The thing occurred in a Byronic spot. In this place in my book it will detach itself as a spring-flower against the snow and ice background which all these chapters have in common.
Was I in my “teens,” like “her,” or not quite so green, or much greener? The question arouses some vague twinges of wounded vanity. But I consult in vain the tablets of my memory. They are now as illegible in many places as old churchyard stones. If I then believed I had grounds for jealousy, I could not now trust myself to say with truth that they were genuine.
My resentment fastened upon a rival. I withdrew proudly to the recesses of the hills, as it is recorded by romantic lore that even males of the dumb creation are in the habit of doing when baffled in desire and injured in self-esteem.
But as, a few days later, I lay lazily stretched out at full length on the tender pasture grass of the Plan de Jaman, viewing at my feet the scene of my sentimental déconvenue, I do not wish the reader to paint for himself the picture of an angry bull pawing the ground and snorting for revenge, though the number of cows grazing about and the multitudinous tinkling of the bells might well suggest such a classical impersonation.
The view over the lake was pure, crystal-like through a moist, shiny air. Rain had fallen during the night over Glion and the bay of Montreux. The long grass on the steep pastures of Caux was tipped with fresh snow. It lay here and there in melting patches, and every blade of grass had its trickle of water.
Seated on my knapsack for dryness, I was comfortably munching some bread and chocolate when discordant and husky cries burst upon me from behind. The sound was more grotesque than pathetic.
On looking round there hove in sight a suit of fashionable clothes, which seemed to betray the presence of a man. They were mud-bespattered and stained green with grass. A scared and besmirched face stood forth from above them, marked with what looked like dried-up daubs of blood. From that dreadfully burlesque and woebegone countenance issued the affrighted Red Indian cries which had startled my ears. Dear me, how un-Byronic all this!
My feelings grew more sympathetic to that vision—and that, in a sense particularly exhilarating to myself—when in the soiled, distracted fashion-plate I recognised my successful rival. His language became immediately an intelligible speech for me, and when he blurted out a familiar name he won a friend, if not to himself at least to his plight, which was coming to me as a splendid opportunity. Too dazed to be aware of the true identity of his audience, he confessed to having lost his way with “her” that very morning on the Jaman grazings. Their house-shoes had literally melted away in the wet, slippery grass and been torn to shreds on the rocks. Famished, thirsty, exposed to the beating rays of the midday sun, his presence of mind had deserted him. They had fallen together over a wall of rock. “Where, oh where?” shouted I.
FROM THE DENT BLANCHE, LOOKING WEST.