The Headsman - James Fenimore Cooper
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Chapter V.
"How like a fawning publican he looks!"
Shylock.
The change of the juggler's scene of action left the party in the stern of
the barge, in quiet possession of their portion of the vessel. Baptiste
and his boatmen still slept among the boxes; Maso continued to pace his
elevated platform above their heads; and the meek-looking stranger, whose
entrance into the barge had drawn so many witticisms from Pippo, sate a
little apart, silent, furtively observant, and retiring, in the identical
spot he had occupied throughout the day. With these exceptions, the whole
of the rest of the travellers were crowding around the person of the
mountebank. Perhaps we have not done well, however, in classing either of
the two just named with the more common herd, for there were strong points
of difference to distinguish both from most of their companions.
The exterior and the personal appointments of the unknown traveller, who
had shrunk so sensitively before the hits of the Neapolitan, was greatly
superior to those of any other in the bark beneath the degree of the
gentle, not even excepting those of the warm peasant Nicklaus Wagner, the
owner of so large a portion of the freight. There was a decency of air
that commanded more respect than it was then usual to yield to the
nameless, a quietness of demeanor that denoted reflection and the habit of
self-study and self-correction, together with a deference to others that
was well adapted to gain friends. In the midst of the noisy, clamorous
merriment of all around him, his restrained and rebuked manner had won
upon the favor of the more privileged, who had unavoidably noticed the
difference, and had prepared the way to a more frank communication between
the party of the noble, and one who, if not their equal in the usual
points of worldly distinction, was greatly superior to those among whom he
had been accidentally cast by the chances of his journey. Not so with
Maso; he, apparently, had little in common with the unobtruding and silent
being that sat so near his path, in the short turns he was making to and
fro across the pile of freight. The mariner was thirty, while the head of
the unknown traveller was already beginning to be sprinkled with gray. The
walk, attitudes, and gestures, of the former, were also those of a man
confident of himself, a little addicted to be indifferent to others, and
far more disposed to lead than to follow. These are qualities that it may
be thought his present situation was scarcely suited to discover, but they
had been made sufficiently apparent, by the cool, calculating looks he
threw, from time to time, at the manoeuvres commanded by Baptiste, the
expressive sneer with which he criticised his decisions, and a few biting
remarks which had escaped him in the course of the day, and which had
conveyed any thing but compliments to the nautical skill of the patron and
his fresh-water followers. Still there were signs of better stuff in this
suspicious-looking person than are usually seen about men, whose attire,
pursuits and situation, are so indicative of the world's pressing hard
upon their principles, as happened to be the fact with this poor and
unknown seaman. Though ill clad, and wearing about him the general tokens
of a vagrant life, and that loose connexion with society that is usually
taken as sufficient evidence of one's demerits, his countenance
occasionally denoted thought, and, during the day, his eye had frequently
wandered towards the group of his more intelligent fellow-passengers, as
if he found subjects of greater interest in their discourse, than in the
rude pleasantries and practical jokes of those nearer his person.
The high-bred are always courteous, except in cases in which presumption
repels civility; for they who are accustomed to the privileges of station,
think far less of their immunities, than they, who by being excluded from
the fancied advantages, are apt to exaggerate a superiority that a short
experience would show becomes of very questionable value in the
possession. Without this equitable provision of Providence, the laws of
civilized society would become truly intolerable, for, if peace of mind,
pleasure, and what is usually termed happiness, were the exclusive
enjoyment of those who are rich and honoured, there would, indeed, be so
crying an injustice in their present ordinances as could not long
withstand the united assaults of reason and justice. But, happily for the
relief of the less gifted and the peace of the world, the fact is very
different. Wealth has its peculiar woes; honors and privileges pall in the
use; and, perhaps, as a rule, there is less of that regulated contentment,
which forms the nearest approach to the condition of the blessed of which
this unquiet state of being is susceptible, among those who are usually
the most envied by their fellow-creatures, than in any other of the
numerous gradations into which the social scale has been divided. He who
reads our present legend with the eyes that we could wish, will find in
its moral the illustration of this truth; for, if it is our intention to
delineate some of the wrongs that spring from the abuses of the privileged
and powerful, we hope equally to show how completely they fall short of
their object, by failing to confer that exclusive happiness which is the
goal that all struggle to attain.
Neither the Baron de Willading, nor his noble friend, the Genoese, though
educated in the opinions of their caste, and necessarily under the
influence of the prejudices of the age, was addicted to the insolence of
vulgar pride. Their habits had revolted at the coarseness of the majority
of the travellers, and they were glad to be rid of them by the expedient
of Pippo; but no sooner did the modest, decent air of the stranger who
remained, make itself apparent, than they felt a desire to compensate him
for the privations he had already undergone, by showing the civilities
that their own rank rendered so easy and usually so grateful. With this
view, then, as soon as the noisy _troupe_ had departed, the Signor
Grimaldi raised his beaver with that discreet and imposing politeness
which equally attracts and repels, and, addressing the solitary stranger,
he invited him to descend, and stretch his legs on the part of the deck
which had hitherto been considered exclusively devoted to the use of his
own party. The other started, reddened, and looked like one who doubted
whether he had heard aright.
"These noble gentlemen would be glad if you would come down, and take
advantage of this opportunity to relieve your limbs;" said the young
Sigismund, raising his own athletic arm towards the stranger, to offer its
assistance in helping him to reach the deck.
Still the unknown traveller hesitated, in the manner of one who fears he
might overstep discretion, by obtruding beyond the limits imposed by
modesty. He glanced furtively upwards at the place where Maso bad posted
himself, and muttered something of an intention to profit by its present
nakedness.
"It has an occupant who does not seem disposed to admit another," said
Sigismund, smiling; "your mariner has a self-possession when afloat, that
usually gives him the same superiority that the well-armed swasher has
among the timid in the street. You would do well, then, to accept the
offer of the noble Genoese."
The stranger, who had once or twice been called rather ostentatiously by
Baptiste the Herr Mueller, during the day, as if the patron were disposed
to let his hearers know that he had those who at least bore creditable
names, even among his ordinary passengers, no longer delayed. He came
down from his seat, and moved about the deck in his usual, quiet, subdued
manner, but in a way to show that he found a very sensible and grateful
relief in being permitted to make the change. Sigismund was rewarded for
this act of good-nature by a smile from Adelheid, who thought his warm
interference in behalf of one, seemingly so much his inferior, did no
discredit to his rank. It is possible that the youthful soldier had some
secret sentiment of the advantage he derived from his kind interest in the
stranger, for his brow flushed, and he looked more satisfied with himself,
after this little office of humanity had been performed.
"You are better among us here," the baron kindly observed, when the Herr
Mueller was fairly established in his new situation, "than among the
freight of the honest Nicklaus Wagner, who, Heaven help the worthy
peasant! has loaded us fairly to the water's edge, with the notable
industry of his dairy people. I like to witness the prosperity of our
burghers, but it would have been better for us travellers, at least, had
there been less of the wealth of honest Nicklaus in our company. Are you
of Berne, or of Zurich?"
"Of Berne, Herr Baron."
"I might have guessed that by finding you on the Genfer See, instead of
the Wallenstaetter. There are many of the Muellers in the Emmen Thal?"
"The Herr is right; the name is frequent, both in that valley, and in
Entlibuch."
"It is a frequent appellation among us of the Teutonick stock. I had many
Muellers in my company, Gaetano, when we lay before Mantua, I remember that
two of the brave fellows were buried in the marshes of that low country;
for the fever helped the enemy as much as the sword, in the life-wasting
campaign of the year we besieged the place."
The more observant Italian saw that the stranger was distressed by the
personal nature of the conversation, and, while he quietly assented to his
friend's remark, he took occasion to give it a new direction.
"You travel, like ourselves, Signore, to get a look at these far-famed
revels of the Vevasians?"
"That, and affairs, have brought me into this honorable company;" answered
the Herr Mueller, whom no kindness of tone, however, could win from his
timid and subdued manner of speaking.
"And thou, father," turning to the Augustine, "art journeying towards thy
mountain residence, after a visit of love to the valleys and their
people?"
The monk of St. Bernard assented to the truth of this remark, explaining
the manner in which his community were accustomed annually to appeal to
the liberality of the generous in Switzerland, in behalf of an institution
that was founded in the interest of humanity, without reference to
distinction of faith.
"'Tis a blessed brotherhood," answered the Genoese, crossing himself,
perhaps as much from habit as from devotion, "and the traveller need wish
it well. I have never shared of your hospitality, but all report speaks
fairly of it, and the title of a brother of San Bernardo, should prove a
passport to the favor of every Christian."
"Signore," said Maso, stopping suddenly, and taking his part uninvited in
the discourse, and yet in a way to avoid the appearance of an impertinent
interference, "none know this better than I! A wanderer these many years,
I have often seen the stony roof of the hospice with as much pleasure as I
have ever beheld the entrance of my haven, when an adverse gale was
pressing against my canvass. Honor and a rich _quete_ to the clavier of
the convent, therefore, for it is bringing succor to the poor and rest to
the weary!"
As he uttered this opinion, Maso decorously raised his cap, and pursued
his straitened walk with the industry of a caged tiger. It was so unusual
for one of his condition to obtrude on the discourse of the fair and
noble, that the party exchanged looks of surprise; but, the Signor
Grirnaldi, more accustomed than most of his friends to the frank
deportment and bold speech of mariners, from having dwelt long on the
coast of the Mediterranean, felt disposed rather to humor than to repulse
this disposition to talk.
"Thou art a Genoese, by thy dialect," he said, assuming as a matter of
course the right to question one of years so much fewer, and of a
condition so much inferior to his own.
"Signore," returned Maso, uncovering himself again, though his manner
betrayed profound personal respect rather than the deference of the
vulgar, "I was born in the city of palaces, though it was my fortune first
to see the light beneath a humble roof. The poorest of us are proud of the
splendor of Genova la Superba, even if its glory has come from our own
groans."
The Signor Grimaldi frowned. But, ashamed to permit himself to be
disturbed by an allusion so vague, and perhaps so unpremeditated, and more
especially coming as it did from so insignificant a source, his brow
regained its expression of habitual composure.
An instant of reflection, told him it would be in better taste to continue
the conversation, than churlishly to cut it short for so light a cause.
"Thou art too young to have had much connexion, either in advantage or in
suffering," he rejoined, "with the erection of the gorgeous dwellings to
which thou alludest."
"This is true, Signore; except as one is the better or worse for those who
have gone before him. I am what I seem, more by the acts of others than by
any faults of my own. I envy not the rich or great, however; for one that
has seen as much of life as I, knows the difference between the gay colors
of the garment, and that of the shrivelled and diseased skin it conceals.
We make our feluccas glittering and fine with paint, when their timbers
work the most, and when the treacherous planks are ready to let in the sea
to drown us."
"Thou hast the philosophy of it, young man, and hast uttered a biting
truth, for those who waste their prime in chasing a phantom. Thou hast
well bethought thee of these matters, for, if content with thy lot, no
palace of our city would make thee happier."
"If, Signore, is a meaning word!--Content is like the north-star--we
seamen steer for it, while none can ever reach it!"
"Am I then deceived in thee, after all? Is thy seeming moderation only
affected; and would'st thou be the patron of the bark in which fortune
hath made thee only a passenger?"
"And a bad fortune it hath proved," returned Maso, laughing. "We appear
fated to pass the night in it, for, so far from seeing any signs of this
land-breeze of which Baptiste has so confidently spoken, the air seems to
have gone to sleep as well as the crew. Thou art accustomed to this
climate, reverend Augustine; is it usual to see so deep a calm on the
Leman at this late season?"
A question like this was well adapted to effect the speaker's wish to
change the discourse, for it very naturally directed the attention of all
present from a subject that was rather tolerated from idleness than
interesting in itself, to the different natural phenomena by which they
were surrounded. The sunset had now fairly passed, and the travellers were
at the witching moment that precedes the final disappearance of the day. A
calm so deep rested on the limpid lake, that it was not easy to
distinguish the line which separated the two elements, in those places
where the blue of the land was confounded with the well-known and peculiar
color of the Leman.
The precise position of the Winkelried was near mid-way between the shores
of Vaud and those of Savoy, though nearer to the first than to the last.
Not another sail was visible on the whole of the watery expanse, with the
exception of one that hung lazily from its yard, in a small bark that was
pulling towards St. Gingoulph, bearing Savoyards returning to their homes
from the other side of the lake, and which, in that delusive landscape,
appeared to the eye to be within a stone's throw of the base of the
mountain, though, in truth, still a weary row from the land.
Nature has spread her work on a scale so magnificent in this sublime
region that ocular deceptions of this character abound, and it requires
time and practice to judge of those measurements which have been rendered
familiar in other scenes. In like manner to the bark under the rocks of
Savoy, there lay another, a heavy-moulded boat, nearly in a line with
Villeneuve, which seemed to float in the air instead of its proper
element, and whose oars were seen to rise and fall beneath a high mound,
that was rendered shapeless by refraction. This was a craft, bearing hay
from the meadows at the mouth of the Rhone to their proprietors in the
villages of the Swiss coast. A few light boats were pulling about in
front of the town of Vevey, and a forest of low masts and latine yards,
seen in the hundred picturesque attitudes peculiar to the rig, crowded the
wild anchorage that is termed its port.
An air-line drawn from St. Saphorin to Meillerie, would have passed
between the spars of the Winkelried, her distance from her haven,
consequently, a little exceeded a marine league. This space might readily
have been conquered in an hour or two by means of the sweeps, but for the
lumbered condition of the decks, which would have rendered their use
difficult, and the unusual draught of the bark, which would have caused
the exertion to be painful. As it has been seen, Baptiste preferred
waiting for the arrival of the night breeze to having recourse to an
expedient so toil some and slow.
We have already said, that the point just described was at the place where
the Leman fairly enters its eastern horn, and where its shores possess
their boldest and finest faces. On the side of Savoy, the coast was a
sublime wall of rocks, here and there clothed with chestnuts, or indented
with ravines and dark glens, and naked and wild along the whole line of
their giddy summits. The villages so frequently mentioned, and which have
become celebrated in these later times by the touch of genius, clung to
the uneven declivities, their lower dwellings laved by the lake, and their
upper confounded with the rugged faces of the mountains. Beyond the limits
of the Leman, the Alps shot up into still higher pinnacles, occasionally
showing one of those naked excrescences of granite, which rise for a
thousand feet above the rest of the range--a trifle in the stupendous
scale of the vast piles--and which, in the language of the country are not
inaptly termed Dents, from some fancied and plausible resemblance to
human teeth. The verdant meadows of Noville, Aigle and Bex. spread for
leagues between these snow-capped barriers, so dwindled to the eye,
however, that the spectator believed that to be a mere bottom, which was,
in truth, a broad and fertile plain. Beyond these again, came the
celebrated pass of St. Maurice, where the foaming Rhone dashed between two
abutments of rock, as if anxious to effect its exit before the
superincumbent mountains could come together, and shut it out for ever
from the inviting basin to which it was hurrying with a never-ceasing din.
Behind this gorge, so celebrated as the key of the Valais, and even of the
Alps in the time of the conquerors of the world, the back-ground took a
character of holy mystery. The shades of evening lay thick in that
enormous glen, which was sufficiently large to contain a sovereign state,
and the dark piles of mountains beyond were seen in a hazy, confused
array. The setting was a grey boundary of rocks, on which fleecy clouds
rested, as if tired with their long and high flight, and on which the
parting day still lingered soft and lucid. One cone of dazzling white
towered over all. It resembled a bright stepping-stone between heaven and
earth, the heat of the hot sun falling innocuously against its sides, like
the cold and pure breast of a virgin repelling those treacherous
sentiments which prove the ruin of a shining and glorious innocence.
Across the summit of this brilliant and cloud-like peak, which formed the
most distant object in the view, ran the imaginary line that divided Italy
from the regions of the north. Drawing nearer, and holding its course on
the opposite shore, the eye embraced the range of rampart-like rocks that
beetle over Villeneuve and Chillon, the latter a snow-white pile that
seemed to rest partly on the land and partly, on the water. On the vast
debris of the mountains clustered the hamlets of Clarens, Montreux,
Chatelard, and all those other places, since rendered so familiar to the
reader of fiction by the vivid pen of Rousseau. Above the latter village
the whole of the savage and rocky range receded, leaving the lake-shore to
vine-clad cotes that stretch away far to the west.
This scene; at all times alluring and grand, was now beheld under its most
favorable auspices. The glare of day had deserted all that belonged to
what might be termed the lower world, leaving in its stead the mild hues,
the pleasing shadows, and the varying tints of twilight. It is true that a
hundred chalets dotted the Alps, or those mountain pasturages which spread
themselves a thousand fathoms above the Leman, on the foundation of rock
that lay like a wall behind Montreux, shining still with the brightness of
a bland even, but all below was fast catching the more sombre colors of
the hour.
As the transition from day to night grew more palpable, the hamlets of
Savoy became gray and hazy, the shades thickened around the bases of the
mountains in a manner to render their forms indistinct and massive, and
the milder glory of the scene was transferred to their summits. Seen by
sun-light, these noble heights appear a long range of naked granite, piled
on a foundation of chestnut-covered hills, and buttressed by a few such
salient spurs as are perhaps necessary to give variety and agreeable
shadows to their acclivities. Their outlines were now drawn in those
waving lines that the pencil of Raphael would have loved to sketch, dark,
distinct, and appearing to be carved by art. The inflected and capricious
edges of the rocks stood out in high relief against the back-ground of
pearly sky, resembling so much ebony wrought into every fantastic
curvature that a wild and vivid fancy could conceive. Of all the wonderful
and imposing sights of this extraordinary region, there is perhaps none in
which there is so exquisite an admixture of the noble, the beautiful, and
the bewitching, as in this view of these natural arabesques of Savoy, seen
at the solemn hour of twilight.
The Baron de Willading and his friends stood uncovered, in reverence of
the sublime picture, which could only come from the hands of the Creator,
and with unalloyed enjoyment of the bland tranquillity of the hour.
Exclamations of pleasure had escaped them, as the exhibition advanced; for
the view, like the shifting of scenes, was in a constant state of
transition under the waning and changing light, and each had eagerly
pointed out to the others some peculiar charm of the view. The sight was,
in sooth, of a nature to preclude selfishness, no one catching a glimpse
that he did not wish to be shared by all. Vevey, their journey, the
fleeting minutes, and their disappointment, were all forgotten in the
delight of witnessing this evening landscape, and the silence was broken
only to express those feelings of delight which had long been uppermost in
every bosom.
"I doff my beaver to thy Switzerland, friend Melchior," cried the Signor
Grimaldi, after directing the attention of Adelheid to one of the peaks of
Savoy, of which he had just remarked that it seemed a spot where an angel
might love to light in his visits to the earth; "if thou hast much of
this, we of Italy must look to it, or--by the shades of our fathers! we
shall lose our reputation for natural beauty. How is it young lady; hast
thou many of these sun-sets at Willading? or, is this, after all, but an
exception to what thou seest in common--as much a matter of astonishment
to thyself, as--by San Francesco! good Marcelli, we must even own, it is
to thee and me!"
Adelheid laughed at the old noble's good-humored rhapsody, but, much as
she loved her native land, she could not pervert the truth by pretending
that the sight was one to be often met with.
"If we have not this, however, we have our glaciers, our lakes, our
cottages, our chalets, our Oberland, and such glens as have an eternal
twilight of their own."
"Ay, my true-hearted and pretty Swiss, this is well for thee who wilt
affirm that a drop of thy snow-water is worth a thousand limpid springs,
or thou art not the true child of old Melchior de Willading; but it is
lost on the cooler head of one who has seen other lands. Father Xavier,
thou art a neutral, for thy dwelling is on the dividing ridge between the
two countries, and I appeal to thee to know if these Helvetians have much
of this quality of evening?"
The worthy monk met the question in the spirit with which it was asked,
for the elasticity of the air, and the heavenly tranquillity and
bewitching loveliness of the hour, well disposed him to be joyous.
"To maintain my character as an impartial judge," he answered, "I will say
that each region has its own advantages. If Switzerland is the most
wonderful and imposing, Italy is the most winning. The latter leaves more
durable impressions and is more fondly cherished. One strikes the senses,
but the other slowly winds its way into the affections; and he who has
freely vented his admiration in exclamations and epithets in one, will, in
the end, want language to express all the secret longings, the fond
recollections, the deep repinings, that he retains for the other."