Kitabı oku: «Lavengro: The Scholar, The Gypsy, The Priest», sayfa 27

CHAPTER SIXTY

THE STILL HOUR – A THRILL – THE WONDROUS CIRCLE – THE SHEPHERD – HEAPS AND BARROWS – WHAT DO YOU MEAN? – THE MILK OF THE PLAINS – HENGIST SPARED IT

After standing still, a minute or two, considering what I should do, I moved down what appeared to be the street of a small straggling town; presently I passed by a church, which rose indistinctly on my right hand; anon there was the rustling of foliage and the rushing of waters. I reached a bridge, beneath which a small stream was running in the direction of the south. I stopped and leaned over the parapet, for I have always loved to look upon streams, especially at the still hours. ‘What stream is this, I wonder?’ said I, as I looked down from the parapet into the water, which whirled and gurgled below.

Leaving the bridge, I ascended a gentle acclivity, and presently reached what appeared to be a tract of moory undulating ground. It was now tolerably light, but there was a mist or haze abroad which prevented my seeing objects with much precision. I felt chill in the damp air of the early morn, and walked rapidly forward. In about half an hour I arrived where the road divided into two, at an angle or tongue of dark green sward. ‘To the right or the left?’ said I, and forthwith took, without knowing why, the left-hand road, along which I proceeded about a hundred yards, when, in the midst of the tongue of sward formed by the two roads, collaterally with myself, I perceived what I at first conceived to be a small grove of blighted trunks of oaks, barked and grey. I stood still for a moment, and then, turning off the road, advanced slowly towards it over the sward; as I drew nearer, I perceived that the objects which had attracted my curiosity, and which formed a kind of circle, were not trees, but immense upright stones. A thrill pervaded my system; just before me were two, the mightiest of the whole, tall as the stems of proud oaks, supporting on their tops a huge transverse stone, and forming a wonderful doorway. I knew now where I was, and, laying down my stick and bundle, and taking off my hat, I advanced slowly, and cast myself – it was folly, perhaps, but I could not help what I did – cast myself, with my face on the dewy earth, in the middle of the portal of giants, beneath the transverse stone.

The spirit of Stonehenge was strong upon me!

And after I had remained with my face on the ground for some time, I arose, placed my hat on my head, and, taking up my stick and bundle, wandered round the wondrous circle, examining each individual stone, from the greatest to the least; and then, entering by the great door, seated myself upon an immense broad stone, one side of which was supported by several small ones, and the other slanted upon the earth; and there, in deep meditation, I sat for an hour or two, till the sun shone in my face above the tall stones of the eastern side.

And as I still sat there, I heard the noise of bells, and presently a large number of sheep came browsing past the circle of stones; two or three entered, and grazed upon what they could find, and soon a man also entered the circle at the northern side.

‘Early here, sir,’ said the man, who was tall, and dressed in a dark green slop, and had all the appearance of a shepherd; ‘a traveller, I suppose?’

‘Yes,’ said I, ‘I am a traveller; are these sheep yours?’

‘They are, sir; that is, they are my master’s. A strange place this, sir,’ said he, looking at the stones; ‘ever here before?’

‘Never in body, frequently in mind.’

‘Heard of the stones, I suppose; no wonder – all the people of the plain talk of them.’

‘What do the people of the plain say of them?’

‘Why, they say – How did they ever come here?’

‘Do they not suppose them to have been brought?’

‘Who should have brought them?’

‘I have read that they were brought by many thousand men.’

‘Where from?’

‘Ireland.’

‘How did they bring them?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘And what did they bring them for?’

‘To form a temple, perhaps.’

‘What is that?’

‘A place to worship God in.’

‘A strange place to worship God in.’

‘Why?’

‘It has no roof.’

‘Yes, it has.’

‘Where?’ said the man, looking up.

‘What do you see above you?’

‘The sky.’

‘Well?’

‘Well!’

‘Have you anything to say?’

‘How did these stones come here?’

‘Are there other stones like these on the plains?’ said I.

‘None; and yet there are plenty of strange things on these downs.’

‘What are they?’

‘Strange heaps, and barrows, and great walls of earth built on the tops of hills.’

‘Do the people of the plain wonder how they came there?’

‘They do not.’

‘Why?’

‘They were raised by hands.’

‘And these stones?’

‘How did they ever come here?’

‘I wonder whether they are here?’ said I.

‘These stones?’

‘Yes.’

‘So sure as the world,’ said the man; ‘and, as the world, they will stand as long.’

‘I wonder whether there is a world.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘An earth, and sea, moon and stars, sheep and men.’

‘Do you doubt it?’

‘Sometimes.’

‘I never heard it doubted before.’

‘It is impossible there should be a world.’

‘It ain’t possible there shouldn’t be a world.’

‘Just so.’ At this moment a fine ewe, attended by a lamb, rushed into the circle and fondled the knees of the shepherd. ‘I suppose you would not care to have some milk,’ said the man.

‘Why do you suppose so?’

‘Because, so be there be no sheep, no milk, you know; and what there ben’t is not worth having.’

‘You could not have argued better,’ said I; ‘that is, supposing you have argued; with respect to the milk you may do as you please.’

‘Be still, Nanny,’ said the man; and producing a tin vessel from his scrip, he milked the ewe into it. ‘Here is milk of the plains, master,’ said the man, as he handed the vessel to me.

‘Where are those barrows and great walls of earth you were speaking of?’ said I, after I had drunk some of the milk; ‘are there any near where we are?’

‘Not within many miles; the nearest is yonder away,’ said the shepherd, pointing to the south-east. ‘It’s a grand place, that, but not like this; quite different, and from it you have a sight of the finest spire in the world.’

‘I must go to it,’ said I, and I drank the remainder of the milk; ‘yonder, you say.’

‘Yes, yonder; but you cannot get to it in that direction, the river lies between.’

‘What river?’

‘The Avon.’

‘Avon is British,’ said I.

‘Yes,’ said the man, ‘we are all British here.’

‘No, we are not,’ said I.

‘What are we then?’

‘English.’

‘Ain’t they one?’

‘No.’

‘Who were the British?’

‘The men who are supposed to have worshipped God in this place, and who raised these stones.’

‘Where are they now?’

‘Our forefathers slaughtered them, spilled their blood all about, especially in this neighbourhood, destroyed their pleasant places, and left not, to use their own words, one stone upon another.’

‘Yes, they did,’ said the shepherd, looking aloft at the transverse stone.

‘And it is well for them they did; whenever that stone, which English hands never raised, is by English hands thrown down, woe, woe, woe to the English race; spare it, English! Hengist spared it! – Here is sixpence.’

‘I won’t have it,’ said the man.

‘Why not?’

‘You talk so prettily about these stones; you seem to know all about them.’

‘I never receive presents; with respect to the stones, I say with yourself, How did they ever come here?’

‘How did they ever come here?’ said the shepherd.

CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

THE BANKS OF A RIVER – THE ARID DOWNS – A PROSPECT

Leaving the shepherd, I bent my way in the direction pointed out by him as that in which the most remarkable of the strange remains of which he had spoken lay. I proceeded rapidly, making my way over the downs covered with coarse grass and fern; with respect to the river of which he had spoken, I reflected that, either by wading or swimming, I could easily transfer myself and what I bore to the opposite side. On arriving at its banks, I found it a beautiful stream, but shallow, with here and there a deep place where the water ran dark and still.

Always fond of the pure lymph, I undressed, and plunged into one of these gulfs, from which I emerged, my whole frame in a glow, and tingling with delicious sensations. After conveying my clothes and scanty baggage to the farther side, I dressed, and then with hurried steps bent my course in the direction of some lofty ground; I at length found myself on a high-road, leading over wide and arid downs; following the road for some miles without seeing anything remarkable, I supposed at length that I had taken the wrong path, and wended on slowly and disconsolately for some time, till, having nearly surmounted a steep hill, I knew at once, from certain appearances, that I was near the object of my search. Turning to the right near the brow of the hill, I proceeded along a path which brought me to a causeway leading over a deep ravine, and connecting the hill with another which had once formed part of it, for the ravine was evidently the work of art. I passed over the causeway, and found myself in a kind of gateway which admitted me into a square space of many acres, surrounded on all sides by mounds or ramparts of earth. Though I had never been in such a place before, I knew that I stood within the precincts of what had been a Roman encampment, and one probably of the largest size, for many thousand warriors might have found room to perform their evolutions in that space, in which corn was now growing, the green ears waving in the morning wind.

After I had gazed about the space for a time, standing in the gateway formed by the mounds, I clambered up the mound to the left hand, and on the top of that mound I found myself at a great altitude; beneath, at the distance of a mile, was a fair old city, situated amongst verdant meadows, watered with streams, and from the heart of that old city, from amidst mighty trees, I beheld towering to the sky the finest spire in the world.

And after I had looked from the Roman rampart for a long time, I hurried away, and, retracing my steps along the causeway, regained the road, and, passing over the brow of the hill, descended to the city of the spire.

CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

THE HOSTELRY – LIFE UNCERTAIN – OPEN COUNTENANCE – THE GRAND POINT – THANK YOU, MASTER – A HARD MOTHER – POOR DEAR! – THE ODDS – THE BETTER COUNTRY – ENGLISH FASHION – LANDLORD-LOOKING PERSON

And in the old city I remained two days, passing my time as I best could – inspecting the curiosities of the place, eating and drinking when I so felt disposed, which I frequently did, the digestive organs having assumed a tone to which for many months they had been strangers – enjoying at night balmy sleep in a large bed in a dusky room, at the end of a corridor, in a certain hostelry in which I had taken up my quarters – receiving from the people of the hostelry such civility and condescension as people who travel on foot with bundle and stick, but who nevertheless are perceived to be not altogether destitute of coin, are in the habit of receiving. On the third day, on a fine sunny afternoon, I departed from the city of the spire.

As I was passing through one of the suburbs, I saw, all on a sudden, a respectable-looking female fall down in a fit; several persons hastened to her assistance. ‘She is dead,’ said one. ‘No, she is not,’ said another. ‘I am afraid she is,’ said the third. ‘Life is very uncertain,’ said the fourth. ‘It is Mrs. – ,’ said the fifth; ‘let us carry her to her own house.’ Not being able to render any assistance, I left the poor female in the hands of her townsfolk, and proceeded on my way. I had chosen a road in the direction of the north-west, it led over downs where corn was growing, but where neither tree nor hedge was to be seen; two or three hours’ walking brought me to a beautiful valley, abounding with trees of various kinds, with a delightful village at its farthest extremity; passing through it, I ascended a lofty acclivity, on the top of which I sat down on a bank, and, taking off my hat, permitted a breeze, which swept coolly and refreshingly over the downs, to dry my hair, dripping from the effects of exercise and the heat of the day.

And as I sat there, gazing now at the blue heavens, now at the downs before me, a man came along the road in the direction in which I had hitherto been proceeding: just opposite to me he stopped, and, looking at me, cried, – ‘Am I right for London, master?’

He was dressed like a sailor, and appeared to be between twenty-five and thirty years of age – he had an open manly countenance, and there was a bold and fearless expression in his eye.

‘Yes,’ said I, in reply to his question; ‘this is one of the ways to London. Do you come from far?’

‘From – ,’ said the man, naming a well-known seaport.

‘Is this the direct road to London from that place?’ I demanded.

‘No,’ said the man; ‘but I had to visit two or three other places on certain commissions I was intrusted with; amongst others to – , where I had to take a small sum of money. I am rather tired, master; and, if you please, I will sit down beside you.’

‘You have as much right to sit down here as I have,’ said I; ‘the road is free for every one; as for sitting down beside me, you have the look of an honest man, and I have no objection to your company.’

‘Why, as for being honest, master,’ said the man, laughing and sitting down by me, ‘I haven’t much to say – many is the wild thing I have done when I was younger; however, what is done, is done. To learn, one must live, master; and I have lived long enough to learn the grand point of wisdom.’

‘What is that?’ said I.

‘That honesty is the best policy, master.’

‘You appear to be a sailor,’ said I, looking at his dress.

‘I was not bred a sailor,’ said the man, ‘though, when my foot is on the salt water, I can play the part – and play it well too. I am now from a long voyage.’

‘From America?’ said I.

‘Farther than that,’ said the man.

‘Have you any objection to tell me?’ said I.

‘From New South Wales,’ said the man, looking me full in the face.

‘Dear me,’ said I.

‘Why do you say “Dear me”?’ said the man.

‘It is a very long way off,’ said I.

‘Was that your reason for saying so?’ said the man.

‘Not exactly,’ said I.

‘No,’ said the man, with something of a bitter smile; ‘it was something else that made you say so; you were thinking of the convicts.’

‘Well,’ said I, ‘what then – you are no convict.’

‘How do you know?’

‘You do not look like one.’

‘Thank you, master,’ said the man cheerfully; ‘and, to a certain extent, you are right – bygones are bygones – I am no longer what I was, nor ever will be again; the truth, however, is the truth – a convict I have been – a convict at Sydney Cove.’

‘And you have served out the period for which you were sentenced, and are now returned?’

‘As to serving out my sentence,’ replied the man, ‘I can’t say that I did; I was sentenced for fourteen years, and I was in Sydney Cove little more than half that time. The truth is that I did the Government a service. There was a conspiracy amongst some of the convicts to murder and destroy – I overheard and informed the Government; mind one thing, however, I was not concerned in it; those who got it up were no comrades of mine, but a bloody gang of villains. Well, the Government, in consideration of the service I had done them, remitted the remainder of my sentence; and some kind gentlemen interested themselves about me, gave me good books and good advice, and, being satisfied with my conduct, procured me employ in an exploring expedition, by which I earned money. In fact, the being sent to Sydney was the best thing that ever happened to me in all my life.’

‘And you have now returned to your native country. Longing to see home brought you from New South Wales.’

‘There you are mistaken,’ said the man. ‘Wish to see England again would never have brought me so far; for, to tell you the truth, master, England was a hard mother to me, as she has proved to many. No, a wish to see another kind of mother – a poor old woman, whose son I am – has brought me back.’

‘You have a mother, then?’ said I. ‘Does she reside in London?’

‘She used to live in London,’ said the man; ‘but I am afraid she is long since dead.’

‘How did she support herself?’ said I.

‘Support herself! with difficulty enough; she used to keep a small stall on London Bridge, where she sold fruit; I am afraid she is dead, and that she died perhaps in misery. She was a poor sinful creature; but I loved her, and she loved me. I came all the way back merely for the chance of seeing her.’

‘Did you ever write to her,’ said I, ‘or cause others to write to her?’

‘I wrote to her myself,’ said the man, ‘about two years ago; but I never received an answer. I learned to write very tolerably over there, by the assistance of the good people I spoke of. As for reading, I could do that very well before I went – my poor mother taught me to read, out of a book that she was very fond of; a strange book it was, I remember. Poor dear! – what I would give only to know that she is alive.’

‘Life is very uncertain,’ said I.

‘That is true,’ said the man, with a sigh.

‘We are here one moment, and gone the next,’ I continued. ‘As I passed through the streets of a neighbouring town, I saw a respectable woman drop down, and people said she was dead. Who knows but that she too had a son coming to see her from a distance, at that very time?’

‘Who knows, indeed?’ said the man. ‘Ah, I am afraid my mother is dead. Well, God’s will be done.’

‘However,’ said I, ‘I should not wonder at your finding your mother alive.’

‘You wouldn’t?’ said the man, looking at me wistfully.

‘I should not wonder at all,’ said I; ‘indeed, something within me seems to tell me you will; I should not much mind betting five shillings to fivepence that you will see your mother within a week. Now, friend, five shillings to fivepence – ’

‘Is very considerable odds,’ said the man, rubbing his hands; ‘sure you must have good reason to hope, when you are willing to give such odds.’

‘After all,’ said I, ‘it not unfrequently happens that those who lay the long odds lose. Let us hope, however. What do you mean to do in the event of finding your mother alive?’

‘I scarcely know,’ said the man; ‘I have frequently thought that if I found my mother alive I would attempt to persuade her to accompany me to the country which I have left – it is a better country for a man – that is, a free man – to live in than this; however, let me first find my mother – if I could only find my mother – ’

‘Farewell,’ said I, rising. ‘Go your way, and God go with you – I will go mine.’ ‘I have but one thing to ask you,’ said the man. ‘What is that?’ I inquired. ‘That you would drink with me before we part – you have done me so much good.’ ‘How should we drink?’ said I; ‘we are on the top of a hill where there is nothing to drink.’ ‘But there is a village below,’ said the man; ‘do let us drink before we part.’ ‘I have been through that village already,’ said I, ‘and I do not like turning back.’ ‘Ah,’ said the man, sorrowfully, ‘you will not drink with me because I told you I was – ’ ‘You are quite mistaken,’ said I, ‘I would as soon drink with a convict as with a judge. I am by no means certain that, under the same circumstances, the judge would be one whit better than the convict. Come along! I will go back to oblige you. I have an odd sixpence in my pocket, which I will change that I may drink with you.’ So we went down the hill together to the village through which I had already passed, where, finding a public-house, we drank together in true English fashion, after which we parted, the sailor-looking man going his way and I mine.

After walking about a dozen miles, I came to a town, where I rested for the night. The next morning I set out again in the direction of the north-west. I continued journeying for four days, my daily journeys varying from twenty to twenty-five miles. During this time nothing occurred to me worthy of any especial notice. The weather was brilliant, and I rapidly improved both in strength and spirits. On the fifth day, about two o’clock, I arrived at a small town. Feeling hungry, I entered a decent-looking inn – within a kind of bar I saw a huge, fat, landlord-looking person, with a very pretty, smartly-dressed maiden. Addressing myself to the fat man, ‘House!’ said I, ‘house! Can I have dinner, house?’