"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 Müller, 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
Müller 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 Wallenstätter. There are many of the Müllers 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
Müllers 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 Vévasians?"
"That, and affairs, have brought me into this honorable company;" answered
the Herr Müller, 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 _quête_ 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 Vévey, 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
débris of the mountains clustered the hamlets of Clarens, Montreux,
Châtelard, 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 côtes 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 châlets 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. Vévey, 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 châlets, 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."
"Fairly reasoned, friend Melchior, and like an able umpire, leaving to
each his share of consolation and vanity. Herr Müller, dost thou agree in
a decision that gives thy much vaunted Switzerland so formidable a rival?"
"Signore," answered the meek traveller, "I see enough to admire and love
in both, as is always the fact with that which God hath formed. This is a
glorious world for the happy, and most might be so, could they summon
courage to be innocent."
"The good Augustine will tell thee that this bears hard on certain points
of theology, in which our common nature is treated with but indifferent
respect. He that would continue innocent must struggle hard with his
propensities."
The stranger was thoughtful, and Sigismund; whose eye had been earnestly
riveted on his face, thought that it denoted more of peace then usual.
"Signore," rejoined the Herr Müller, when time had been given for
reflection, "I believe it is good for us to know unhappiness. He that is
permitted too much of his own will gets to be headstrong, and, like the
overfed bullock, difficult to be managed; whereas, he who lives under the
displeasure of his fellow-creatures is driven to look closely into
himself, and comes, at last, to chasten his spirit by detecting its
faults."
"Art thou a follower of Calvin?" demanded the Augustine suddenly,
surprised to hear opinions so healthful in the mouth of a dissenter from
the true church.
"Father, I belong neither to Rome nor to the religion of Geneva. I am a
humble worshipper of God, and a believer in the blessed mediation of his
holy Son."
"How!--Where dost thou find such sentiments out of the pale of the
church?"
"In mine own heart. This is my temple, holy Augustine, and I never enter
it without adoration for its Almighty founder. A cloud was over the roof
of my father at my birth, and I have not been permitted to mingle much
with men; but the solitude of my life has driven me to study my own
nature, which I hope has become none the worse for the examination. I know
I am an unworthy and sinful man, and I hope others are as much better than
I as their opinions of themselves would give reason to think."
The words of the Herr Müller, which lost none of their weight by his
unaffected and quiet manner, excited curiosity. At first, most of the
listeners were disposed to believe him one of those exaggerated spirits
who exalt themselves by a pretended self-abasement, but his natural,
quiet, and thoughtful deportment soon produced a more favorable opinion.
There was a habit of reflection, a retreating inward look about his eye,
that revealed the character of one long and truly accustomed to look more
at himself than at others, and which wrought singularly in his behalf.
"We may not all have these flattering opinions of ourselves that thy words
would seem to imply Signor Müller," observed the Genoese, his tone
changing to one better suited to soothe the feelings of the person
addressed, while a shade insensibly stole over his own venerable features;
"neither are all at peace that so seem. If it will be any consolation to
thee to know that others are probably no more happy than thyself, I will
add that I have known much pain, and that, too, amid circumstances which
most would deem fortunate, and which, I fear, a great majority of mankind
might be disposed to envy."
"I should be base indeed to seek consolation in such a source! I do not
complain, Signore, though my whole life has so passed that I can hardly
say that I enjoy it. It is not easy to smile when we know that all frown
upon us; else could I be content. As it is, I rather feel than repine."
"This is a most singular condition of the mind;" whispered Adelheid to
young Sigismund; for both had been deeply attentive listeners to the calm
but strong language of the Herr Müller. The young man did not answer, and
his fair companion saw with surprise, that he was pale, and with
difficulty noticed her remark with a smile.
"The frowns of men, my son," observed the monk, "are usually reserved for
those who offend its ordinances. The latter may not be always just, but
there is a common sentiment which refuses to visit innocence, even in the
narrow sense in which we understand the word, with undeserved
displeasure."
The Herr Müller looked earnestly at the Augustine, and he seemed about to
answer; but, checking the impulse, he bowed in submission. At the same
time, a wild, painful smile gleamed on his face.
"I agree with thee, good canon," rejoined the simple-minded baron: "we are
much addicted to quarrelling with the world, but, after all, when we look
closely into the matter, it will commonly be found that the cause of our
grievances exists in ourselves."
"Is there no Providence, father?" exclaimed Adelheid, a little
reproachfully for one of her respectful habits and great filial
tenderness. "Can we recall the dead to life, or keep those quick whom God
is pleased to destroy?"
"Thou hast me, girl!--there is a truth in this that no bereaved parent can
deny!"
This remark produced an embarrassed pause, during which the Herr Müller
gazed furtively about him, looking from the face of one to that of
another, as if seeking for some countenance on which he could rely. But
he turned away to the view of those hills which had been so curiously
wrought by the finger of the Almighty, and seemed to lose himself in their
contemplation.
"This is some spirit that has been bruised by early indiscretion," said
the Signor Grimaldi, in a low voice, "and whose repentance is strangely
mixed with resignation. I know not whether such a man is most to be envied
or pitied. There is a fearful mixture of resignation and of suffering in
his air."
"He has not the mien of a stabber or a knave," answered the baron. "If he
comes truly of the Müllers of the Emmen Thal, or even of those of
Entlibuch, I should know something of his history. They are warm burghers,
and mostly of fair name. It is true, that in my youth one of the family
got out of favor with the councils, on account of some concealment of
their lawful claims in the way of revenue, but the man made an atonement
that was deemed sufficient in amount, and the matter was forgotten. It is
not usual, Herr Müller, to meet citizens in our canton who go for neither
Rome nor Calvin."
"It is not usual, mein Herr, to meet men placed as I am. Neither Rome nor
Calvin is sufficient for me;--I have need of God!"
"I fear thou hast taken life?"
The stranger bowed, and his face grew livid, seemingly with the intensity
of his own thoughts. Melchior de Willading so disliked the expression,
that he turned away his eyes in uneasiness. The other glanced frequently
at the forward part of the bark, and he seemed struggling hard to speak,
but, for some strong reason, unable to effect his purpose. Uncovering
himself, at length, he said steadily, as if superior to shame, while he
fully felt the import of his communication, but in a voice that was
cautiously suppressed--
"I am Balthazar, of your canton, Herr Baron, and I pray your powerful
succor, should those untamed spirits on the forecastle come to discover
the truth. My blood hath been made to curdle to-day whilst listening to
their heartless threats and terrible maledictions. Without this fear, I
should have kept my secret,--for God knows I am not proud of my office!"
The general and sudden surprise, accompanied as it was by a common
movement of aversion, induced the Signor Grimaldi to demand the reason.
"Thy name is not in much favour apparently, Herr Müller, or Herr
Balthazar, whichever it is thy pleasure to be called," observed the
Genoese, casting a quick glance around the circle. "There is some mystery
in it, that to me needs explanation."
"Signore, I am the headsman of Berne."
Though long schooled in the polished habits of his high condition, which
taught him ordinarily to repress strong emotions, the Signor Grimaldi
could not conceal the start which this unexpected announcement produced,
for he had not escaped the usual prejudices of men.
"Truly, we have been fortunate in our associate, Melchior," he said drily,
turning without ceremony from the man whose modest, quiet mien had lately
interested him so much, but whose manner he now took to be assumed,--few
pausing to investigate the motives of those who are condemned of
opinion:--"here has been much excellent and useful morality thrown away
upon a very unworthy subject!"
The baron received the intelligence of the real name of their travelling
companion with less feeling. He had been greatly puzzled to account for
the singular language he had heard, and he found relief in so brief a
solution of the difficulty.
"The pretended name, after all, then, is only a cloak to conceal the
truth! I knew the Müllers of the Emmen Thal so well, that I had great
difficulty in fitting the character which the honest man gave of himself
fairly upon any one of them all. But it is now clear enough, and doubtless
Balthazar has no great reason to be proud of the turn which Fortune has
played his family in making them executioners."
"Is the office hereditary?" demanded the Genoese, quickly.
"It is. Thou knowest that we of Berne have great respect for ancient
usages. He that is born to the Bürgerschaft will die in the exercise of
his rights, and he that is born out of its venerable pale must be
satisfied to live out of it, unless he has gold or favor. Our institutions
are a hint from nature, which leaves men as they are created, preserving
the order and harmony of society by venerable and well-defined laws, as is
wise and necessary. In nature, he that is born strong remains strong, and
he that has little force must be content with his feebleness."
The Signor Grimaldi looked like one who felt contrition.
"Art thou, in truth, an hereditary executioner?" he asked, addressing
Balthazar himself.
"Signore, I am: else would hand of mine have never taken life. 'Tis a hard
duty to perform, even under the obligations and penalties of the
law;--otherwise, it were accursed!"
"Thy fathers deemed it a privilege!"
"We suffer for their error: Signore, the sins of the fathers, in our case,
have indeed been visited on the children to the latest generations."
The countenance of the Genoese grew brighter and his voice resumed the
polished tones in which he usually spoke.
"Here has been some injustice of a certainty," he said, "or one of thy
appearance would not be found in this cruel position. Depend on our
authority to protect thee, should the danger thou seemest to apprehend
really occur. Still the laws must be respected, though not always of the
rigid impartiality that we might wish. Thou hast owned the imperfection of
human nature, and it is not wonderful that its work should have flaws."
"I complain not now of the usage, which to me has become habit, but I
dread the untamed fury of these ignorant and credulous men, who have taken
a wild fancy that my presence might bring a curse upon the bark."
There are accidental situations which contain more healthful morals than
can be drawn from a thousand ingenious and plausible homilies, and in
which facts, in their naked simplicity, are far more eloquent than any
meaning that can be conveyed by words. Such was the case with this meek
and unexpected appeal of Balthazar. All who heard him saw his situation
under very different colors from those in which it would have been
regarded had the subject presented itself under ordinary circumstances. A
common and painful sentiment attested strongly against the oppression that
had given birth to his wrongs, and the good Melchior de Willading himself
wondered how a case of this striking injustice could have arisen under the
laws of Berne.