Wanderings through unknown Austria

by Randolph Llewellyn Hodgson

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The second time we went by sea, in a diminutive cutter bearing the proud name of St. George. I dislike yachting on the whole—there is always either too much wind or none at all. In my case it is generally the latter. It is enough for me to go out in a yacht for a cruise of an hour or two, and you may be sure that yacht will become becalmed, and the unhappy people on board will have to choose between a night "on the ocean wave" and a row home in a small boat. I seem to be a sort of Jonah, and live in expectation of being thrown overboard every time I go on a yacht. A steamer does away with the fear of being becalmed, but then there is the smell of the engines. Do not mistake me, it is not that I fear sea-sickness,

For I can weather the roughest gale
That ever wind did blow.

In fact, I am an excellent sailor.

Once I did feel rather queer, but that was a dispensation of Providence in fulfilment of the old adage "Pride goes before a fall." I was crossing the Channel—Dover to Calais. We had a small steamer, a choppy sea, and there was a young man with a Kodak on board. I abominate amateur photographers. They are offensive. It is the fact that they insist on photography being an art that makes them so objectionable. Photography is not an art. One merely requires a good apparatus and a knowledge of how to work it, and there you are—a good photographer. That is my idea on the subject.

Well, this young man was particularly offensive. He wore a knickerbocker suit, and skipped about with his Kodak and took "snap-shots" at everything. He did not "speak to the man at the wheel," but he "shot" him instead. He photographed the sea, the sky, the sea-gulls, the passing steamers, his fellow-passengers; but then he became sea-sick. His Kodak fell from his nerveless hand, and he looked very ill. I revelled in his misery, I "chortled in my joy"; but the Fates were on my track. Half an hour before we reached Calais I began to feel very miserable. I thought I was dying. Somebody came to me, a sailor, or a steward, or an admiral, or something of that sort, and asked me if I felt ill. I said I did, that my last hour had come, that I wanted to throw myself overboard and hasten the end. He would not let me do this. I should feel all right when we landed, he said. I knew this was impossible, it was merely uselessly lengthening my sufferings; but, curiously enough, he was right. At the time I was unable to understand my misery, but I see through it now. My wretchedness was intended to teach me a lesson—the lesson of never laughing at people in adversity. I learnt it, and since then have never suffered evil effects from being on the sea.

This is a long digression, but I wish to explain the disgust I felt on our going to San Giovanni by sea. We were not becalmed on this occasion, but there was next to no wind, the sun was blazing hot, and as we were constantly tacking, and the St. George is a very small boat, my life was in perpetual danger from the eccentricities of the boom. I was very unhappy, and not in the mood to admire the beauties of nature that were constantly pointed out to me. But Checco was a comfort. Checco is captain, crew, and cabin-boy combined of the St. George, a great character and a philosopher. A nice-looking man too, tall and broad-shouldered, with a bronzed skin and snowy white hair (though, in fact, he is not old) and extraordinarily bright blue eyes—they look as if all the light and colour of the sea were reflected in them. He is a proud man is Checco, and generally very silent. He only talks to particular chums, but then he does talk. The "Fat Boy" is the proud possessor of his confidence, and to him Checco unfolds his theories; he even puts the two learned men in the shade with regard to theories. On this particular occasion he was explaining earthquakes. (There have been some here lately.) This is what Checco said to the "Fat Boy": "People are very much afraid of earthquakes, you know. I am not afraid, for it is no use. What must be, must be. But I say, What is the reason for them? I will tell you: it is the doing of those mad winds. When I was young, things were quite different on the sea. The winds blew steadily. Either it was Bora, or Levante, or Scirocco, or Libeccio, and you knew how long it would blow in the same direction. It was a pleasure to sail a boat then. But now the winds blow all ways at once, and are always fighting against one another. The weaker winds must give way, and what becomes of them? They rush into the earth—you know all the holes and grottoes there are everywhere—and so cause the earthquakes. Yes, you can believe me, it is all the doing of those mad winds." Checco was silent and gazed out over the blue sea, and the "Fat Boy" pondered over his words. Then he began again, still looking at the distant horizon: "Everything was different when I was a young man—the winds were not mad, the girls were pretty. When we came out of church on Sundays, and the girls, as is the fashion, gave the red carnation they wore to the man they liked best, none of the fellows got as many as I did. But now I have white hair, you see.... Still none of my boys are as tall as I am, and I have never tried my whole strength yet."

Then Checco relapsed into silence, and not even the "Fat Boy" could draw another word from him.

CASTLE DUINO FROM THE ROMAN ROAD