympathizing Dutchman to take pity on his captivity?
At the close of the fifth week, I had the inestimable pleasure of “reporting the breach practicable,” or, in less sounding phrase, of assuring myself that the middle bar of the window was removable at will, and thus a free egress was permitted me to an extensive terrace, which, with a low parapet, overlooked the bay for miles. This was about five-and-twenty feet from the ground, and was guarded beneath by a sentry, one of a chain of sentinels, whose “watch” extended around the entire fortress. The descent and the guard were then the only difficulties which now remained to be overcome,—so far, at least, as mere liberation from the prison walls extended. I am sure I invented at least fifty choice stratagems which afterthought always showed were perfectly worthless. I bethought me of bribing the sentry with the few gold pieces which I still possessed; but what security had I that he might not resist the seduction, or betray me even after receiving the money?
The fall, too, was considerable; nor was there anything to which I could attach my bedclothes to lower myself to the ground. It must be “a drop;” and what a situation should I be in were I to break a bone, or even sprain my ankle in the effort! Alas! I now perceived that although the most laborious portion of my work was accomplished, the most difficult still remained to be done.
The obstacles to mere escape were sufficiently great to prevent me even thinking of the course to be pursued after I reached the ground in safety, for I was without friend, shelter, passport, or any means of disguise or concealment whatever.
I pondered long and carefully over the question; and already had two dreary weeks passed over since I had cut through the bar, and yet, so far as I could see, no nearer to liberation than when the solid iron enclosed me. My mind began to sink under the fatigue of unceasing contrivance, and a dreamy, dreary sense of hopelessness seemed gaining on me. It had been a dark, cloudy day, with gusts of wind, followed by intervals of calm. The air was moist and heavy, and charged with the depressing influences which the “mestrale,” that sickliest of all winds, ever brings. Masses of leaden-colored clouds floated low over the sea, which was broken into a short angry “jobbe,” as if after a storm.
All betokened the approach of a gale of wind, and, as night set in, the signs of bad weather thickened. Scarcely had the sun set, when it became dark as pitch; the wind, which had lulled for a brief space previous, now sprung up, and the sea fretted and chafed against the rocks with that peculiar sharp chirping sound that presages “wind.” The clank of chain cables, the plashing noise of falling anchors, the loud shouts of the sailors as they prepared to meet the gathering storm, even now heard, while in the changing position of the different lights of the bay I could discern the movements of the various vessels as they sought shelter or made ready for sea, in expectation of the “gale.” The impenetrable darkness, the roaring wind, the flashing of the lights, the cries of the seamen, the hurrying of feet along the quays, and the sounds of different boats' crews departing in haste,—all gave a charm to a scene of which the obscurity increased the interest. A large French steamer was to have sailed that night for Marseilles; but I overheard a voice from the street foretelling that the “Gazonne” might leave without her passengers, “as no one would go on board of her on such a night.” A red lantern at the peak indicated the vessel, and I could see that she had changed her position and “taken up a berth” farther out in the bay.
I cannot tell by what instinct I selected her as a peculiar object of my interest, but so it was. I watched her unceasingly, and rarely took my eyes from the quarter where she lay; and when the heaving motion of the “red light” showed that she was tossing in a heavy sea, I listened too with eagerness to catch anything from those that passed beneath that might concern this vessel, which now engrossed all my sympathy. “Were I once but on board of her,” thought I, “the wildest hurricane that ever blew would be sweeter to me than all the balmy airs that ever bore the odor of orange-blossom through my barred window!” I would have braved the stormiest seas, the maddest gale, shipwreck itself, rather than longer remain the helpless, hopeless thing a life of imprisonment was making of me. “Would that the alternative were given me,” said I to myself: “the free choice to change these four walls for the deck over which the waves are dancing in foamy sheets! with what a thankful heart would I take the offer!”
The last visit of the turnkey, who came to see all safe, broke in for a moment upon these musings; and now the double-locked door, and his retiring footsteps, told me that no further molestation was to be feared, and that I was, at least till daybreak, the undisturbed master of my own reveries. I opened the window, pushed back the iron stanchion, and walked out upon the terrace. It was a night of storm and wild hurricane. The rain swept by in great plashes, increasing the darkness, and mingling its hissing noise, with the breaking crash of the sea, as it beat furiously against the rocks. The dancing, bobbing motion of the lights on board the different craft showed what “a sea” was raging in the bay; while, even in the city itself, the clatter of falling tiles and chimneys told the violence of the gale. I stood upon the terrace; and as the rain penetrated my frail garment, and the wind wafted my wet hair across my cheeks, I felt a sense of ecstasy that nothing in all my previous life had ever equalled. It was the sensation of freedom; it was the burst of delight with which the captive welcomes the long-lost liberty. “Better this,” thought I, “than the snuggest chamber that ever called itself a prison.”
It was past the hour when any further visit from the turnkey might be expected. Already the outer door of my chamber had been locked and barred with all that scrupulous attention to noise and clank that are supposed only essential in a melodrama. The sentry had just been relieved on the esplanade beneath the terrace, so that I might consider myself disencumbered from all fear of interruption in any quarter. I sat down upon the parapet, and peered into the dark depth below me, where the hazy glimmer of the sentry's lamp served to mark the height. At first it seemed a terrific drop; but after a while I began to satisfy myself that the darkness contributed to this effect; and as my sight grew more accustomed to the gloom, I was able to trace different objects,—among others, the conical roof of the sentry-box, at a distance of scarcely more than fifteen feet beneath me.
Thus far I could reach by making a rope of my bed-clothes, and attach one end to a portion of the battlement of the parapet; but how should I venture on a descent in such a place? how risk the almost certainty of recapture by the sentry himself? This was a formidable difficulty, and demanded much consideration; and yet, were I to select any other spot, I might chance to be disabled by the fall, and then all my efforts were fruitless, since a broken bone, or even a sprained ankle, would be certain ruin.
Never was a knotty point more canvassed, nor the clew to a difficulty more zealously searched for! As generally happens in such cases, first thoughts are best, and the bold course the safest. By descending on the sentry-box, I should at least reach the ground without injury; and if I were to have a “tussle” for it with the guard, it would be without the disadvantage of a previous damage. Besides this, the incessant noise of the tempest, the crashing of the sea, and the deep booming of the thunder gave hopes that my descent might be unheard. Nay, more, the sound of my heavy body over his head would be rather an admonition to stay quietly within than risk himself outside, to the danger of tumbling tiles or masses of masonry from the parapet. The more I reflected upon this, the clearer I saw that the storm was a Heaven-sent accident for me; that the darkness, the tumult, and the deserted streets were all accessories the most favorable; that to neglect such an occasion of escape would be downright madness. If I took some time to arrive at this conclusion, I made up for the delay by the rapidity of my subsequent movements. I hastily returned to my room; and had I been bred a ropemaker, my two sheets and counterpane could not have been fashioned into a three-stranded rope more handily; and, my sailor's experience favoring, I adjusted the cord in a “timber hitch” round one of the battlements, and well satisfied myself that I might trust to the other extremity,—“Con Cregan and his fortunes.”
I then took a hurried survey of my room, trimmed my lamp that it might burn till morning, secured the three or four papers of value which still remained to me, and then issued forth to my enterprise.
A cannon-shot from the bay rung out as I again stepped upon the terrace, and I accepted the augury as an omen of welcome. I will not deny that my hands trembled as I examined, for the last time, the fastening of the cord; nor do I seek to conceal that as I buttoned my coat, the beating of my heart smote heavily against my fingers. I even hesitated for an instant; and during that instant, brief as it was, I could have faced death itself rather than the uncertainty before me. The weakness passed quickly away, and, with a short but fervent prayer, I grasped the rope and slipped noiselessly over the parapet.
A sudden gust of wind swept past at the moment, and swung me out from the wall as though I had been a thing of no weight, calling for all my strength to prevent me from being blown away! And now I was buffeted about, tossed here and thrown there, with a violence that almost dislocated every joint in my body. The jerking motion and the chafing of my rope on the parapet made me tremble for my security, and not without cause; for in one great swing, in which I described an arc no other pendulum, living or dead, ever compassed before, I came back with such force against the roof of the sentry-box, striking it with both my feet together at the same instant, that my cord snapped short in the very centre.
The force of my fall, added to the previous blow, capsized the sentry-box, and I came to the ground along with it, in a state of fright that even to this very hour I cannot recall without shuddering. Half-stunned by the fall, bruised and almost lifeless from terror, I sat there waiting for the moment when the sentry would issue forth and seize me; nor was it till after the lapse of several minutes that I perceived that the soldier was in a trap, the weighty sentry-box had fallen over on the front, and effectually debarred him from any chance of self-extrication.
I stooped over to listen, but all was still; he never spoke a word,—probably stunned by the shock, or he might have fainted from terror. Whatever the cause, neither my humanity nor my curiosity cared to explore further, but, rising to my feet, and ascertaining, to my inexpressible delight, that I was uninjured, I set off at full speed toward the shore. The sea suggested escape, and thither I bent my way, without thinking more on the matter.
I could see, from the hurried movement of lights along the pier, that boats were rapidly leaving for the various ships in the harbor. To get on board any of these, no matter what, or whither bound, was all my object,—a Tunis pirate or a Malay prow would have been a happy exchange for the black prison at Malaga.
I had almost run myself out of breath, when I came up with a knot of some dozen people who were hastening onward as fast as they could. Two heavily laden barrows with luggage, and a multitude of cloaks, shawls, and mantles, pronounced them to be travellers; and I soon collected, from the expressions dropped by the boatmen, that they were about to embark in the French steamer for Leghorn. Mingling with the group, which the darkness freely permitted, I heard a voice say, in English, something about the weather; and now, listening more attentively, I picked up that they were an English family hurrying to Pisa to see a son whose failing health gave them no time for delay. I gathered, too, that the packet, which should not have started till the next day, was now leaving suddenly; the captain haviug sent a message to say that he had determined to put to sea rather than ride out the gale so near shore.
The travellers were mingling their complaints at this peremptory summons, with others over the absence of their courier, who had got leave to see some of his friends about a league away, and must now inevitably be left behind. In the course of their lamentings, I could learn that they had only engaged the man the evening before at the recommendation of the landlord, and had scarcely seen him above a couple of times.
In fact, except that he was an Italian, and his name Raffaello, they knew nothing about him. At last they reached the jetty where the boat lay, and now I could hear their discussion, whether it were better to leave the courier's effects behind, or take them on, in the hope that he might yet come up.
“He's a smart fellow, and depend upon it he 'll be here before we sail,” said a young man of the party.
“No, no,” cried another, “he 'll never hear a word of the packet till she's half way to Leghorn.”
“What did you tell him, William?” asked an elderly lady.
“To be back by six o'clock to-morrow morning,” said the first speaker.
“Ay, but in what language did you speak?”
“I spoke Italian, and afterwards I said it in French; for he does n't know one word of English.”
This was all I wanted; I slipped noiselessly away, and, retiring to some distance behind the party, waited till I saw them descend the stairs to the boat. This occupied some time, for the party were numerous, and their trunks and portmanteaus were without end. At last, just as the word to shove off was given, I dashed forward at the top of my speed, crying out in Spanish, “Hold fast there! wait for the courier!”
“What's the matter?” asked one of the Englishmen.
“A courier, Señhor,” said a sailor, “wants to come with us.”
“Oh, Raffaello, by George!” exclaimed the other; “I knew he 'd be up. Put back, men; he belongs to us.”
“Pardon, signori,” said I, stepping lightly over the gunwale, “I have had a sharp run for it;” and away we went! Seated on a great-coat of black sheepskin, which from its style and cut I knew must have belonged to my predecessor, Raffaello, I could see the rapid passage of lights on the shore in the direction of my late prison, and at last could detect one glimmering from a part of the building where my cell stood. The roll of drums beating to arms was soon heard, and it was evident to me that my escape had become known,—that the garrison of the fortress was on the alert to recapture me. Although fully a mile from land, and rowing with all the vigor of twelve stout sailors towards a vessel whose steam was already whizzing through the escape funnel, my heart almost sunk within me from very fear; and rather than be retaken I would have jumped into the boiling tide that swelled and broke around me.
The sailors more than once relaxed their efforts to watch what was going forward on shore; and how fervently did I, in silence, curse their curiosity! Externally, however, I maintained my calm demeanor, and even ventured to conjecture that a fire must have broken out in the fortress, such was the commotion and excitement discernible in that quarter.
Another suggested the possibility of its being some prisoner that had made his escape,—a notion which I took occasion to ridicule, by averring that the Carcel was reputed to be the strongest prison in Spain, and an instance of evasion altogether unknown.
Thus chatting, we reached the steamer. To my intense delight, the anchor was already weighed; and scarcely had we mounted the ladder than she broached round, head to sea, and clove through the water like a fish.
Every plunge of the great ship shook the strong timbers and made her huge framework tremble, sending a thrill of pleasure through me. With each mountain wave that rolled past, I saw my chance of safety increase, and knew that no boat—manned by Spaniards, at least—would dare pursuit in such a storm. I had abundant leisure for these reflections, since my “masters” had only time to get on board when they retired to their berths, overcome by sea-sickness, so that I was at full liberty to indulge my own thoughts, and dispose of myself without the slightest interruption. From a smart little French maid I learned that the family was called Grimes; that they had recently come from England by way of Gibraltar, where one of the sons, now with them, was quartered with his regiment; that the party consisted of a widow lady with three daughters and two sons, a third being the invalid at Pisa. They were rich, good sort of folks, very ignorant of the Continent, very credulous, and altogether a satisfactory kind of connection for a cunning French femme-de-chambre and a roguish courier to fall in with. This latter fact Mademoiselle Virginie insisted upon with no small degree of self-gratulation, giving me to understand that we might have a very thriving career as fellow-laborers in the same vineyard.
Her sketches of English life, manners, and prejudices were not a little amusing, while the rules she laid down for the due management and control of her masters were a perfect chapter in domestic machiavelism. There had once been a time when I would have enlisted willingly under such a banner,—glad to reach the upper story of life, even by such a back stair; but now that I had tasted the glorious supremacy of command myself, that I had revelled in the mastery of a great household, that I had rolled along in my own chariot, clothed in fine linen and faring sumptuously every day, I felt my return to a menial situation a degradation unendurable. I determined that, once in Italy, I would escape from the thraldom of such servitude, come what might of it.
By long dwelling on the theme, I had contrived to impress myself with the most profound conviction that I was a much-injured individual, that my case, if not sufficient for a war with Spain, was a fair ground for a parliamentary “flare-up,” angry diplomatic notes, and Heaven knows what threats of our outraged Foreign Office. That a man with such a glorious grievance should sink down into a courier, to wrangle with landlords, bully waiters, and flirt with the “maid in the rumble,” was not to be thought of. I felt that I was sworn at Highgate, and destined for the inside of the travelling-carriage, and not the “out.”
Scarcely were we arrived at Leghorn, and installed at the San Marco, than I began to prepare for my emancipation,—a bold step, considering that all the available resources I possessed was a ruby ring set round with brilliants, which I had concealed in my cap along with my papers. I was admonished to lose no time in my departure, by remarking that another packet from Malaga was expected within a week, which probably would convey the rightful courier, in search of his missing baggage, and I was by no means desirous of being confronted with the real Simon Pure.
I am not sure that this latter consideration did not weigh most with me in the matter, since the novelty of my situation and the sense of its creature-comforts might have induced me to linger a little longer in a capacity even as humble. With such people as the Grimes's, the courier was supreme, and his rule despotic. From the hour at which they were to dine, to what they were to eat,—how they were to spend the day, what to see, and what to avoid,—were all at his dictation; while from the landlord came a perfect volley of civilities that plainly showed who was the real personage to whom adulation was due. If my masters dined on a chicken, I fed upon ortolans; while they made wry faces over their “Chianté,” I luxuriated on Château La Rose or Chambertin. For my table were reserved the oysters of Venice, the fresh “sardines” of Gorgona, the delicate mutton of Pistoja, the delicious Becafica of the Vai d'Arno, while Piscia was ransacked for my dessert, till I saw myself surrounded with rarities that even in my great days I scarcely dreamed of.
There was a kind of “abandon,” too, in this mode of life that pleased me well,—a delightful sense of irresponsibility pervaded everything I did or imagined.
The courier knows nothing of that hesitation which besets his master at the thought of some costly indulgence. He neither doubts nor denies himself. The Emperor of Russia may have bespoke the post-horses, but he knows how to bribe even against the Czar himself, and would intrigue for the fish intended for a cardinal's Friday dinner. He is perhaps the only traveller who is indifferent to the bill,—nay, he even glories in its extravagance, as increasing his own percentage. I was beginning to see and appreciate all these advantages when caution admonished me to escape. The real Raflfaello was doubtless already at sea, and might arrive ere I had evacuated the territory.
I only waited, then, to see “my family” snugly housed at Pisa, when I proceeded to tender my resignation. It was very flattering to my vanity to see the distress my announcement created; they evidently felt like a crew about to be deserted by the pilot in a difficult navigation. They were but indifferent linguists, and worse travellers; and I almost repented of my resolve as I perceived the dismay it occasioned, the full measure of which I was admitted to witness, since—from my supposed ignorance of English—they discussed the question very freely in my presence.
“Does he say he 's dissatisfied with his situation?” asked the old lady.
“It is difficult to make out what he means, Mamma,” replied a daughter.
“These fellows are always intriguing for higher wages,” observed the subaltern.
“Or to engage with people of greater consequence,” remarked the second son.
“We had better send for the tutor, Mamma; he speaks French better than we do.”
This proposition—albeit not accepted as a compliment to themselves by the two brothers—was at last acceded to, and, after a brief delay, the individual in question made his appearance. To avoid any semblance of understanding what went forward, I stood in patient silence, not even turning my head in the direction where the family were now grouped around the “Dragoman.”
“You are to find out what he wants,” said the old lady, eagerly. “Say that we are perfectly satisfied with him; and if it be an increase—”
“That he 'll not get a sou more with my consent,” broke in the sub. “He receives already more than a captain in the line.”
“I only know that I never had as much to spend at Cambridge,” echoed the other.
“They are always extravagantly paid,” said the elder daughter.
“The creatures give themselves such airs,” observed number two.
“And when they are at all well-looking they're intolerable,” broke in number three, who had been coolly scanning me through her eyeglass.
The tutor by this time had evidently received his instructions in full, and beckoned me to follow him into a small room adjoining the saloon. I obeyed; and scarcely had the door closed upon us than I started, and broke out into an involuntary exclamation of surprise. The individual before me was no other than my first friend, the kind youth who had taken me by the hand at the very outset of my career, the student of Trinity, Dublin, named Lyndsay.
As I perceived that he did not recognize me, I had time enough to observe him well, and mark the change which more than twelve years had wrought upon him. Though still young, anxiety and mental exertion had worn him into premature age. His eye was dulled, his cheeks pale and sunken, and in his manner there was that timid hesitation that stood abashed in the presence of my own cool effrontery. I could see easily that the man of thought and reflection was succumbing before the man of action and of the world, and I was selfish enough to revel in the triumph.
In a low, diffident voice he proceeded to ask me if there was anything in the nature of my situation that induced me to quit a service where I had given the fullest satisfaction.
I replied by an easy caress of my long black moustache, and a certain expressive gesture of the shoulders, meant to convey that my objections were of a nature that did not admit exactly of discussion,—rather questions of delicate personal feeling than of actual difficulty. Hinted that I had rarely served anything less than a royal highness, and feared that I should be likely to injure myself,—of degenerating into an easy and familiar manner, by associating with those so nearly of my own level.
I saw the blood mantle in the pale cheek of the student as he listened to this impertinence, and thought that I could mark the struggle that was passing within him, while, in a calm, collected tone, he said that those were questions on which he could not give any opinion, and that if I desired to leave, of course no further objections would be offered. “Might I ask,” added he, with a manner where a most courteous politeness prevailed,—“might I ask what are the qualifications of a person in your condition of life?”
“I think,” replied I, “that I appreciate the meaning of your question. You would ask by what right a man humbly born, educated to mere menial duties, can aspire to the position and the pay a courier claims. I am willing to tell you. To begin, then: He must be familiar with the geography of Europe,—I speak here of the merely Continental courier,—he must know the boundaries, the high roads, the coinage, the customs, the privileges of every petty State, from the smallest principality of Germany to the greatest sovereignty of a Czar. He must know the languages, not as scholars and grammarians know them, but in all their dialects and 'patois.' It is not enough that he has learned the tongue in which Dante wrote, or Metastasio sung, he must speak Venetian and Milanese, Neapolitan and Piedmontese. He should know the Low German of the Black Forest, the Wiener dialect of the Austrian, and talk every gradation of French, from the frontiers of Flanders to the vine-groves of Provence and Auvergne. He must be as familiar with every city of Europe as though it were his birthplace; with the churches, the galleries, their monuments, and their history. He must know the delicacies of each land, and every rarity it can produce for the palate of the epicure. He must be a connoisseur in wine, pictures, china, cuisine, statuary, engravings, armor, ancient furniture, manuscripts, horseflesh, the drama, and Bohemian glass; able to pack a trunk, or expatiate upon a Titian; to illustrate a fresco, to cheat a custom-house, to bully a prefect, make an omelette, ride postilion. These, with a running knowledge of international law and the Code Napoléon, and some skill in all the minor operations of surgery,—these are a brief summary of a courier's qualifications.”
“And do you tell me, friend,” said he, earnestly, “that you can do all this?”
“Indifferent well,” said I, carelessly. “There are, doubtless, others who have gained a higher proficiency in the craft; but as I am still young, I'll not despair of future eminence.”
He heaved a deep sigh, and leaned his head upon his hand.
I fancied I could read what was passing in his mind, and, at a haphazard, said, “You are contrasting the catalogue with that of your own acquirements, and perhaps asking yourself, to what end all the midnight toil of scholarship? Why have I labored hard, with aching brow and fevered heart, when one with vulgar attainments like these,—the scattered fragments, the crumbs that fall from the table of real knowledge,—can secure a better livelihood and more real independence than myself; and the reason is, mine are marketable wares that find purchasers in every class, and among every gradation of society. 'My lord' must have his courier; so must the rich cotton-spinner or the barrister on his wedding-tour. The wealthy dowager, the blooming widow, the ex-minister travelling for 'distraction' the young heir journeying for dissipation, the prelate, the banker, the ruined duke, the newly enriched mill-owner,—all, however differing in other points, agree in this one want, and must have one who will think for them and speak for them, bargain and bully for them, assert their rank and importance wherever they appear; so that of the obstacles of travel, its difficulties and contrarieties, they should know as little as though their road lay between London and Croydon.”
“Still, it is a puzzle to me,” sighed the young man, “how these people achieve the attainments you speak of. Even a smattering of such knowledge would seem to require both time and study.”
“They have but a smattering,” said I; “yet it is gained exactly in the very school where such small proficiency goes farthest,—'the world'—and which you will one day discover has its sources of knowledge, its tests of ability, ay, and its degrees of honor, marked out as palpably as Oxford and Cambridge. There is this advantage, too, sir, over the university,—the track in which you are to travel is marked out for you; you must not stray to the right or to the left,—while in 'the world' the field of direction is wide, open, and expanded; there's a path for every one, if they 'll only look for it.”
He started as I said these words; and as his cheeks flushed up, he said, “I remember once upon a time hearing those very words from a poor friendless boy in my own country. He was setting out, as he said, to seek his fortune, and his whole stock in life was the hope inspired by that sentiment.”
“And what became of him?”
“I never could learn. He disappeared suddenly; and whether he enlisted into some regiment abroad, or died at home, I never ascertained.”
“Then I can tell you, sir,—he now stands before you, the same whom once you so kindly succored! the houseless, friendless child whom you protected and sheltered. I am Con Cregan.”
It would be difficult to describe the bewilderment of poor Lyndsay as I said this; he sat down, closed his eyes, opened them again, rubbed them, stared at me, tried to speak, and at last, rising up, grasped my hand warmly, and cried, “Then, of course, you remember my name?”
“I could never forget it, Mr. Lyndsay,” said I, affectionately.
This was enough, and he now shook me by both hands with all the warmth of old friendship.
As he was madly eager to learn the story of my life, and as I was bent on my departure by the morning mail for Genoa, we agreed to meet at an hour when the household had retired to bed; meanwhile, he was to charge himself with the office of making an explanation to the family, and informing them that matters of urgency required my presence at Paris without delay. This agreed upon, we separated.
The entire night we passed in talking, for he insisted upon hearing my adventures from the very hour we had parted company in Dublin, down to the moment we were then seated together. It was evident, at times, from the tone of questioning, that he accepted several of my statements at least as doubtful; but gradually, as he discovered my acquaintance with various languages, the knowledge I possessed of different remote countries, their habits and natural productions, this incredulity gave way; and when finally I produced the letters of the Havannah banker, with the receipts for my instalments, he showed that every shade of hesitation had vanished, and that he no longer entertained a doubt of my veracity.
As the hour of separating drew nigh, he turned the subject to my own immediate requirements; and although I assured him that my ring, which I had already disposed of, was sufficient for all immediate wants, he insisted upon my accepting a loan of one hundred dollars, to be repaid, as he himself said, “when I resumed my countship.” These were his parting words as I ascended to the roof of the diligence.
