A Day's Ride: A Life's Romance

I very much doubt if a Roman conqueror regarded the chained captive who followed his chariot with a more supreme pride than I bestowed upon that miserable old waiter who now bowed himself to the ground before me, and when I ordered my dinner for four o’clock, and said that probably I might have a friend to dine with me, his humiliation was complete.

“I wish I knew the secret of your staying here,” said Mary Crofton, as we drove along; “why will you not tell it?”

“Perhaps it might prove indiscreet, Mary; our friend Potts may have become a mauvais sujet since we have seen him last?”

I wrapped myself in a mysterious silence, and only smiled.

“Lindau, of all places, to stop at!” resumed she, pettishly. “There is nothing remarkable in the scenery, no art treasures, nothing socially agreeable; what can it possibly be that detains you in such a place?”

“My dear Mary,” said Crofton, “you are, without knowing it, violating a hallowed principle; you are no less than leading into temptation. Look at poor Potts there, and you will see that, while he knows in his inmost heart the secret which detains him here is some passing and insignificant circumstance unworthy of mention, you have, by imparting to it a certain importance, suggested to his mind the necessity of a story; give him now but five minutes to collect himself, and I’ll engage that he will ‘come out’ with a romantic incident that would never have seen the light but for a woman’s curiosity.”

“Good heavens!” thought I, “can this be a true interpretation of my character? Am I the weak and impressionable creature this would bespeak me?” I must have blushed deeply at my own reflection, for Crofton quickly added, —

“Don’t get angry with me, Potts, any more than you would with a friend who 'd say, ‘Take care how you pass over that bridge, I know it is rotten and must give way.’”

“Let me answer you,” said I, courageously, for I was acutely hurt to be thus arraigned before another. “It is more than likely that you, with your active habits and stirring notions of life, would lean very heavily on him who, neither wanting riches nor honors, would adopt some simple sort of dreamy existence, and think that the green alleys of the beech wood, or the little path beside the river, pleasanter sauntering than the gilded antechamber of a palace; and just as likely is it that you would take him roundly to task about wasted opportunities, misapplied talents, and stigmatize as inglorious indolence what might as possibly be called a contented humility. Now, I would ask you, why should one man be the measure of another? The load you could carry with ease might serve to crush me, and yet there may be some light burdens that would suit my strength, and in bearing which I might taste a sense of duty grateful as your own.”

“I have no patience with you,” began Crofton, warmly; but his sister stopped him with an imploring look, and then, turning to me, said, —

“Edward fancies that every one can be as energetic and active as himself, and occasionally forgets what you have just so well remarked as to the relative capacities of different people.”

“I want him to do something, to be something besides a dreamer!” burst he in, almost angrily.

“Well, then,” said I, “you shall see me begin this moment, tor I will get down here and walk briskly back to the town.” I called to the postilions to pull up at the same time, and in spite of remonstrances, entreaties, – almost beseeching from Mary Crofton, – I persisted in my resolve, and bade them farewell.

Crofton was so much hurt that he could scarcely speak, and when he gave me his hand it was in the coldest of manners.

“But you ‘ll keep our rendezvous, won’t you!” said Mary; “we shall meet at Rome.”

“I really wonder, Mary, how you can force our acquaintanceship where it is so palpably declined. Good-bye, – farewell,” said he to me.

“Good-bye,” said I, with a gulp that almost choked me; and away drove the carriage, leaving me standing in the train of dust it had raised. Every crack of the postboys’ whips gave me a shock as though I had felt the thong on my own shoulders; and, at last, as sweeping round a turn of the road the carriage disappeared from view, such was the sense of utter desolation that came over me, that I sat down on a stone by the wayside, overwhelmed. I do not know if I ever felt such an utter sense of destitution as at that moment. “What a wealth of friends must a man possess,” thought I, “who can afford to squander them in this fashion! How could I have repelled the counsels that kindness alone could have prompted? Surely Crofton must know far more of life than I did?” From this I went on to inquire why it was that the world showed itself so unforgiving to idleness in men of small fortune, since, if no burden to the community, they ought to be as free as their richer brethren. It was a puzzling theme, and though I revolved it long, I made but little of it; the only solution that occurred to me was, that the idleness of the humble man is not relieved by the splendors and luxuries which surround a rich man’s leisure, and that the world resents the pretensions of ease unassociated with riches. In what a profound philosophy was it, then, that Diogenes rolled his tub about the streets! There was a mock purpose about it, that must have flattered his fellow-citizens. I feel assured that a great deal of the butterfly-hunting and beetle-gathering that we see around us is done in this spirit They are a set of idle folk anxious to indulge their indolence without reproach.

Thus pondering and musing, I strolled back to the town. So still and silent was it, so free from all movement of traffic or business, that I was actually in the very centre of it without knowing it. There were streets without passengers, and shops without customers, and even cafés without guests, and I wondered within myself why people should thus congregate to do nothing, and I rambled on from street to alley, and from alley to lane, never chancing upon one who had anything in hand. At last I gained the side of the lake, along which a little quay ran for some distance, ending in a sort of terraced walk, now grass-grown and neglected. There were at least the charms of fresh air and scenery here, though the worthy citizen seemed to hold them cheaply, and I rambled along to the end, where, by a broad flight of steps, the terrace communicated with the lake; a spot, doubtless, where, once on a time, the burghers took the water and went out a-pleasuring with fat fraus and fräuleins. I had reached the end, and was about to turn back again, when I caught sight of a man, seated on one of the lower steps, employed in watching two little toy ships which he had just launched. Now, this seemed to me the very climax of indolence, and I sat myself down on the parapet to observe him. His proceedings were indeed of the strangest, for as there was no wind to fill the sails and his vessels lay still and becalmed, he appeared to have bethought him of another mode to impart interest to him. He weighted one of them with little stones till he brought her gunwale level with the water, and then pressing her gently with his hand, he made her sink slowly down to the bottom. I ‘m not quite certain whether I laughed outright, or that some exclamation escaped me as I looked, but some noise I must unquestionably have made, for he started and turned up his head, and I saw Harpar the Englishman whom I had met the day before at Constance.

“Well, you ‘re not much the wiser after all,” said he, gruffly, and without even saluting me.

There was in the words, and fierce expression of his face, something that made me suspect him of insanity, and I would willingly have retired without reply had he not risen and approached me.

“Eh,” repeated he, with a sneer, “ain’t I right? You can make nothing of it?”

“I really don’t understand you!” said I. “I came down here by the merest accident, and never was more astonished than to see you.”

“Oh, of course; I am well used to that sort of thing,” went he on in the same tone of scoff. “I ‘ve had some experience of these kinds of accidents before; but, as I said, it’s no use, you ‘re not within one thousand miles of it, no, nor any man in Europe.”

It was quite clear to me now that he was mad, and my only care was to get speedily rid of him.

“I ‘m not surprised,” said I, with an assumed ease, – “I’m not surprised at your having taken to so simple an amusement, for really in a place so dull as this any mode of passing the time would be welcome.”

“Simple enough when you know it,” said he, with a peculiar look.

“You arrived last night, I suppose?” said I, eager to get conversation into some pleasanter channel.

“Yes, I got here very late. I had the misfortune to sprain my ankle, and this detained me a long time on the way, and may keep me for a couple of days more.”

I learned where he was stopping in the town, and seeing with what pain and difficulty he moved, I offered him my aid to assist him on his way.

“Well, I ‘ll not refuse your help,” said he, dryly; “but Just go along yonder, about five-and-twenty or thirty yards, and I’ll join you. You understand me, I suppose?”

Now, I really did not understand him, except to believe him perfectly insane, and suggest to me the notion of profiting by his lameness to make my escape with all speed. I conclude some generous promptings opposed this course, for I obeyed his injunctions to the very letter, and waited till he came up to me. He did so very slowly, and evidently in much suffering, assisted by a stick in one hand, while he carried his two little boats in the other.

“Shall I take charge of these for you?” said I, offering to carry them.

“No, don’t trouble yourself,” said he in the same rude tone. “Nobody touches these but myself.”

I now gave him my arm, and we moved slowly along.

“What has become of the vagabonds? Are they here with you?” asked he, abruptly.

“I parted with them yesterday,” said I, shortly, and not wishing to enter into further explanations.

“And you did wisely,” rejoined he, with a serious air. “Even when these sort of creatures have nothing very bad about them, they are bad company, out of the haphazard chance way they gain a livelihood. If you reduce life to a game, you must yourself become a gambler. Now, there’s one feature of that sort of existence intolerable to an honest man; it is, that to win himself, some one else must lose. Do you understand me?”

“I do, and am much struck by what you say.”

“In that case,” said he, with a nudge of his elbow against my side, – “in that case you might as well have not come down to watch me?– eh?”

I protested stoutly against this mistake, but I could plainly perceive with very little success.

“Let it be, let it be,” said he, with a shake of the head. “As I said before, if you saw the thing done before your eyes you ‘d make nothing of it. I ‘m not afraid of you, or all the men in Europe! There now, there’s a challenge to the whole of ye! Sit down every man of ye, with the problem before ye, and see what you ‘ll make of it.”

“Ah,” thought I, “this is madness. Here is a poor monomaniac led away into the land of wild thoughts and fancies by one dominating caprice; who knows whether out of the realm of this delusion he may not be a man acute and sensible.”

“No, no,” muttered he, half aloud; “there are, maybe, half a million of men this moment manufacturing steam-engines; but it took one head, just one head, to set them all working, and if it was n’t for old Watt, the world at this day would n’t be five miles in advance of what it was a century back. I see,” added he, after a moment, “you don’t take much interest in these sort of things. Your line of parts is the walking gentleman, eh? Well, bear in mind it don’t pay; no, sir, it don’t pay! Here, this is my way; my lodging is down this lane. I’ll not ask you to come further; thank you for your help, and good-bye.”

“Let us not part here; come up to the inn and dine with me,” said I, affecting his own blunt and abrupt manner.

“Why should I dine with you?” asked he, roughly.

“I can’t exactly say,” stammered I, “except out of good-fellowship, just as, for instance, I accepted your invitation t’ other morning to breakfast.”

“Ah, yes, to be sure, so you did. Well, I ‘ll come. We shall be all alone, I suppose?”

“Quite alone.”

“All right, for I have no coat but this one;” and he looked down at the coarse sleeve as he spoke, with a strange and sad smile, and then waving his band in token of farewell, he said, “I ‘ll join you in half an hour,” and disappeared up the lane.

I have already owned that I did not like this man; he had a certain short abrupt way that repelled me at every moment. When he differed in opinion with me, he was not satisfied to record his dissent, but he must set about demolishing my conviction, and this sort of intolerance pervaded all he said. There was, too, that business-like practical tone about him that jars fearfully on the sensitive fibre of the idler’s nature.