CHAPTER VI. THE NATURAL PHILOSOPHER

Three parts down a swift decline of shattered slate, where travelling

stones loosened from rows of scree hurl away at a bound after one roll

over, there sat a youth dusty and torn, nursing a bruised leg, not in

the easiest of postures, on a sharp tooth of rock, that might at any

moment have broken from the slanting slab at the end of which it formed

a stump, and added him a second time to the general crumble of the

mountain. He had done a portion of the descent in excellent imitation of

the detached fragments, and had parted company with his alpenstock and

plaid; preserving his hat and his knapsack. He was alone, disabled, and

cheerful; in doubt of the arrival of succour before he could trust his

left leg to do him further service unaided; but it was morning still,

the sun was hot, the air was cool; just the tempering opposition to

render existence pleasant as a piece of vegetation, especially when

there has been a question of your ceasing to exist; and the view was of

a sustaining sublimity of desolateness: crag and snow overhead; a gloomy

vale below; no life either of bird or herd; a voiceless region where

there had once been roars at the bowling of a hill from a mountain

to the deep, and the third flank of the mountain spoke of it in the

silence.

He would have enjoyed the scene unremittingly, like the philosopher he

pretended to be, in a disdain of civilization and the ambitions of men,

had not a contest with earth been forced on him from time to time

to keep the heel of his right foot, dug in shallow shale, fixed and

supporting. As long as it held he was happy and maintained the attitude

of a guitar-player, thrumming the calf of the useless leg to accompany

tuneful thoughts, but the inevitable lapse and slide of the foot

recurred, and the philosopher was exhibited as an infant learning to

crawl. The seat, moreover, not having been fashioned for him or for any

soft purpose, resisted his pressure and became a thing of violence, that

required to be humiliatingly coaxed. His last resource to propitiate

it was counselled by nature turned mathematician: tenacious extension

solved the problem; he lay back at his length, and with his hat over

his eyes consented to see nothing for the sake of comfort. Thus he

was perfectly rational, though when others beheld him he appeared the

insanest of mortals.

A girl’s voice gave out the mountain carol ringingly above. His heart

and all his fancies were in motion at the sound. He leaned on an elbow

to listen; the slide threatened him, and he resumed his full stretch,

determined to take her for a dream. He was of the class of youths who,

in apprehension that their bright season may not be permanent, choose

to fortify it by a systematic contempt of material realities unless

they come in the fairest of shapes, and as he was quite sincere in

this feeling and election of the right way to live, disappointment and

sullenness overcame him on hearing men’s shouts and steps; despite his

helpless condition he refused to stir, for they had jarred on his dream.

Perhaps his temper, unknown to himself, had been a little injured by

his mishap, and he would not have been sorry to charge them with want of

common humanity in passing him; or he did not think his plight so bad,

else he would have bawled after them had they gone by: far the youths

of his description are fools only upon system,--however earnestly they

indulge the present self-punishing sentiment. The party did not pass;

they stopped short, they consulted, and a feminine tongue more urgent

than the others, and very musical, sweet to hear anywhere, put him in

tune. She said, ‘Brother! brother!’ in German. Our philosopher flung off

his hat.

‘You see!’ said the lady’s brother.

‘Ask him, Anton,’ she said to their guide.

‘And quick!’ her brother added.

The guide scrambled along to him, and at a closer glance shouted: ‘The

Englishman!’ wheeling his finger to indicate what had happened to the

Tomnoddy islander.

His master called to know if there were broken bones, as if he could

stop for nothing else.

The cripple was raised. The gentleman and lady made their way to him,

and he tried his hardest to keep from tottering on the slope in

her presence. No injury had been done to the leg; there was only a

stiffness, and an idiotic doubling of the knee, as though at each step

his leg pronounced a dogged negative to the act of walking. He said

something equivalent to ‘this donkey leg,’ to divert her charitable eyes

from a countenance dancing with ugly twitches. She was the Samaritan.

A sufferer discerns his friend, though it be not the one who physically

assists him: he is inclined by nature to put material aid at a lower

mark than gentleness, and her brief words of encouragement, the tone of

their delivery yet more, were medical to his blood, better help than her

brother’s iron arm, he really believed. Her brother and the guide held

him on each side, and she led to pick out the safer footing for him; she

looked round and pointed to some projection that would form a step; she

drew attention to views here and there, to win excuses for his resting;

she did not omit to soften her brother’s visible impatience as well, and

this was the art which affected her keenly sensible debtor most.

‘I suppose I ought to have taken a guide,’ he said.

‘There’s not a doubt of that,’ said Chillon Kirby.

Carinthia halted, leaning on her staff: ‘But I had the same wish. They

told us at the inn of an Englishman who left last night to sleep on the

mountain, and would go alone; and did I not say, brother, that must be

true love of the mountains?’

‘These freaks get us a bad name on the Continent,’ her brother replied.

He had no sympathy with nonsense, and naturally not with a youth who

smelt of being a dreamy romancer and had caused the name of Englishman

to be shouted in his ear in derision. And the fellow might delay his

arrival at the Baths and sight of the lady of his love for hours!

They managed to get him hobbling and slipping to the first green tuft

of the base, where long black tongues of slate-rubble pouring into the

grass, like shore-waves that have spent their burden, seem about to draw

back to bring the mountain down. Thence to the level pasture was but a

few skips performed sliding.

‘Well, now,’ said Chillon, ‘you can stand?’

‘Pretty well, I think.’ He tried his foot on the ground, and then

stretched his length, saying that it only wanted rest. Anton pressed a

hand at his ankle and made him wince, but the bones were sound, leg and

hip not worse than badly bruised. He was advised by Anton to plant

his foot in the first running water he came to, and he was considerate

enough to say to Chillon:

‘Now you can leave me; and let me thank you. Half an hour will set me

right. My name is Woodseer, if ever we meet again.’

Chillon nodded a hurried good-bye, without a thought of giving his name

in return. But Carinthia had thrown herself on the grass. Her brother

asked her in dismay if she was tired. She murmured to him: ‘I should

like to hear more English.’

‘My dear girl, you’ll have enough of it in two or three weeks.’

‘Should we leave a good deed half done, Chillon?’

‘He shall have our guide.’

‘He may not be rich.’

‘I’ll pay Anton to stick to him.’

‘Brother, he has an objection to guides.’

Chillon cast hungry eyes on his watch: ‘Five minutes, then.’ He

addressed Mr. Woodseer, who was reposing, indifferent to time, hard-by:

‘Your objection to guides might have taught you a sharp lesson. It

‘s like declining to have a master in studying a science--trusting to

instinct for your knowledge of a bargain. One might as well refuse an

oar to row in a boat.’

‘I ‘d rather risk it,’ the young man replied. ‘These guides kick the

soul out of scenery. I came for that and not for them.’

‘You might easily have been a disagreeable part of the scene.’

‘Why not here as well as elsewhere?’

‘You don’t care for your life?’

‘I try not to care for it a fraction more than Destiny does.’

‘Fatalism. I suppose you care for something?’

‘Besides I’ve a slack purse, and shun guides and inns when I can. I care

for open air, colour, flowers, weeds, birds, insects, mountains. There’s

a world behind the mask. I call this life; and the town’s a boiling pot,

intolerably stuffy. My one ambition is to be out of it. I thank heaven I

have not another on earth. Yes, I care for my note-book, because it’s of

no use to a human being except me. I slept beside a spring last night,

and I never shall like a bedroom so well. I think I have discovered

the great secret: I may be wrong, of course.’ And if so, he had his

philosophy, the admission was meant to say.

Carinthia expected the revelation of a notable secret, but none came;

or if it did it eluded her grasp:--he was praising contemplation, he

was praising tobacco. He talked of the charm of poverty upon a settled

income of a very small sum of money, the fruit of a compact he would

execute with the town to agree to his perpetual exclusion from it, and

to retain his identity, and not be the composite which every townsman

was. He talked of Buddha. He said: ‘Here the brook’s the brook, the

mountain’s the mountain: they are as they always were.’

‘You’d have men be the same,’ Chillon remarked as to a nursling

prattler, and he rejoined: ‘They’ve lost more than they’ve gained;

though, he admitted, ‘there has been some gain, in a certain way.’

Fortunately for them, young men have not the habit of reflecting upon

the indigestion of ideas they receive from members of their community,

sometimes upon exchange. They compare a view of life with their own

view, to condemn it summarily; and he was a curious object to Chillon as

the perfect opposite of himself.

‘I would advise you,’ Chillon said, ‘to get a pair of Styrian boots, if

you intend to stay in the Alps. Those boots of yours are London make.’

‘They ‘re my father’s make,’ said Mr. Woodseer.

Chillon drew out his watch. ‘Come, Carinthia, we must be off.’ He

proposed his guide, and, as Anton was rejected, he pointed the route

over the head of the valley, stated the distance to an inn that way,

saluted and strode.

Mr. Woodseer, partly rising, presumed, in raising his hat and thanking

Carinthia, to touch her fingers. She smiled on him, frankly extending

her open hand, and pointing the route again, counselling him to rest at

the inn, even saying: ‘You have not yet your strength to come on with

us?’

He thought he would stay some time longer: he had a disposition to

smoke.

She tripped away to her brother and was watched through the whiffs of a

pipe far up the valley, guiltless of any consciousness of producing an

impression. But her mind was with the stranger sufficiently to cause her

to say to Chillon, at the close of a dispute between him and Anton on

the interesting subject of the growth of the horns of chamois: ‘Have we

been quite kind to that gentleman?’

Chillon looked over his shoulder. ‘He’s there still; he’s fond of

solitude. And, Carin, my dear, don’t give your hand when you are meeting

or parting with people it’s not done.’

His uninstructed sister said: ‘Did you not like him?’

She was answered with an ‘Oh,’ the tone of which balanced lightly on the

neutral line. ‘Some of the ideas he has are Lord Fleetwood’s, I hear,

and one can understand them in a man of enormous wealth, who doesn’t

know what to do with himself and is dead-sick of flattery; though it

seems odd for an English nobleman to be raving about Nature. Perhaps

it’s because none else of them does.’

‘Lord Fleetwood loves our mountains, Chillon?’

‘But a fellow who probably has to make his way in the world!--and he

despises ambition!’... Chillon dropped him. He was antipathetic to

eccentrics, and his soldierly and social training opposed the profession

of heterodox ideas: to have listened seriously to them coming from the

mouth of an unambitious bootmaker’s son involved him in the absurdity.

He considered that there was no harm in the lad, rather a commendable

sort of courage and some notion of manners; allowing for his ignorance

of the convenable in putting out his hand to take a young lady’s, with

the plea of thanking her. He hoped she would be more on her guard.

Carinthia was sure she had the name of the nobleman wishing to bestow

his title upon the beautiful Henrietta. Lord Fleetwood! That slender

thread given her of the character of her brother’s rival who loved the

mountains was woven in her mind with her passing experience of the

youth they had left behind them, until the two became one, a highly

transfigured one, and the mountain scenery made him very threatening

to her brother. A silky haired youth, brown-eyed, unconquerable

in adversity, immensely rich, fond of solitude, curled, decorated,

bejewelled by all the elves and gnomes of inmost solitude, must have

marvellous attractions, she feared. She thought of him so much, that her

humble spirit conceived the stricken soul of the woman as of necessity

the pursuer; as shamelessly, though timidly, as she herself pursued in

imagination the enchanted secret of the mountain-land. She hoped her

brother would not supplicate, for it struck her that the lover who

besieged the lady would forfeit her roaming and hunting fancy.

‘I wonder what that gentleman is doing now,’ she said to Chillon.

He grimaced slightly, for her sake; he would have liked to inform her,

for the sake of educating her in the customs of the world she was

going to enter, that the word ‘gentleman’ conveys in English a special

signification.

Her expression of wonder whether they were to meet him again gave

Chillon the opportunity of saying:

‘It ‘s the unlikeliest thing possible--at all events in England.’

‘But I think we shall,’ said she.

‘My dear, you meet people of your own class; you don’t meet others.’

‘But we may meet anybody, Chillon!’

‘In the street. I suppose you would not stop to speak to him in the

street.’

‘It would be strange to see him in the street!’ Carinthia said.

‘Strange or not!’

.... Chillon thought he had said sufficient. She was under his

protectorship, otherwise he would not have alluded to the observance

of class distinctions. He felt them personally in this case because of

their seeming to stretch grotesquely by the pretentious heterodoxy of

the young fellow, whom, nevertheless, thinking him over now that he was

mentioned, he approved for his manliness in bluntly telling his origin

and status.

A chalet supplied them with fresh milk, and the inn of a village on a

perch with the midday meal. Their appetites were princely and swept over

the little inn like a conflagration. Only after clearing it did they

remember the rearward pedestrian, whose probable wants Chillon was urged

by Carthinia to speak of to their host. They pushed on, clambering

up, scurrying down, tramping gaily, till by degrees the chambers

of Carinthia’s imagination closed their doors and would no longer

intercommunicate. Her head refused to interest her, and left all

activity to her legs and her eyes, and the latter became unobservant,

except of foot-tracks, animal-like. She felt that she was a fine

machine, and nothing else: and she was rapidly approaching those ladies!

‘You will tell them how I walked with you,’ she said.

‘Your friends over yonder?’ said he.

‘So that they may not think me so ignorant, brother.’ She stumbled on

the helpless word in a hasty effort to cloak her vanity.

He laughed. Her desire to meet the critical English ladies with

a towering reputation in one department of human enterprise was

comprehensible, considering the natural apprehensiveness of the

half-wild girl before such a meeting. As it often happens with the silly

phrases of simple people, the wrong word, foolish although it was,

went to the heart of the hearer and threw a more charitable light than

ridicule on her. So that they may know I can do something they cannot

do, was the interpretation. It showed her deep knowledge of her poorness

in laying bare the fact.

Anxious to cheer her, he said: ‘Come, come, you can dance. You dance

well, mother has told me, and she was a judge. You ride, you swim, you

have a voice for country songs, at all events. And you’re a bit of

a botanist too. You’re good at English and German; you had a French

governess for a couple of years. By the way, you understand the use of a

walking-stick in self-defence: you could handle a sword on occasion.’

‘Father trained me,’ said Carthinia. ‘I can fire a pistol, aiming.’

‘With a good aim, too. Father told me you could. How fond he was of his

girl! Well, bear in mind that father was proud of you, and hold up your

head wherever you are.’

‘I will,’ she said.

He assured her he had a mind to have a bugle blown at the entrance

of the Baths for a challenge to the bathers to match her in warlike

accomplishments.

She bit her lips: she could not bear much rallying on the subject just

then:

‘Which is the hard one to please?’ she asked.

‘The one you will find the kinder of the two.’

‘Henrietta?’

He nodded.

‘Has she a father?’

‘A gallant old admiral: Admiral Baldwin Fakenham.’

‘I am glad of that!’ Carinthia sighed out heartily. ‘And he is with her?

And likes you, Chillon?’

‘On the whole, I think he does.’

‘A brave officer!’ Such a father would be sure to like him.

So the domestic prospect was hopeful.

At sunset they stood on the hills overlooking the basin of the Baths,

all enfolded in swathes of pink and crimson up to the shining grey of a

high heaven that had the fresh brightness of the morning.

‘We are not tired in the slightest,’ said Carinthia, trifling with the

vision of a cushioned rest below. ‘I could go on through the night quite

comfortably.’

‘Wait till you wake up in your little bed to-morrow,’ Chillon replied

stoutly, to drive a chill from his lover’s heart, that had seized it at

the bare suggestion of their going on.