Delphi Complete Works of the Brontes

by Bronte Sisters

  “Go it old cock! Good bye! Judging by thy nose next circuit will use thee up.”

  I saw him from the window mount his gig and flash down the still wet street like a comet.

  In truth, the clouds for the first time that day were now beginning to separate. The rain had ceased; the wind likewise had subsided; and I think, if I could have seen the west, the sun, within a few minutes of its setting, was just shedding one parting smile over the Olympian [houses of the Angrian gentry are in the valley of the Olympian]. Several of the travellers now rose. There was a general ordering out of gigs and assuming of coats and cloaks. In a few minutes the room was cleared, with the exception of two or three whose intention it was to take up their quarters at Stancliffe’s for the night. While these discussed professional subjects, I maintained my station at the window, watching the passengers whom the gleam of sunshine had called out at the close of a rainy day.

  In particular, I marked the movements of a pretty woman who seemed waiting for someone at the door of a splendid mercer’s shop opposite. Drawing aside the green blind, I tried to catch her eye, displaying a gold snuff-box under pretence of taking a pinch, and by the same action exhibiting two or three flashy rings with which my white aristocratic hand was adorned. Her eye was caught by the glitter. She looked at me from amongst a profusion of curls, glossy and silky though of the genuine Angrian hue [red]. From me her glance reverted to her own green silk frock and pretty sandalled feet. I fancied she smiled. Whether she did or not, I certainly returned the compliment by a most seductive grin. She blushed. Encouraged by this sign of sympathy, I kissed my hand to her. She giggled, and retreated into the shop. While I was vainly endeavouring to trace her figure, of which no more than the dim outline was visible through the gloom of the interior, increased by waving streamers of silk and print pendant to the shop door, someone touched my arm. I turned. It was a waiter.

  “Sir, you are wanted, if you please.”

  “Who wants me?”

  “A gentleman upstairs. Came this afternoon. Dined here. I’ve just carried in the wine, and he desired me to tell the young gentleman in the traveller’s room who wore a dark frock-coat and white jeans [trousers of coarse cotton cloth] that he would be happy to have the pleasure of his company for the evening.”

  “Do you know who he is?” I asked.

  “I’ve not heard his name, sir, but he came in his own carriage — a genteel barouche. A military looking person. I should fancy he may be an officer in the army.”

  “Well,” said I, “show me up to his apartment”, and as the slippered waiter glided before me I followed with some little curiosity to see who the owner of the genteel barouche might be. Not that there was anything at all strange in the circumstance, for Stancliffe’s, being the head hotel in Zamorna, every day received aristocratic visitants within its walls. The Czar himself usually changed horses here in his journeys to and from his capital.

  CHAPTER 4

  Charles Townshend remembers the trial of Zamorna, after his defeat at Edwardston, and meets an old friend

  Traversing the inn-passage — wetter and dirtier than ever, and all in tumult for the evening Verdopolitan-coach had just come in and the passengers were calling for supper and beds and rooms and at the same time rushing wildly after their luggage — traversing, I say, this rich melée, in the course of which transit I nearly ran over a lady and a little girl and was in requital called a rude scoundrel by their companion, a big fellow in mustachios — traversing, I once more repeat, this area wherein a woman with a child in her arms — dripping wet, for she had ridden on the outside of the coach — came against me full drive, I at length, after turning the angle of second long passage and passing through a pair of large folding doors, found myself in another region.

  It was a hall with rooms about it, green mats at every door, a lamp in the centre, a broad staircase ascending to a gallery above, which ran round three sides of the hall, leaving space in the fourth for a great arched window. All here was clean, quiet, stately. This was the new part of the hotel, which had been erected since the year of independence. Before that time, Stancliffe’s was but a black-looking old public, whose best apartment was not more handsomely furnished than its present travellers’ room. As I ascended the staircase, chancing to look through the window I got a full and noble view of that new court-house which, rising upon its solid basement, so majestically fronts the first inn in Zamorna. There it was that, after the disastrous day of Edwardston, Jeremiah Simpson opened his court martial; there, on such an evening as this. At this very hour, when twilight was sealing sunset, a turbaned figure, with furred robes like a sultan and shawl streaming from his waist, had mounted those steps, and, while all the wide and long street beneath him was a sea of heads and a hell of strange cries, had shouted: “Soldiers, bring on the prisoner!”

  Then, breaking through the crowd, trampling down young and old, Julian Gordon’s troopers burst on amidst the boom of Quashia’s gongs and the yell of Medina’s kettle-drums. A gun mounted on the court-house was discharged down on the heads of the mob, as was afterwards sworn before the House of Peers. Through the smoke the prisoner could hardly be seen, but his head was bare, his hands bound; that court-house received him, and the door was barred on the mob.

  “This is the room, sir,” said the waiter, throwing open a door in the middle of the gallery, and admitting me to a large apartment whose style of decoration, had I been a novice in such matters, would have burst upon me with dazzling force. It was as elegant in finish, as splendid in effect, as a saloon in any nobleman’s house. The windows were large, lofty and clear; the curtains were of silk that draperied them, of crimson silk, imparting to everything a rosy hue. The carpet was soft and rich, exhibiting groups of brilliant flowers. The mantelpiece was crowned with classical ornaments — small but exquisite figures in marble, vases as white as snow, protected from soil by glass bells inverted over them, silver lamps, and, in the centre, a foreign time-piece.

  Above all these sloped a picture, the only one in the room: an Angrian peer in his robes, really a fine fellow. At first I did not recognize the face, as the costume was so unusual; but by degrees I acknowledged a dashing likeness to the most noble Frederick Stuart, Earl of Stuartville and Viscount Castlereagh, Lord Lieutenant of the Province of Zamorna. “Really,” thought I, as I took in the tout ensemble of the room, “These Angrians do lavish the blunt [slang for ready money] — hotels like palaces, palaces like Genii dreams [in Glass Town, the creators of Angria were the four Chief Genii]. It’s to be hoped there’s cash to answer the paper-money, that’s all.” At a table covered with decanters and silver fruit-baskets sat my unknown friend, the owner of the genteel conveyance. The waiter having retired, closing the door after him, I advanced.

  CHAPTER 5

  William Percy tells Charles Townshend of his exploits

  It being somewhat dusk, and the gentleman’s face being turned away from the glow of a ruddy fire, I did not at first glance hit his identity. However, I said, “How do you do, sir? Glad to see you.”

  “Pretty well, thank you,” returned he, and slowly rising, he tenderly took his coat-tails under the protection of his arms, and standing on the rug presented his back to the before-mentioned ruddy fire.

  “O it’s you, is it!” I ejaculated; for his face was now obvious enough. “How the devil did you know that I was here?”

  “What the devil brought you here?” he asked.

  “Why the devil do you wish to know?” I rejoined.

  “How the devil can I tell?” he replied.

  Here, our wits being mutually exhausted by these brilliant sallies, I took a momentary reprieve in laughter. Then my friend began again.

  “In God’s name, take a chair.”

  “In Christ’s name, I will.”

  “For the love of Heaven, let me fill you a bumper.”

  “For the fear of Hell, leave no heel-tap [the liquor left at the bottom of teh glass after drinking].”

  “I adjur
e you by the gospels, tell me if it’s good wine.”

  “I swear upon the Koran, I’ve tasted better.”

  “By the miracle of Cana, you lie.”

  “By the miracle of Moses, I do not.”

  “According to your oaths, sir, I should take you to be circumcised.”

  “According to yours, I should scarce think you were baptized.”

  “The Christian ordinance came not upon me.”

  “The Mahometan rite I have eschewed.”

  “Thou then art an unchristened Heathen.”

  “And thou an infidel Giaour [Islamic term of abuse for Christians, adn title of a poem by Lord Byron, 1813].”

  “Pass the bottle, lad,” said my friend, resuming his seat and grasping the decanter with emphasis. He and I filled our glasses, and then we looked at each other. A third person, I think, would have observed something similar about us. We were both young, both thin, both sallow and light-haired and blue-eyed, both carefully and somewhat foppishly dressed, with small feet set off by a slender chaussure and white hands garnished with massive rings.

  My friend, however, was considerably taller than I, and had besides more of the air military. His head was differently set upon his shoulders. He had incipient light brown mustaches and some growth of whisker; he threw out his chest too and sported a length of limb terminating in boot and spur. His complexion, originally fair almost to delicacy, appeared to have seen service, for it was like my own much tanned, freckled and yellowed to a bilious hue with the sun. He wore a blue dress-coat with velvet collar, velvet waistcoat and charming white tights: I endued [put on as a garment (OED); the word also has the sense of “invest or endow with a spiritual gift”, and carries a mock-heroic resonance here; frock; frock-coat] a well-made green frock and light summer jeans. Now, reader, have you got us before you?

  The young officer, resting his temples on his hand and pensively filling a tall champagne glass, renewed the conversation.

  “You’ll be surprised to see me here, I daresay, aren’t you?”

  “Why yes; I thought you were at Gazemba or Dongola, or Bonowen or Socatoo, or some such barbarian station, setting slot-hounds [sleuth-hounds] on negro-tracks, and sleeping like Moses among the flags on some river-side.”

  “Well, Townshend,” said he. “Your description exactly answers to the sort of life I have led for the last six months.”

  “And are you stalled of it?” I asked.

  “Stalled, man! think of the honour! Have you not seen in every newspaper: ‘The exertions of the 10th Hussars in the east under their Colonel Sir William Percy continue unabated. The efforts made by that Gallant Officer to extirpate the savages are beyond all praise. Scarce a day passes but five or six are hung under the walls of Dongola’? Then again: ‘A signal instance of vengeance was exhibited at Katagoom last week, by order of Sir William Percy.

  A soldier had been missing some days from his regiment stationed at that place. His remains were at length found in a neighbouring jungle, hideously mangled, and displaying all the frightful mutilation of Negro slaughter. Sir William instantly ordered out two of the fiercest and keenest hounds in his leashes. They tracked up the murderers in a few hours. When seized, the blood-stained wretches were sunk up to the neck in the deep mire of a carr-brake26. Sir William had them shot through the head where they stood, and their bodies merged in the filth which afforded them such a suitable sepulchre.’ Eh, Townshend? is not that the strain?”

  “Exactly so. But now Colonel, since you were so honourably occupied, why do I now find you so far from the seat of your glorious toil?”

  “Really, Townshend, how can you be so unreasonable? The tenth Hussars — all Gods as they are, or God-like men, which is better — can’t stand the sun of those deserts and the malaria of those marshes for ever. It has therefore pleased our gracious monarch to command a recall; that is, not by his own sacred mouth, but through the medium of W.H.Warner Esqre, our trusty and well-beloved councillor, who delivered his instructions to our General-in-Chief and Commander of the Forts, Henri Fernando di Enara, by whom they were transmitted to your humble servant.”

  “And with alacrity you jumped at the reprieve.”

  “Jumped at it? No; I perused the despatch with, I believe, my wonted coolness - awed, of course, by the sublime appellation of our Lord the King, in whose name it was penned — but otherwise I sweat not, neither did I swoon. It is not for us poor subalterns to feel either joy or grief, satisfaction or disappointment.”

  “Well, Colonel, where are you going now?”

  “Lord, Mr Townshend, don’t be in such a hurry! Let one have a minute’s time for reflection! I’ve hardly yet got over the anguish of soul that came upon me at Gazemba.”

  “How? On what account?”

  “All a sense of my own insignificance — a humbling to the dust, as it were. That organ of veneration is so predominant in my cranium, it will be the death of me some day. You know, being to go to Adrianopolis, it was needful to pass through Gazemba, and being at Gazemba, it was onerous to wait upon our Commander of the Forts at his pretty little villa there. So, having donned the regimentals over a check shirt for the more grace (it would have been presumptuous to appear in cambric while his Highness sported huckaback), I made my way to the domicile. Signor Fernando must be a man of some nerves to endure about his person such fellows as form the household of that garrison. The dirtiest dregs of a convict hulk would scarce turn out such another muster. Parricides, matricides, fratricides, sororicides, stabbers in the dark, blackguard bullies of hells, scoundrel suborners of false testimony: of these materials has he formed the domestic establishment of his country-seat. A forger in the disguise of a porter opened the door for me; a cut-purse wearing a footman’s epaulettes shewed me to an ante-room; there I was received by one bearing a steward’s wand who had been thrice convicted of arson; he gave my name to a Mr Secretary Gordon, who had visibly been hanged for murder but unfortunately cut down before the law had done its perfect work.

  “Of course I sweat profusely by the time I had passed through this ordeal, and when at length Mr Gordon introduced me to a dismal little dungeon called a cabinet where sat Enara, my knees shook under me like aspen leaves. There was the great man in his usual attire of a gingham jacket and canvas trousers of more than Dutch capacity. Stock he disdained, and waistcoat: the most fastidious lady might have beheld with admiration that muscular chest and neck bristled with heroic hair. Between the commander’s lips breathed a cigar, and in one hand he held a smart box of the commodity, fresh as imported from the spicy islands where springs the fragrant weed. With head a little declined, and brow contracted in solicitude respecting the important choice, the illustrious General seemed, at the moment I entered, to be engaged in picking out another of the same. Mark the noble simplicity of a great mind stooping to the commonest employment of an ordinary shop-boy! Having made his election, he handed the Havannah to a person who stood beside him, and whom till now I had not perceived, ejaculating as he did so, ‘Damn it! I think that’ll be a good ‘un!’

  “‘G-d, so it is!’ was his companion’s answer when, after a moment’s pause, he had tried the sweet Virginian. I looked now at this second speaker. Townshend, it was too much! At Enara’s chair back there stood a man in a shabby brown surtout, with his hands stuck in the hind pockets thereof, wearing a stiff stock, out of which projected a long and dark dried vinegar physiognomy shaded with grizzly whiskers and overshaded with still more grizzly hair. The fellow was so ugly, at first sight I thought it must be a stranger. A second glance assured me that it was General Lord Hartford. What could I do? The blaze of patrician dignity quite overpowered me. However, I made shift to advance.

  “ ‘How d’ye do, Sir William?’ said Enara. ‘Recalled, you find? I regret the necessity, which doubtless will be a great disappointment to you.’ I ventured to ask in what respect? He looked at me as if I had put the question in Greek. ‘As a man of honour, sir, I should suppose — but most probably you are consol
ing yourself under the disappointment by the prospect of a speedy return. We shall see, sir; I will speak to the Duke in your behalf. Your services have given me much satisfaction.’

  “I bowed, of course, and then stood to hear what more was coming, but the General seemed to have said his say. Lord Hartford now grunted something unintelligible, though with the most dignified air possible, his under lip being scornfully protruded to support the cigar and his branded brow corrugated over his eyes with the sour malignant look of a fiend. He seemed to breathe asthmatically, I suppose in consequence of that wound he received last winter. Finding that there was no more talk to be had for love or money, I rose to go. In reply to my farewell genuflection Enara nodded sharply, and muttered a word or two about hoping to see me again soon and having a spot of special work cut out purposely for me. Hartford bent his stiff back with a stern haughty bow that made me feel strongly inclined to walk round behind him and trip up his heels.”

  I laughed as Sir William closed his narration.

  “Well, you do give it them properly, Colonel!” said I. “A set of pompous prigs! I like to hear them dished now and then. And how did you get on at Adrianopolis? I suppose you saw the premier?”

  “Yes, I went to the Treasury; and I’d scarcely got within the door of his parlour there before he began in his woman’s voice, ‘Sir William, Sir William, let me hear what you have been doing. Give a clear account, sir, of your proceedings. General Enara’s despatches are not sufficiently detailed, sir; they are too brief, too laconic. The government of the country is kept in the dark, sir — comparatively speaking that is — at a time, too, when every facility for obtaining information ought to be afforded it. I wish to know every particular concerning that late affair at Cuttal-Curafee.’ He stopped a minute, and looked at me. I looked at him, and sat down, after settling the cushion on my chair. The pause being a rather lengthened one, I remarked that it was a fine morning. ‘What?’ said he, pricking up his ears. ‘The morning is charmingly cool and dry,’ was my answer. ‘Is it possible?’ exclaimed Warner. ‘Sir, I say, is it possible that the trite remarks of the most indolent and vacant time-killer should be the first and only words on the lips of a man just returned from the active service of his king, in a country reeking with rapine and carnage and teeming with the hideous pollutions of pagan savages?’