The Princess Passes by Alice Muriel Williamson and Charles Norris Williamson

A >> Alice Muriel Williamson and Charles Norris Williamson >> The Princess Passes

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"He shall consent, or I will know the reason why," I said to myself
fiercely; but aloud I merely answered that I would be glad of a few
minutes' conversation with the young gentleman.

My host led me to the house door, introduced me to a handsome sister,
who was my hostess, explained to her the situation, with the view of
it we had arrived at, and descended to show Joseph where to shelter
Finois.

My landlady said that she would put the case to the occupant of the
spare room, who was already in his new quarters, preparing for supper,
but I persuaded her that it would be well for me to be on the spot,
and add my arguments to hers. We went upstairs, and in a dark passage
plunged suddenly into a pool of yellow light, gushing from a half-open
door. I hurried forward, step for step with my guide, lest the door
should be shut in my face before I could reach it. Over my hostess'
shoulder, I saw a bare but neat interior; a "coffin" bed, a
white-washed wall, and an uncarpeted floor, Mademoiselle Innocentina
Palumbo sitting upon it, tailor-fashion, engaged in excavating a
large, dark object from a _ruecksack_. In front of her stood the Brat,
deeply interested in the operation, his curly head bent, his childish
little hands on his hips.

He was talking and laughing gaily; but at the sound of footsteps in
the passage he glanced up, and, seeing me, stared in haughty
surprise, which tipped the scales towards anger.

"Here is a monsieur who is belated on the Pass, and begs" (this was
hardly the way in which I would have put it) "that he may be allowed
to share your room," explained our landlady.

"_Share my room!_" repeated the Brat, so dumfounded at the simple
statement that he spoke in English. Now I knew that he was a
countryman, not of mine, but of Molly's, and I wished that she were
here to deal with him. "I have never heard anything so--so
ridiculous."

"Really," said I, assuming an air I had found successful with freshers
in good old days of under-grad-dom (Molly called it my "belted hearl"
manner), "really, I fail to see anything ridiculous in the proposal.
This is an inn, which professes to accommodate travellers. I have a
right to insist upon a bed."

To my intense irritation Innocentina giggled. The Brat did not laugh,
but he grew rosy, like a girl. Even his little ears turned pink, under
his absurd mop of chestnut curls. "You have no right to insist upon
mine," retorted he, in the honey-sweet contralto which tried in vain
to make of a pert imp, an angel.

"You cannot sleep in two," said I.

"That is my affair, since I have agreed to pay for them."

"I contend that you cannot pay for both, since one is legally mine, by
the laws protecting travellers," I argued truculently, hoping to
frighten the rude child, though I should have been sore put to it to
prove my point.

"I have always heard that possession is nine points of the law," said
he, impudent and apparently unintimidated. "This is my room, every
hole and corner of it, and if you try to intrude, I shall simply sit
up and yell all night, and throw things, so that you will not get an
instant's sleep. I swear it."

Then I lost my temper. "You ought to be ashamed of yourself," I
exclaimed. "I wonder where you were brought up?"

"Where big boys never bully little ones."

"Of all the selfish, impertinent brats!" I could not help muttering.

"If I'm a brat, you're a brute, sir. You have only to glance at the
dictionary to see which is worse."

He looked so impish, defying me, like a miniature Ajax, that with all
the will in the world to box his ears, I burst out laughing.

Checking my mirth as soon as I could, however, I covered its
inappropriateness with a steely frown. "I do not need to glance at the
dictionary to see that you would be a detestable room-mate," said I,
"and on second thoughts I prefer to sleep quietly in the stable rather
than press my claim here." With this, I turned on my heel, not giving
the enemy time for another volley, and stalked downstairs, followed, I
regret to say, by Innocentina's ribald laughter.

Almost immediately I was rejoined by the handsome landlady, who,
profuse in her regrets, though she had understood no word of what had
passed, attempted to console me with the promise of a bed in the
_salle-a-manger_. Meanwhile, if I desired to wash, her brother would
superintend my ablutions.

Over those rites (which were duly performed at a pump, while the
little wretch upstairs wallowed in the luxury of a basin almost as
large as my hat), I draw a veil. By the time that they were finished,
and I was shining with yellow kitchen soap, having been unable to make
use of my own in the circumstances, supper was ready. I walked sulkily
into the room, which later would be transformed into my bedchamber,
and to my annoyance saw the Brat already seated at the table. I had
fancied that his conscience would counsel supping privately in the
room he had usurped, but this imp seemed to have been born without a
sense of shame. Thanks to him, I had not even been able to give myself
a clean collar, as it had not been possible to open the mule-pack and
improvise a dressing-room in the neighbourhood of the pump. But
he--he, the usurper, he, the guilty one--had changed from his
low-necked shirt and blue serge jacket and knickers into a kind of
evening costume, original, I should say, to himself, or copied from
some stage child, or Christmas Annual.

He did not speak to me, nor I to him, though, as I sat down in the
chair placed for me at the opposite end of the table, I caught a
sapphire gleam from the brilliant eyes, which burned so vividly in the
little brown face.

There came an omelette. It was passed to me. Maliciously, I selected
the best bit from the middle. The boy took what was left. Veal
followed, in the form of cutlets, two in number. A glance showed me
that one was mostly composed of bone and gristle. I helped myself to
the other. Revenge was mine at last, though to enjoy it fully I must
have a peep at the enemy, to make sure that he felt and understood his
righteous punishment.

But life is crowded with disappointments. The foe was looking
incredibly small, and young, and meek, a puny thing for a man to
wreak his vengeance on. With long lashes cast down, making a deep
shadow on his thin cheeks, he sat wrestling with his portion, from
which the cleverest manipulation of knife and fork was powerless to
extract an inch of nourishment. As he gave up the struggle at last,
with unmoved countenance, and not even a sigh of complaint, my heart
failed me. I felt that I had snatched bread from the mouth of starving
infanthood. Had not Joseph learned from Innocentina that the boy had
lately recovered from a severe illness? Unspeakable brat that he was,
and small favour that he deserved at my hands, I resolved that he
should have the best of the next dish when it came round.

This good intention, however, went to supply another stone in that
place which seems ever in need of repaving. Cheese succeeded the veal,
a well-meaning but somewhat overpowering cheese, and neither the Brat
nor I encouraged it. It was borne away, intact, and after a short
delay appeared a dish of plums, with another of small and attractive
cakes, evidently imported from a town.

I saw the boy's eye brighten as it fell upon the cakes. He glanced
from them to me, as I was offered my choice, and said hastily: "There
is one cake there which I want very much. I suppose if I tell you
which it is, you will eat it."

"There is also only one which I care for," said I. "I wonder if it's
the same?"

"Probably," said the boy. "If you take it, there isn't another which I
would be found dead with in my mouth, on a desert island. And I
haven't had much dinner."

"_I_ had to wash under the pump," said I. "Still, greatness lies in
magnanimity. You shall choose your cake first; but remember, you
cannot have it, and eat it, too; so make up your mind quickly which is
better."

"I always thought that a stupid saying," remarked the Brat, as he
helped himself to a ginger-nut with pink icing. "I have my cake, and
when I have eaten it, I take another."

"Your experience in life has been fortunate," I replied, contenting
myself with the second-best cake. "But it has not been long. When you
are a man----"

"A man! I would rather die--young than grow up to be one."

"Indeed?" I exclaimed, surprised at this outburst.

"I hate men."

"Ah, perhaps then, your experience has not been as fortunate in men as
in cakes."

"No, it hasn't. It has been just the opposite."

"One would say, 'Thereby hangs a tale.'"

"There does. But it is not for strangers."

"I'm not a lover of after-dinner stories. Here comes the coffee.
Luckily, there's plenty for us both. Will you have a cigarette?"

"No, thanks."

"A cigar, then?"

"I don't smoke."

"Ah, some boys' heads _won't_ stand it. I'm ashamed to say that I
smoked at fourteen. But perhaps you're not yet----"

"I will change my mind and have a cigarette, since you are so
obliging."

"Sure you won't regret it?"

"Quite sure, thank you."

"They're rather strong."

"I'm not afraid."

He took a cigarette from my case, and smoked it daintily. Whether it
were my imagination, or whether a slight pallor did really become
visible under the sun-tan on the velvet-smooth face, I am not certain:
but at all events he rose when nothing was left between his fingers
save an ash clinging to a bit of gold paper, and excused himself with
belated politeness.

Not long after, my bed was made up on the floor, and I slept as I
fancy few kings sleep.

Strange; not then, or ever, did I dream of Helen.

* * * * *

The voice of Finois or some near relative of his roused me at dawn. I
remembered where I was, whither bound, and sleep instantly seemed
irrelevant. I scrambled up from my lonely couch, went to the open
window, which was a square of grey-green light, and looked out at the
mountain walls of the valley basin.

The day was not awake yet, but only half conscious that it must awake.
There was the faint thrill of mystery which comes with earliest dawn,
as though it were for you alone of all the world, and no one else
could find his way down its dim labyrinths. But even as I looked,
there came a movement near the house, and I saw the stalwart figure of
the landlord shape itself from the shadows. Other forms were stirring
too, the stolid forms of cows, and those of two sturdy little ponies,
which were being turned into a pasture.

It occurred to me that I could not do better than get through my
toilet, and, if Joseph and Finois were of the same mind, make an early
start. I thought that if I could reach the Hospice before all the
gold of sunrise had boiled over night's brim, I should have a picture
to frame in memory.

At bedtime they had given me a wooden tub such as laundresses use, and
filled it for my morning bath. I had my own soap, and a great, clean,
coarse dish-towel of crash or some such material. Never before was
there a bath like it, with the good smell of pinewood of which the tub
was made, and the tingle of the water from a mountain spring. I
revelled in it, and as I dressed could have sung for pure joy of life,
until I remembered that I was a jilted man, and this tour a voyage of
consolation.

"You are miserable, you know." I informed my reflection in a small,
strange-coloured glass, which allowed me to shave my face in greenish
sections. "It is a kind of madness, this spurious gaiety of yours."

In half an hour I was out of the house, and found Joseph feeding
Finois. They were both prepared to leave at ten minutes' notice, and
when the two human creatures of the party had been refreshed with
crusty bread and steaming coffee, the procession of three set forth.
As for the boy, the donkeys and their guardian, as far as I knew they
were still sleeping the sleep of the unjust.

If the Pass had been glorious in open day, and by falling twilight, it
was doubly wonderful in this mystic dawn-time before the lamp of the
rising sun had lit the valley. The green alps where the cattle pasture
were faintly musical, far and near, with the ringing of unseen bells,
and the air was vibrant with the rush and whisper of waters. As the
shadows melted in the crucible of dawn, and an opaline high trembled
on the dark mountain-tops that towered round us, I saw marvels which
either had not existed last night, or I had been dull clod enough to
miss them.

Fairy wild-flowers such as I had never seen studded the rocks with
jewels of blue and gold, and rose, and little silver stars; and there
were some wonderful, shining things of creamy grey plush, suggesting
glorified thistles.

We walked through the Valley of Death, where many of Napoleon's men
had perished; and the first rays of sunrise touched the tragic rocks
with the gold of hope. Up, up beyond the alps and the sparse
pine-trees we climbed, until we came to the snowline, and passed
beyond the first white ledge, carved in marble by the cold hand of a
departed winter. Down through a gap in the mountains streamed an icy
blast, and I had to remind myself, shivering, that this was August,
not December. The wind tore apart the fabric of lacy cloud which had
been looped in folds across the rock-face, like a veil hiding the worn
features of some aged nun, and showed jagged mountain peaks, towering
against a sky of mother-o'-pearl. Suddenly, after a steep ascent, we
saw before us a tall, lonely mass of grey stone, built upon the rock.
Behind it the sun had risen, and fired to burnished gold the still
lake which mirrored the Hospice and its dark wall of mountains, seamed
with snow.

The impression of high purity, of peace won through privation, and of
nearness to Heaven itself, was so strong upon me, that I seemed to
hear a voice speaking a benediction.

CHAPTER XI

A Shadow of Night

"This villain, . . . He dares--I know not half he dares--
But remove him--quick!"
--ROBERT BROWNING.

So early was it still, I feared we had come before the brotherhood
were astir to receive visitors; but as I looked up at the great, grey,
silent building, the noble head of a magnificent St. Bernard dog
appeared in the doorway, at the top of steep stone steps. There could
not have been a more appropriate welcome to this remote dwelling of a
devoted band; and when the dog, after gazing gravely at the newcomers,
vanished into darkness, I knew that he had gone in to tell of our
arrival. I was right, too, for once within, he uttered a deep
bell-note, more sonorous and more musical than lies in the throats of
common dogs, and was answered by a distant baying. One could not say
that these majestic animals "barked." There was as indisputable a
difference between an ordinary bark, and the sound they made, as
between the barrel instrument played in the streets, and a grand
cathedral organ.

Joseph had visited the Hospice many times, and knew the etiquette for
strangers. He bade me go in, and ring the bell at the _grille_, unless
I should meet one of the monks before reaching it. I mounted the
steps, entered the wide doorway which had framed the dog's head, and
found myself in a vast, dusky corridor, resonant with strange
echoings, and mysterious with flitting shadows, which might be ghosts
of the past, or live beings of the present. As my eyes grew accustomed
to the gloom, I saw that there were numerous persons in this great
hall: tall monks in flowing robes of black, beggars come to solicit
alms or breakfast; and dogs, many dogs, who crowded round me, with a
waving of huge tails, and a gleaming of brown jewelled eyes in the
dusk. I did not need to ring the bell of the iron gate beyond which,
according to Joseph, no woman has ever passed. One of the monks came
to me--a tall, spare young man with a grave face, soft in expression,
yet hardened in outline by a rigorous life and exposure to extreme
cold. He gave me welcome in French, with here and there an
interpellation of "Down, Turk," "Be quiet, Jupiter!" Would I like
breakfast, he asked; and then--yes, certainly--to see the chapel, the
_bibliotheque_, the monastery museum, and the Alpine garden? There
would be plenty of time for this, and still to reach Aosta. Another
monk was called, and an introduction effected. I was taken into a
handsomely decorated refectory, where I opened my eyes in some
astonishment at sight of the Imp, drinking coffee from a shallow bowl
nearly as big as his childish head. Innocentina was no doubt at this
moment shocking Joseph by some new depravity, in the _salle-a-manger_
where humbler folk were entertained with the same hospitality as their
(so called) betters.

The Brat set down his bowl, and saw me, as I subsided into a chair on
the opposite side of the long, narrow table. His face flushed, and the
brilliant blue eyes clouded, but he deigned to acknowledge our
acquaintance with a slight bow.

[Illustration: "DOWN, TURK!" "BE QUIET, JUPITER!"]

"I didn't suppose you would have started yet," said I.

"I thought the same thing about you," he retorted. "We got off very
quietly from the Cantine----"

"Ah, you wished to steal a march on me," I broke in, "But really, my
young friend, you need not have feared that I should impose myself
upon you as a travelling companion. My one object in making this
excursion is, if not to enjoy my own society, at any rate to
experiment with it, therefore----"

"I have _two_ objects in making mine," the boy interrupted. "One is to
avoid men; the other is to find materials for writing a book, with no
men in it--only places."

"It will not be owing to me, if you fail in the former," said I. "As
for the latter, naturally it will depend upon yourself. What shall you
call it--'A Chiel takkin' Notes' or 'In Search of the Grail'?"

He blushed vividly. "I haven't decided on the name yet, but it can't
matter to you, as I do not expect you to buy the book when it comes
out; nor need you be afraid that you will figure in the pages. If I
were to call my book 'In Search of--anything,' it would be, 'In Search
of Peace.'"

With this, the strange child rose from the table, and bowing,
departed, leaving me lost in wonder at him. He was but an infant, and
an impertinent infant at that; yet suddenly I had had a glimpse
through the great sea-blue eyes, of a soul, weary after some tragic
experience. At least this was the impression which flashed into my
mind, with the one look I surprised before lashes hid its secret; but
in a moment I was laughing at myself. Ridiculous to have such a
thought in connection with a slip of a boy, seventeen at most! I
lingered over my breakfast, so that the Brat have finished his
sightseeing and got away, before my tour of the Hospice began.

He and I had had the table to ourselves at first, but I sat so long
that others came in, evidently persons who had spent the night at the
monastery. There was a Russian family, of so many daughters that I
wondered their parents had found names for them all; a couple of
German women in plaid blouses so terrible that they set me
speculating. Had the material been chosen by their husbands, with the
view of alienating all masculine admiration, as a Japanese girl, when
married, blackens her teeth? Or had the ladies inflicted the frightful
things upon themselves, by way of penance for some grievous sin? I
should have liked to ask, especially as one of the wearers was very
pretty, with a large, madonna loveliness. But under my dreaming eyes,
she began eating honey with her knife, and I sprang from the table
hastily. As I paused, I heard two stolid Cockneys asking each other
why the--dickens they had come to this "beastly, cold, God-forsaken
hole, with nothing but a lot of ugly mountains to see. There was
better sport in Oxford Street." I should not have considered it murder
if I had killed them where they sat, but I refrained, rather than soil
my hands. And after all, if a primrose on a river's brim, but a yellow
primrose was to them, what did it matter to me?

I visited the _bibliotheque_, which was haunted by a fragrance
intoxicating to booklovers, of dead centuries, leather bindings, and
parchment. I saw the piano given by the King when he was Prince of
Wales; the fine collection of coins and early Roman remains found in
the neighbourhood of the monastery; I dropped a louis into the box of
offerings in the chapel, and then was taken by a mild-eyed,
frail-looking monk to see some of the rooms allotted to guests at the
Hospice. Seeing them, I was inclined to wish that I had pushed on
through the darkness last night, and reached this mountain-top to
sleep. I liked the wainscoted walls, the white, canopied beds, but
most of all, I liked the deep-set windows with their view of the
silent lake, asleep in the bosom of the mountains, and dreaming of the
sky. On most of the walls were votive offerings in the shape of
pictures, sent to the monks by grateful visitors in far-off countries.
One was an engraving which had adorned the nursery in my youth, and
had been a never-failing source of curiosity to me. It was Gustave
Dore's "Christian Martyrs," and I had once been deprived of pudding at
the nursery dinner, because I had remarked (with irreverence wholly
unintentional) that one of the lions seemed ill, and anxious to "climb
up the wall and get away from the nasty martyrs." Thus it is that
children are misunderstood by their elders! and now, as I gazed at the
same picture on the monastery wall, I felt again all the old, impotent
rebellion against injustice and misplaced power.

Later, I wandered through the pathetically interesting Alpine garden,
carefully kept by the monks; and then, sure that by this time the Brat
and his cavalcade must be far on their way, I started, with Joseph and
Finois, to stroll down the Pass towards Aosta.

I had promised Jack and Molly to tell them in my letters, whether it
would be possible for them, with a motor, to go by some of the routes
which I chose. Over the St. Bernard from Martigny to the Hospice they
could not have ventured, even in the stealthy, fly-by-night manner in
which they had "done" the St. Gothard and the Simplon; for on the St.
Bernard the road was always narrow, often stony and dangerous. Beyond,
on the other side, even carriages cannot yet pass, descending to
Aosta, though in another year the new road will be finished. As it is,
for many a generation pilgrims from the Hospice to Italy have been
obliged to go down as far as the mountain village of St. Rhemy either
on foot or mule-back; thus there was no hope for Mercedes there.

I went swinging down the steep and winding path, my heart chanting a
psalm to the mountains. Mountains like cathedrals, with carved,
graceful spires; mountains like frozen waves left by some great sea
when the world was chaos; mountains like leaning towers of Pisa;
mountains like sentinel Titans; mountains silver-grey; mountains
dark-red. The "Pain de Sucre" was strangest of all in form, perhaps,
and Joseph distressed me much by remarking guilelessly that it, and
other white shapes at which he pointed, looked exactly like frosted
wedding-cakes. It was true; they did; but they looked like nobler
things also, and I resented having so cheap a simile put into my head.

With every step the way grew more glorious. This was an enchanted
land. I could hardly believe that thousands of travellers had seen it
before, and would again. I felt as if I had fallen Sindbad-like, into
a valley undiscovered by man; and, like Sindbad's valley, this
sparkled to my dazzled eyes with countless gems. Not all cold, white
diamonds, like his, but gems of every colour. The rocks through which
our path was cut, glowed with rainbow hues, like different precious
metals blended. This effect struck me at first (in the brilliant
sunshine which alone kept me from being nipped with cold) as puzzling,
but in a moment I had solved the "jewel mystery" of the mountains. The
rocks were of porphyry, and marble, and granite, spangled with mica;
and over all spread in patches a lichen of rose, and green, and
yellow, like chipped rubies and emeralds among gold-filings.

So wild and splendid was the scene, composed and painted by a peerless
Master, that I slackened my pace, reluctant to leave so much splendour
behind; but despite all delaying, we came after a time down to
tree-level. The landscape changed; the diamond spray of miniature
cataracts dashed over high cliffs, among balsamic pine forests; the
sunshine brought out the intense green of moss and fern. We met
porters struggling up the height with luggage on their backs, and fat
women riding depressed mules. It was very mediaeval, and I had the
sensation of having walked into a picture--round the corner of it,
into the best part which you know must be there, though it can't be
seen by outsiders.

It took us an hour and a half to walk the eleven kilometres down to
St. Rhemy, where we lunched well, and drank a sparkling wine of the
country which may have been meretricious, but tasted good. There was a
_douane_, for we had now passed out of Switzerland into Italy, and my
mule-pack was examined with curiosity; but why I should have been
questioned with insistence as to whether I were concealing sausages, I
could not guess, unless a swashbuckling German princeling who married
into our family eight generations ago, was using my eyes for windows
at the time.

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