Эдвард Бульвер-Литтон - The Caxtons - A Family Picture — Complete

“Oh,” said I, “you agree with Squills, I suppose, and fancy we are all guided by the bumps on our foreheads?”

“And the blood in our veins, and our mothers’ milk. We inherit other things besides gout and consumption. So you always do as your father tells you! Good boy!”

I was piqued. Why we should be ashamed of being taunted for goodness, I never could understand; but certainly I felt humbled. However, I answered sturdily: “If you had as good a father as I have, you would not think it so very extraordinary to do as he tells you.”

“Ah! so he is a very good father, is he? He must have a great trust in your sobriety and steadiness to let you wander about the world as he does.”

“I am going to join him in London.”

“In London! Oh, does he live there?”

“He is going to live there for some time.”

“Then perhaps we may meet. I too am going to town.”

“Oh, we shall be sure to meet there!” said I, with frank gladness; for my interest in the young man was not diminished by his conversation, however much I disliked the sentiments it expressed.

The lad laughed, and his laugh was peculiar,—it was low, musical, but hollow and artificial.

“Sure to meet! London is a large place: where shall you be found?”

I gave him, without scruple, the address of the hotel at which I expected to find my father, although his deliberate inspection of my knapsack must already have apprised him of that address. He listened attentively, and repeated it twice over, as if to impress it on his memory; and we both walked on in silence, till, turning up a small passage, we suddenly found ourselves in a large churchyard,—a flagged path stretched diagonally across it towards the market-place, on which it bordered. In this churchyard, upon a gravestone, sat a young Savoyard; his hurdy-gurdy, or whatever else his instrument might be called, was on his lap; and he was gnawing his crust and feeding some poor little white mice (standing on their hind legs on the hurdy-gurdy) as merrily as if he had chosen the gayest resting-place in the world.

We both stopped. The Savoyard, seeing us, put his arch head on one side, showed all his white teeth in that happy smile so peculiar to his race, and in which poverty seems to beg so blithely, and gave the handle of his instrument a turn. “Poor child!” said I.

“Aha, you pity him! but why? According to your rule, Mr. Caxton, he is not so much to be pitied; the dropsical jeweller would give him as much for his limbs and health as for ours! How is it—answer me, son of so wise a father—that no one pities the dropsical jeweller, and all pity the healthy Savoyard? It is, sir, because there is a stern truth which is stronger than all Spartan lessons,—Poverty is the master-ill of the world. Look round. Does poverty leave its signs over the graves? Look at that large tomb fenced round; read that long inscription: ‘Virtue’—‘best of husbands’—‘affectionate father’—‘inconsolable grief’—‘sleeps in the joyful hope,’ etc. Do you suppose these stoneless mounds hide no dust of what were men just as good? But no epitaph tells their virtues, bespeaks their wifes’ grief, or promises joyful hope to them!”

“Does it matter? Does God care for the epitaph and tombstone?”

“Datemi qualche cosa!” said the Savoyard, in his touching patois, still smiling, and holding out his little hand; therein I dropped a small coin. The boy evinced his gratitude by a new turn of the hurdy-gurdy.

“That is not labor,” said my companion; “and had you found him at work, you had given him nothing. I, too, have my instrument to play upon, and my mice to see after. Adieu!”

He waved his hand, and strode irreverently over the graves back in the direction we had come.

I stood before the fine tomb with its fine epitaph: the Savoyard looked at me wistfully.

The Savoyard looked at me wistfully. I wished to enter into conversation with him. That was not easy. However, I began.

Pisistratus.—“You must be often hungry enough, my poor boy. Do the mice feed you?”

Savoyard puts his head on one side, shakes it, and strokes his mice.

Pisistratus.—“You are very fond of the mice; they are your only friends, I fear.”

Savoyard evidently understanding Pisistratus, rubs his face gently against the mice, then puts them softly down on a grave, and gives a turn to the hurdy-gurdy. The mice play unconcernedly over the grave.

Pisistratus, pointing first to the beasts, then to the instrument.—“Which do you like best, the mice or the hurdygurdy?”

Savoyard shows his teeth—considers—stretches himself on the grass—plays with the mice—and answers volubly. Pisistratus, by the help of Latin comprehending that the Savoyard says that the mice are alive, and the hurdy-gurdy is not.—“Yes, a live friend is better than a dead one. Mortua est hurdy-gurda!”

Savoyard shakes his head vehemently.—“No—no, Eccellenza, non e morta!” and strikes up a lively air on the slandered instrument. The Savoyard’s face brightens—he looks happy; the mice run from the grave into his bosom. Pisistratus, affected, and putting the question in Latin.—“Have you a father?”

Savoyard with his face overcast.—“No, Eccellenza!” then pausing a little, he says briskly, “Si, si!” and plays a solemn air on the hurdy-gurdy—stops—rests one hand on the instrument, and raises the other to heaven.

Pisistratus understands: the father is like the hurdygurdy, at once dead and living. The mere form is a dead thing, but the music lives. Pisistratus drops another small piece of silver on the ground, and turns away.

God help and God bless thee, Savoyard! Thou hast done Pisistratus all the good in the world. Thou hast corrected the hard wisdom of the young gentleman in the velveteen jacket; Pisistratus is a better lad for having stopped to listen to thee.

I regained the entrance to the churchyard, I looked back; there sat the Savoyard still amidst men’s graves, but under God’s sky. He was still looking at me wistfully; and when he caught my eye, he pressed his hand to his heart and smiled. God help and God bless thee, young Savoyard!

In setting off the next morning, the Boots, whose heart I had won by an extra sixpence for calling me betimes, good-naturedly informed me that I might save a mile of the journey, and have a very pleasant walk into the bargain, if I took the footpath through a gentleman’s park, the lodge of which I should see about seven miles from the town.

“And the grounds are showed too,” said the Boots, “if so be you has a mind to stay and see ‘em. But don’t you go to the gardener,—he’ll want half a crown; there’s an old ‘oman at the lodge who will show you all that’s worth seeing—the walks and the big cascade—for a tizzy. You may make use of my name,” he added proudly,—“Bob, boots at the ‘Lion.’ She be a h aunt o’ mine, and she minds them that come from me perticklerly.”

Not doubting that the purest philanthropy actuated these counsels, I thanked my shock-headed friend, and asked carelessly to whom the park belonged.

“To Muster Trevanion, the great parliament man,” answered the Boots. “You has heard o’ him, I guess, sir?”

I shook my head, surprised every hour more and more to find how very little there was in it.

“They takes in the ‘Moderate Man’s Journal’ at the ‘Lamb:’ and they say in the tap there that he’s one of the cleverest chaps in the House o’ Commons,” continued the Boots, in a confidential whisper. “But we takes in the ‘People’s Thunderbolt’ at the ‘Lion,’ and we knows better this Muster Trevanion: he is but a trimmer,—milk and water,—no horator,—not the right sort; you understand?” Perfectly satisfied that I understood nothing about it, I smiled, and said, “Oh, yes!” and slipping on my knapsack, commenced my adventures, the Boots bawling after me, “Mind, sir, you tells haunt I sent you!”