the mirror of the sea-第37章

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whether；　limited　by　such　discouraging　impossibilities；　life　were



still　worth　living；　it　was　only　because　I　had　then　before　me



several　other　pressing　questions；　some　of　which　have　remained



unanswered　to　this　day。　　The　resonant；　laughing　voices　of　these



gorgeous　maidens　scared　away　the　multitude　of　humming…birds；　whose



delicate　wings　wreathed　with　the　mist　of　their　vibration　the　tops



of　flowering　bushes。







No；　they　were　not　princesses。　　Their　unrestrained　laughter　filling



the　hot；　fern…clad　ravine　had　a　soulless　limpidity；　as　of　wild；



inhuman　dwellers　in　tropical　woodlands。　　Following　the　example　of



certain　prudent　travellers；　I　withdrew　unseen　…　and　returned；　not



much　wiser；　to　the　Mediterranean；　the　sea　of　classic　adventures。















XL。















It　was　written　that　there；　in　the　nursery　of　our　navigating



ancestors；　I　should　learn　to　walk　in　the　ways　of　my　craft　and　grow



in　the　love　of　the　sea；　blind　as　young　love　often　is；　but　absorbing



and　disinterested　as　all　true　love　must　be。　　I　demanded　nothing



from　it　…　not　even　adventure。　　In　this　I　showed；　perhaps；　more



intuitive　wisdom　than　high　self…denial。　　No　adventure　ever　came　to



one　for　the　asking。　　He　who　starts　on　a　deliberate　quest　of



adventure　goes　forth　but　to　gather　dead…sea　fruit；　unless；　indeed；



he　be　beloved　of　the　gods　and　great　amongst　heroes；　like　that　most



excellent　cavalier　Don　Quixote　de　la　Mancha。　　By　us　ordinary



mortals　of　a　mediocre　animus　that　is　only　too　anxious　to　pass　by



wicked　giants　for　so　many　honest　windmills；　adventures　are



entertained　like　visiting　angels。　　They　come　upon　our　complacency



unawares。　　As　unbidden　guests　are　apt　to　do；　they　often　come　at



inconvenient　times。　　And　we　are　glad　to　let　them　go　unrecognised；



without　any　acknowledgment　of　so　high　a　favour。　　After　many　years；



on　looking　back　from　the　middle　turn　of　life's　way　at　the　events　of



the　past；　which；　like　a　friendly　crowd；　seem　to　gaze　sadly　after　us



hastening　towards　the　Cimmerian　shore；　we　may　see　here　and　there；



in　the　gray　throng；　some　figure　glowing　with　a　faint　radiance；　as



though　it　had　caught　all　the　light　of　our　already　crepuscular　sky。



And　by　this　glow　we　may　recognise　the　faces　of　our　true　adventures；



of　the　once　unbidden　guests　entertained　unawares　in　our　young　days。







If　the　Mediterranean；　the　venerable　（and　sometimes　atrociously　ill…



tempered）　nurse　of　all　navigators；　was　to　rock　my　youth；　the



providing　of　the　cradle　necessary　for　that　operation　was　entrusted



by　Fate　to　the　most　casual　assemblage　of　irresponsible　young　men



（all；　however；　older　than　myself）　that；　as　if　drunk　with　Provencal



sunshine；　frittered　life　away　in　joyous　levity　on　the　model　of



Balzac's　〃Histoire　des　Treize〃　qualified　by　a　dash　of　romance　DE



CAPE　ET　D'EPEE。







She　who　was　my　cradle　in　those　years　had　been　built　on　the　River　of



Savona　by　a　famous　builder　of　boats；　was　rigged　in　Corsica　by



another　good　man；　and　was　described　on　her　papers　as　a　'tartane'　of



sixty　tons。　　In　reality；　she　was　a　true　balancelle；　with　two　short



masts　raking　forward　and　two　curved　yards；　each　as　long　as　her



hull；　a　true　child　of　the　Latin　lake；　with　a　spread　of　two　enormous



sails　resembling　the　pointed　wings　on　a　sea…bird's　slender　body；



and　herself；　like　a　bird　indeed；　skimming　rather　than　sailing　the



seas。







Her　name　was　the　Tremolino。　　How　is　this　to　be　translated？　　The



Quiverer？　　What　a　name　to　give　the　pluckiest　little　craft　that　ever



dipped　her　sides　in　angry　foam！　　I　had　felt　her；　it　is　true；



trembling　for　nights　and　days　together　under　my　feet；　but　it　was



with　the　high…strung　tenseness　of　her　faithful　courage。　　In　her



short；　but　brilliant；　career　she　has　taught　me　nothing；　but　she　has



given　me　everything。　　I　owe　to　her　the　awakened　love　for　the　sea



that；　with　the　quivering　of　her　swift　little　body　and　the　humming



of　the　wind　under　the　foot　of　her　lateen　sails；　stole　into　my　heart



with　a　sort　of　gentle　violence；　and　brought　my　imagination　under



its　despotic　sway。　　The　Tremolino！　　To　this　day　I　cannot　utter　or



even　write　that　name　without　a　strange　tightening　of　the　breast　and



the　gasp　of　mingled　delight　and　dread　of　one's　first　passionate



experience。















XLI。















We　four　formed　（to　use　a　term　well　understood　nowadays　in　every



social　sphere）　a　〃syndicate〃　owning　the　Tremolino：　　an



international　and　astonishing　syndicate。　　And　we　were　all　ardent



Royalists　of　the　snow…white　Legitimist　complexion　…　Heaven　only



knows　why！　　In　all　associations　of　men　there　is　generally　one　who；



by　the　authority　of　age　and　of　a　more　experienced　wisdom；　imparts　a



collective　character　to　the　whole　set。　　If　I　mention　that　the



oldest　of　us　was　very　old；　extremely　old　…　nearly　thirty　years　old



…　and　that　he　used　to　declare　with　gallant　carelessness；　〃I　live　by



my　sword；〃　I　think　I　have　given　enough　information　on　the　score　of



our　collective　wisdom。　　He　was　a　North　Carolinian　gentleman；　J。　M。



K。　B。　were　the　initials　of　his　name；　and　he　really　did　live　by　the



sword；　as　far　as　I　know。　　He　died　by　it；　too；　later　on；　in　a



Balkanian　squabble；　in　the　cause　of　some　Serbs　or　else　Bulgarians；



who　were　neither　Catholics　nor　gentlemen　…　at　least；　not　in　the



exalted　but　narrow　sense　he　attached　to　that　last　word。







Poor　J。　M。　K。　B。；　AMERICAIN；　CATHOLIQUE；　ET　GENTILHOMME；　as　he　was



disposed　to　describe　himself　in　moments　of　lofty　expansion！　　Are



there　still　to　be　found　in　Europe　gentlemen　keen　of　face　and



elegantly　slight　of　body；　of　distinguished　aspect；　with　a



fascinating　drawing…room　manner　and　with　a　dark；　fatal　glance；　who



live　by　their　swords；　I　wonder？　　His　family　had　been　ruined　in　the



Civil　War；　I　fancy；　and　seems　for　a　decade　or　so　to　have　led　a



wandering　life　in　the　Old　World。　　As　to　Henry　C…；　the　next　in　age



and　wisdom　of　our　band；　he　had　broken　loose　from　the　unyielding



rigidity　of　his　family；　solidly　rooted；　if　I　remember　rightly；　in　a



well…to…do　London　suburb。　　On　their　respectable　authority　he



introduced　himself　meekly　to　strangers　as　a　〃black　sheep。〃　　I　have



never　seen　a　more　guileless　specimen　of　an　outcast。　　Never。







However；　his　people　had　the　grace　to　send　him　a　little　money　now



and　then。　　Enamoured　of　the　South；　of　Provence；　of　its　people；　its



life；　its　sunshine　and　its　poetry；　narrow…chested；　tall　and　short…



sighted；　he　strode　along　the　streets　and　the　lanes；　his　long　feet



projecting　far　in　advance　of　his　body；　and　his　white　nose　and



gingery　moustache　buried　in　an　open　book：　　for　he　had　the　habit　of



reading　as　he　walked。　　How　he　avoided　falling　into　precipices；　off



the　quays；　or　down　staircases　is　a　great　mystery。　　The　sides　of　his



overcoat　bulged　out　with　pocket　editions　of　various　poets。　　When



not　engaged　in　reading　Virgil；　Homer；　or　Mistral；　in　parks；



restaurants；　streets；　and　suchlike　public　places；　he　indited



sonnets　（in　French）　to　the　eyes；　ears；　chin；　hair；　and　other



visible　perfections　of　a　nymph　called　Therese；　the　daughter；



honesty　compels　me　to　state；　of　a　certain　Madame　Leonore　who　kept　a



small　cafe　for　sailors　in　one　of　the　narrowest　streets　of　the　old



town。







No　more　charming　face；　clear…cut　like　an　antique　gem；　and　delicate



in　colouring　like　the　petal　of　a　flower；　had　ever　been　set　on；



alas！　a　somewhat　squat　body。　　He　read　his　verses　aloud　to　her　in



the　very　cafe　with　the　innocence　of　a　little　child　and　the　vanity



of　a　poet。　　We　followed　him　there　willingly　enough；　if　only　to



watch　the　divine　Therese　laugh；　under　the　vigilant　black　eyes　of



Madame　Leonore；　her　mother。　　She　laughed　very　prettily；　not　so　much



at　the　sonnets；　which　she　could　not　but　esteem；　as　at　poor　Henry's



French　accent；　which　was　unique；　resembling　the　warbling　of　birds；



if　birds　ever　warble