We sat down by the side of the road to continue the argument begun half a mile or so before.I am certain it was an argument,because I remember perfectly how my tutor argued and how without the power of reply I listened,with my eyes fixed obstinately on the ground.A stir on the road made me look up--and then I saw my unforgettable Englishman.There are acquaintances of later years,familiars,shipmates,whom I remember less clearly.He marched rapidly toward the east (attended by a hang-dog Swiss guide),with the mien of an ardent and fearless traveller.He was clad in a knickerbocker suit,but as at the same time he wore short socks under his laced boots,for reasons which,whether hygienic or conscientious,were surely imaginative,his calves,exposed to the public gaze and to the tonic air of high altitudes,dazzled the beholder by the splendour of their marble-like condition and their rich tone of young ivory.He was the leader of a small caravan.The light of a headlong,exalted satisfaction with the world of men and the scenery of mountains illumined his clean-cut,very red face,his short,silver-white whiskers,his innocently eager and triumphant eyes.In passing he cast a glance of kindly curiosity and a friendly gleam of big,sound,shiny teeth toward the man and the boy sitting like dusty tramps by the roadside,with a modest knapsack lying at their feet.His white calves twinkled sturdily,the uncouth Swiss guide with a surly mouth stalked like an unwilling bear at his elbow;a small train of three mules followed in single file the lead of this inspiring enthusiast.Two ladies rode past,one behind the other,but from the way they sat I saw only their calm,uniform backs,and the long ends of blue veils hanging behind far down over their identical hat-brims.His two daughters,surely.An industrious luggage-mule,with unstarched ears and guarded by a slouching,sallow driver,brought up the rear.My tutor,after pausing for a look and a faint smile,resumed his earnest argument.
I tell you it was a memorable year!One does not meet such an Englishman twice in a lifetime.Was he in the mystic ordering of common events the ambassador of my future,sent out to turn the scale at a critical moment on the top of an Alpine pass,with the peaks of the Bernese Oberland for mute and solemn witnesses?His glance,his smile,the unextinguishable and comic ardour of his striving-forward appearance,helped me to pull myself together.
It must be stated that on that day and in the exhilarating atmosphere of that elevated spot I had been feeling utterly crushed.It was the year in which I had first spoken aloud of my desire to go to sea.At first like those sounds that,ranging outside the scale to which men's ears are attuned,remain inaudible to our sense of hearing,this declaration passed unperceived.It was as if it had not been.Later on,by trying various tones,I managed to arouse here and there a surprised momentary attention--the "What was that funny noise?"--sort of inquiry.Later on it was:"Did you hear what that boy said?
What an extraordinary outbreak!"Presently a wave of scandalized astonishment (it could not have been greater if I had announced the intention of entering a Carthusian monastery)ebbing out of the educational and academical town of Cracow spread itself over several provinces.It spread itself shallow but far-reaching.
It stirred up a mass of remonstrance,indignation,pitying wonder,bitter irony,and downright chaff.I could hardly breathe under its weight,and certainly had no words for an answer.People wondered what Mr.T.B.would do now with his worrying nephew and,I dare say,hoped kindly that he would make short work of my nonsense.
