The Moon Endureth
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John Buchan >> The Moon Endureth
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15 The Moon Endureth
Tales and Fancies by John Buchan
Contents
From the Pentlands looking North and South
I The Company of the Marjolaine
Avignon 1759
II A Lucid Interval
The Shorter Catechism (revised version)
III The Lemnian
Atta's song
IV Space
Stocks and stones
V Streams of water in the South
The Gipsy's song to the lady Cassilis
VI The grove of Ashtaroth
Wood magic
VII The riding of Ninemileburn
Plain Folk
VIII The Kings of Orion
Babylon
IX The green glen
The wise years
X The rime of True Thomas
FROM THE PENTLANDS LOOKING NORTH AND SOUTH
Around my feet the clouds are drawn
In the cold mystery of the dawn;
No breezes cheer, no guests intrude
My mossy, mist-clad solitude;
When sudden down the steeps of sky
Flames a long, lightening wind. On high
The steel-blue arch shines clear, and far,
In the low lands where cattle are,
Towns smoke. And swift, a haze, a gleam,--
The Firth lies like a frozen stream,
Reddening with morn. Tall spires of ships,
Like thorns about the harbour's lips,
Now shake faint canvas, now, asleep,
Their salt, uneasy slumbers keep;
While golden-grey, o'er kirk and wall,
Day wakes in the ancient capital.
Before me lie the lists of strife,
The caravanserai of life,
Whence from the gates the merchants go
On the world's highways; to and fro
Sail laiden ships; and in the street
The lone foot-traveller shakes his feet,
And in some corner by the fire
Tells the old tale of heart's desire.
Thither from alien seas and skies
Comes the far-questioned merchandise:--
Wrought silks of Broussa, Mocha's ware
Brown-tinted, fragrant, and the rare
Thin perfumes that the rose's breath
Has sought, immortal in her death:
Gold, gems, and spice, and haply still
The red rough largess of the hill
Which takes the sun and bears the vines
Among the haunted Apennines.
And he who treads the cobbled street
To-day in the cold North may meet,
Come month, come year, the dusky East,
And share the Caliph's secret feast;
Or in the toil of wind and sun
Bear pilgrim-staff, forlorn, fordone,
Till o'er the steppe, athwart the sand
Gleam the far gates of Samarkand.
The ringing quay, the weathered face
Fair skies, dusk hands, the ocean race
The palm-girt isle, the frosty shore,
Gales and hot suns the wide world o'er
Grey North, red South, and burnished West
The goals of the old tireless quest,
Leap in the smoke, immortal, free,
Where shines yon morning fringe of sea
I turn, and lo! the moorlands high
Lie still and frigid to the sky.
The film of morn is silver-grey
On the young heather, and away,
Dim, distant, set in ribs of hill,
Green glens are shining, stream and mill,
Clachan and kirk and garden-ground,
All silent in the hush profound
Which haunts alone the hills' recess,
The antique home of quietness.
Nor to the folk can piper play
The tune of "Hills and Far Away,"
For they are with them. Morn can fire
No peaks of weary heart's desire,
Nor the red sunset flame behind
Some ancient ridge of longing mind.
For Arcady is here, around,
In lilt of stream, in the clear sound
Of lark and moorbird, in the bold
Gay glamour of the evening gold,
And so the wheel of seasons moves
To kirk and market, to mild loves
And modest hates, and still the sight
Of brown kind faces, and when night
Draws dark around with age and fear
Theirs is the simple hope to cheer.--
A land of peace where lost romance
And ghostly shine of helm and lance
Still dwell by castled scarp and lea,
And the last homes of chivalry,
And the good fairy folk, my dear,
Who speak for cunning souls to hear,
In crook of glen and bower of hill
Sing of the Happy Ages still.
O Thou to whom man's heart is known,
Grant me my morning orison.
Grant me the rover's path--to see
The dawn arise, the daylight flee,
In the far wastes of sand and sun!
Grant me with venturous heart to run
On the old highway, where in pain
And ecstasy man strives amain,
Conquers his fellows, or, too weak,
Finds the great rest that wanderers seek!
Grant me the joy of wind and brine,
The zest of food, the taste of wine,
The fighter's strength, the echoing strife
The high tumultuous lists of life--
May I ne'er lag, nor hapless fall,
Nor weary at the battle-call!...
But when the even brings surcease,
Grant me the happy moorland peace;
That in my heart's depth ever lie
That ancient land of heath and sky,
Where the old rhymes and stories fall
In kindly, soothing pastoral.
There in the hills grave silence lies,
And Death himself wears friendly guise
There be my lot, my twilight stage,
Dear city of my pilgrimage.
THE COMPANY OF THE MARJOLAINE
I
"Qu'est-c'qui passe ici si tard,
Compagnons de la Marjolaine,"
-CHANSONS DE FRANCE
...I came down from the mountain and into the pleasing valley of
the Adige in as pelting a heat as ever mortal suffered under.
The way underfoot was parched and white; I had newly come out of
a wilderness of white limestone crags, and a sun of Italy blazed
blindingly in an azure Italian sky. You are to suppose, my dear
aunt, that I had had enough and something more of my craze for
foot-marching. A fortnight ago I had gone to Belluno in a
post-chaise, dismissed my fellow to carry my baggage by way of
Verona, and with no more than a valise on my back plunged into
the fastnesses of those mountains. I had a fancy to see the
little sculptured hills which made backgrounds for Gianbellini,
and there were rumours of great mountains built wholly of marble
which shone like the battlements.
...1 This extract from the unpublished papers of the Manorwater
family has seemed to the Editor worth printing for its historical
interest. The famous Lady Molly Carteron became Countess of
Manorwater by her second marriage. She was a wit and a friend of
wits, and her nephew, the Honourable Charles Hervey-Townshend
(afterwards our Ambassador at The Hague), addressed to her a
series of amusing letters while making, after the fashion of his
contemporaries, the Grand Tour of Europe. Three letters, written
at various places in the Eastern Alps and despatched from Venice,
contain the following short narrative....
of the Celestial City. So at any rate reported young Mr.
Wyndham, who had travelled with me from Milan to Venice. I lay
the first night at Pieve, where Titian had the fortune to be
born, and the landlord at the inn displayed a set of villainous
daubs which he swore were the early works of that master. Thence
up a toilsome valley I journeyed to the Ampezzan country, valley
where indeed I saw my white mountains, but, alas! no longer
Celestial. For it rained like Westmorland for five endless days,
while I kicked my heels in an inn and turned a canto of Aristo
into halting English couplets. By-and-by it cleared, and I
headed westward towards Bozen, among the tangle of rocks where
the Dwarf King had once his rose-garden. The first night I had
no inn but slept in the vile cabin of a forester, who spoke a
tongue half Latin, half Dutch, which I failed to master. The
next day was a blaze of heat, the mountain-paths lay thick with
dust, and I had no wine from sunrise to sunset. Can you wonder
that, when the following noon I saw Santa Chiara sleeping in its
green circlet of meadows, my thought was only of a deep draught
and a cool chamber? I protest that I am a great lover of natural
beauty, of rock and cascade, and all the properties of the poet:
but the enthusiasm of Rousseau himself would sink from the stars
to earth if he had marched since breakfast in a cloud of dust
with a throat like the nether millstone.
Yet I had not entered the place before Romance revived. The
little town--a mere wayside halting-place on the great
mountain-road to the North--had the air of mystery which
foretells adventure. Why is it that a dwelling or a countenance
catches the fancy with the promise of some strange destiny? I
have houses in my mind which I know will some day and somehow be
intertwined oddly with my life; and I have faces in memory of
which I know nothing--save that I shall undoubtedly cast eyes
again upon them. My first glimpses of Santa Chiara gave me this
earnest of romance. It was walled and fortified, the streets
were narrow pits of shade, old tenements with bent fronts swayed
to meet each other. Melons lay drying on flat roofs, and yet now
and then would come a high-pitched northern gable. Latin and
Teuton met and mingled in the place, and, as Mr. Gibbon has
taught us, the offspring of this admixture is something fantastic
and unpredictable. I forgot my grievous thirst and my tired feet
in admiration and a certain vague expectation of wonders. Here,
ran my thought, it is fated, maybe, that romance and I shall at
last compass a meeting. Perchance some princess is in need of my
arm, or some affair of high policy is afoot in this jumble of old
masonry. You will laugh at my folly, but I had an excuse for
it. A fortnight in strange mountains disposes a man to look for
something at his next encounter with his kind, and the sight of
Santa Chiara would have fired the imagination of a judge in
Chancery.
I strode happily into the courtyard of the Tre Croci, and
presently had my expectation confirmed for I found my fellow,--a
faithful rogue I got in Rome on a Cardinal's recommendation,--hot
in dispute with a lady's maid. The woman was old,
harsh-featured--no Italian clearly, though she spoke fluently in
the tongue. She rated my man like a pickpocket, and the dispute
was over a room.
"The signor will bear me out," said Gianbattista. "Was not I
sent to Verona with his baggage, and thence to this place of ill
manners? Was I not bidden engage for him a suite of apartments?
Did I not duly choose these fronting on the gallery, and
dispose therein the signor's baggage? And lo! an hour ago I
found it all turned into the yard and this woman installed in its
place. It is monstrous, unbearable! Is this an inn for
travellers, or haply the private mansion of these Magnificences?"
"My servant speaks truly," I said firmly yet with courtesy,
having no mind to spoil adventure by urging rights. "He had
orders to take these rooms for me, and I know not what higher
power can countermand me."
The woman had been staring at me scornfully, for no doubt in my
dusty habit I was a figure of small count; but at the sound of
my voice she started, and cried out, "You are English, signor?"
I bowed an admission. "Then my mistress shall speak with you,"
she said, and dived into the inn like an elderly rabbit.
Gianbattista was for sending for the landlord and making a riot
in that hostelry; but I stayed him, and bidding him fetch me a
flask of white wine, three lemons, and a glass of eau de vie, I
sat down peaceably at one of the little tables in the courtyard
and prepared for the quenching of my thirst. Presently, as I sat
drinking that excellent compound of my own invention, my shoulder
was touched, and I turned to find the maid and her mistress.
Alas for my hopes of a glorious being, young and lissom and
bright with the warm riches of the south! I saw a short, stout
little lady, well on the wrong side of thirty. She had plump red
cheeks, and fair hair dressed indifferently in the Roman fashion.
Two candid blue eyes redeemed her plainness, and a certain grave
and gentle dignity. She was notably a gentlewoman, so I got up,
doffed my hat, and awaited her commands.
She spoke in Italian. "Your pardon,signor, but I fear my good
Cristine has done you unwittingly a wrong."
Cristine snorted at this premature plea of guilty, while I
hastened to assure the fair apologist that any rooms I might have
taken were freely at her service.
I spoke unconsciously in English, and she replied in a halting
parody of that tongue. "I understand him," she said, "but I do
not speak him happily. I will discourse, if the signor pleases,
in our first speech."
She and her father, it appeared, had come over the Brenner, and
arrived that morning at the Tre Croci, where they purposed to lie
for some days. He was an old man, very feeble, and much
depending upon her constant care. Wherefore it was necessary
that the rooms of all the party should adjoin, and there was no
suite of the size in the inn save that which I had taken. Would
I therefore consent to forgo my right, and place her under an
eternal debt?
I agreed most readily, being at all times careless where I sleep,
so the bed be clean, or where I eat, so the meal be good. I bade
my servant see the landlord and have my belongings carried to
other rooms. Madame thanked me sweetly, and would have gone,
when a thought detained her.
"It is but courteous," she said, "that you should know the names
of those whom you have befriended. My father is called the Count
d'Albani, and I am his only daughter. We travel to Florence,
where we have a villa in the environs."
"My name," said I, "is Hervey-Townshend, an Englishman
travelling abroad for his entertainment."
"Hervey?" she repeated. "Are you one of the family of Miladi
Hervey?"
"My worthy aunt," I replied, with a tender recollection of that
preposterous woman.
Madame turned to Cristine, and spoke rapidly in a whisper.
"My father, sir," she said, addressing me, "is an old frail man,
little used to the company of strangers; but in former days he
has had kindness from members of your house, and it would be a
satisfaction to him, I think, to have the privilege of your
acquaintance."
She spoke with the air of a vizier who promises a traveller a
sight of the Grand Turk. I murmured my gratitude, and hastened
after Gianbattista. In an hour I had bathed, rid myself of my
beard, and arrayed myself in decent clothing. Then I strolled
out to inspect the little city, admired an altar-piece, chaffered
with a Jew for a cameo, purchased some small necessaries, and
returned early in the afternoon with a noble appetite for dinner.
The Tre Croci had been in happier days a Bishop's lodging, and
possessed a dining-hall ceiled with black oak and adorned with
frescos. It was used as a general salle a manger for all
dwellers in the inn, and there accordingly I sat down to my
long-deferred meal. At first there were no other diners, and I
had two maids, as well as Gianbattista, to attend on my wants.
Presently Madame d'Albani entered, escorted by Cristine and by a
tall gaunt serving-man, who seemed no part of the hostelry. The
landlord followed, bowing civilly, and the two women seated
themselves at the little table at the farther end. "Il Signor
Conte dines in his room," said Madame to the host, who withdrew
to see to that gentleman's needs.
I found my eyes straying often to the little party in the cool
twilight of that refectory. The man-servant was so old and
battered, and of such a dignity, that he lent a touch of intrigue
to the thing. He stood stiffly behind Madame's chair, handing
dishes with an air of great reverence--the lackey of a great
noble, if I had ever seen the type. Madame never glanced toward
me, but conversed sparingly with Cristine, while she pecked
delicately at her food. Her name ran in my head with a
tantalizing flavour of the familiar. Albani! D'Albani! It was
a name not uncommon in the Roman States, but I had never heard it
linked to a noble family. And yet I had somehow, somewhere; and
in the vain effort at recollection I had almost forgotten my
hunger. There was nothing bourgeois in the little lady. The
austere servants, the high manner of condescension, spake of a
stock used to deference, though, maybe, pitifully decayed in its
fortunes. There was a mystery in these quiet folk which tickled
my curiosity. Romance after all was not destined to fail me at
Santa Chiara.
My doings of the afternoon were of interest to me alone. Suffice
it to say that when at nightfall I found Gianbattista the trustee
of a letter. It was from Madame, written in a fine thin hand on
a delicate paper, and it invited me to wait upon the signor her
father, that evening at eight o'clock. What caught my eye was a
coronet stamped in a corner. A coronet, I say, but in truth it
was a crown, the same as surmounts the Arms Royal of England on
the sign-board of a Court tradesman. I marvelled at the ways of
foreign heraldry. Either this family of d'Albani had higher
pretensions than I had given it credit for, or it employed an
unlearned and imaginative stationer. I scribbled a line of
acceptance and went to dress.
The hour of eight found me knocking at the Count's door. The
grim serving-man admitted me to the pleasant chamber which should
have been mine own. A dozen wax candles burned in sconces, and
on the table among fruits and the remains of supper stood a
handsome candelabra of silver. A small fire of logs had been lit
on the hearth, and before it in an armchair sat a strange figure
of a man. He seemed not so much old as aged. I should have put
him at sixty, but the marks he bore were clearly less those of
time than of life. There sprawled before me the relics of noble
looks. The fleshy nose, the pendulous cheek, the drooping mouth,
had once been cast in looks of manly beauty. Heavy eyebrows
above and heavy bags beneath spoiled the effect of a choleric
blue eye, which age had not dimmed. The man was gross and yet
haggard; it was not the padding of good living which clothed his
bones, but a heaviness as of some dropsical malady. I could
picture him in health a gaunt loose-limbed being, high-featured
and swift and eager. He was dressed wholly in black velvet, with
fresh ruffles and wristbands, and he wore heeled shoes with
antique silver buckles. It was a figure of an older age which
rose to greet me, in one hand a snuff-box and a purple
handkerchief, and in the other a book with finger marking place.
He made me a great bow as Madame uttered my name, and held out a
hand with a kindly smile.
"Mr. Hervey-Townshend," he said, "we will speak English, if you
please. I am fain to hear it again, for 'tis a tongue I love. I
make you welcome, sir, for your own sake and for the sake of your
kin. How is her honourable ladyship, your aunt? A week ago she
sent me a letter."
I answered that she did famously, and wondered what cause of
correspondence my worthy aunt could have with wandering nobles of
Italy.
He motioned me to a chair between Madame and himself, while a
servant set a candle on a shelf behind him. Then he proceeded to
catechise me in excellent English, with now and then a phrase of
French, as to the doings in my own land. Admirably informed this
Italian gentleman proved himself. I defy you to find in Almack's
more intelligent gossip. He inquired as to the chances of my
Lord North and the mind of my Lord Rockingham. He had my Lord
Shelburne's foibles at his fingers' ends. The habits of the
Prince, the aims of the their ladyships of Dorset and Buckingham,
the extravagance of this noble Duke and that right honourable
gentleman were not hid from him. I answered discreetly yet
frankly, for there was no ill-breeding in his curiosity. Rather
it seemed like the inquiries of some fine lady, now buried deep
in the country, as to the doings of a forsaken Mayfair. There
was humour in it and something of pathos.
"My aunt must be a voluminous correspondent, sir," I said.
He laughed, "I have many friends in England who write to me, but
I have seen none of them for long, and I doubt I may never see
them again. Also in my youth I have been in England." And he
sighed as at sorrowful recollection.
Then he showed the book in his hand. "See," he said, "here is
one of your English writings, the greatest book I have ever
happened on." It was a volume of Mr. Fielding. For a little he
talked of books and poets. He admired Mr. Fielding profoundly,
Dr. Smollet somewhat less, Mr. Richardson not at all. But he was
clear that England had a monopoly of good writers, saving only my
friend M. Rousseau, whom he valued, yet with reservations. Of
the Italians he had no opinion. I instanced against him the
plays of Signor Alfieri. He groaned, shook his head, and grew
moody.
"Know you Scotland?" he asked suddenly.
I replied that I had visited Scotch cousins, but had no great
estimation for the country. "It is too poor and jagged," I said,
"for the taste of one who loves colour and sunshine and suave
outlines." He sighed. "It is indeed a bleak land, but a kindly.
When the sun shines at all he shines on the truest hearts in the
world. I love its bleakness too. There is a spirit in the misty
hills and the harsh sea-wind which inspires men to great deeds.
Poverty and courage go often together, and my Scots, if they are
poor, are as untamable as their mountains."
"You know the land, sir?" I asked.
"I have seen it, and I have known many Scots. You will find them
in Paris and Avignon and Rome, with never a plack in their
pockets. I have a feeling for exiles, sir, and I have pitied
these poor people. They gave their all for the cause they
followed."
Clearly the Count shared my aunt's views of history--those views
which have made such sport for us often at Carteron. Stalwart
Whig as I am, there was something in the tone of the old
gentleman which made me feel a certain majesty in the lost cause.
"I am Whig in blood and Whig in principle," I said,--"but I have
never denied that those Scots who followed the Chevalier were too
good to waste on so trumpery a leader."
I had no sooner spoken the words than I felt that somehow I had
been guilty of a betise.
"It may be so," said the Count. "I did not bid you here, sir, to
argue on politics, on which I am assured we should differ. But I
will ask you one question. The King of England is a stout
upholder of the right of kings. How does he face the defection
of his American possessions?"
"The nation takes it well enough, and as for his Majesty's
feelings, there is small inclination to inquire into them. I
conceive of the whole war as a blunder out of which we have come
as we deserved. The day is gone by for the assertion of
monarchic rights against the will of a people."
"May be. But take note that the King of England is suffering
to-day as--how do you call him?--the Chevalier suffered forty
years ago. 'The wheel has come full circle,' as your Shakespeare
says. Time has wrought his revenge."
He was staring into a fire, which burned small and smokily.
"You think the day for kings is ended. I read it differently.
The world will ever have need of kings. If a nation cast out one
it will have to find another. And mark you, those later kings,
created by the people, will bear a harsher hand than the old race
who ruled as of right. Some day the world will regret having
destroyed the kindly and legitimate line of monarchs and put in
their place tyrants who govern by the sword or by flattering an
idle mob.
This belated dogma would at other times have set me laughing, but
the strange figure before me gave no impulse to merriment. I
glanced at Madame, and saw her face grave and perplexed, and I
thought I read a warning gleam in her eye. There was a mystery
about the party which irritated me, but good breeding forbade me
to seek a clue.
"You will permit me to retire, sir," I said. "I have but this
morning come down from a long march among the mountains east of
this valley. Sleeping in wayside huts and tramping those sultry
paths make a man think pleasantly of bed."
The Count seemed to brighten at my words. "You are a marcher,
sir, and love the mountains! Once I would gladly have joined
you, for in my youth I was a great walker in hilly places. Tell
me, now, how many miles will you cover in a day?"
I told him thirty at a stretch.
"Ah," he said, "I have done fifty, without food, over the
roughest and mossiest mountains. I lived on what I shot, and for
drink I had spring-water. Nay, I am forgetting. There was
another beverage, which I wager you have never tasted. Heard you
ever, sir, of that eau de vie which the Scots call usquebagh?
It will comfort a traveller as no thin Italian wine will comfort
him. By my soul, you shall taste it. Charlotte, my dear, bid
Oliphant fetch glasses and hot water and lemons. I will give Mr.
Hervey-Townshend a sample of the brew. You English are all
tetes-de-fer, sir, and are worthy of it."
The old man's face had lighted up, and for the moment his air had
the jollity of youth. I would have accepted the entertainment
had I not again caught Madame's eye. It said, unmistakably and
with serious pleading, "Decline." I therefore made my excuses,
urged fatigue, drowsiness, and a delicate stomach, bade my host
good-night, and in deep mystification left the room.
Enlightenment came upon me as the door closed. There in the
threshold stood the manservant whom they called Oliphant, erect
as a sentry on guard. The sight reminded me of what I had once
seen at Basle when by chance a Rhenish Grand Duke had shared the
inn with me. Of a sudden a dozen clues linked together--the
crowned notepaper, Scotland, my aunt Hervey's politics, the tale
of old wanderings.
"Tell me," I said in a whisper, "who is the Count d'Albani, your
master?" and I whistled softly a bar of "Charlie is my
darling."
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