cool; just the tempering opposition to render existence pleasant as a piece of vegetation, especially when there has been a question of your ceasing to exist; and the view was of a sustaining sublimity of desolateness: crag and snow overhead; a gloomy vale below; no life either of bird or herd; a voiceless region where there had once been roars at the bowling of a hill from a mountain to the deep, and the third flank of the mountain spoke of it in the silence.
He would have enjoyed the scene unremittingly, like the philosopher he pretended to be, in a disdain of civilization and the ambitions of men, had not a contest with earth been forced on him from time to time to keep the heel of his right foot, dug in shallow shale, fixed and supporting. As long as it held he was happy and maintained the attitude of a guitar-player, thrumming the calf of the useless leg to accompany tuneful thoughts, but the inevitable lapse and slide of the foot recurred, and the philosopher was exhibited as an infant learning to crawl. The seat, moreover, not having been fashioned for him or for any soft purpose, resisted his pressure and became a thing of violence, that required to be humiliatingly coaxed. His last resource to propitiate it was counselled by nature turned mathematician: tenacious extension solved the problem; he lay back at his length, and with his hat over his eyes consented to see nothing for the sake of comfort. Thus he was perfectly rational, though when others beheld him he appeared the insanest of mortals.
A girl’s voice gave out the mountain carol ringingly above. His heart and all his fancies were in motion at the sound. He leaned on an elbow to listen; the slide threatened him, and he resumed his full stretch, determined to take her for a dream. He was of the class of youths who, in apprehension that their bright season may not be permanent, choose to fortify it by a systematic contempt of material realities unless they come in the fairest of shapes, and as he was quite sincere in this feeling and election of the right way to live, disappointment and sullenness overcame him on hearing men’s shouts and steps; despite his helpless condition he refused to stir, for they had jarred on his dream. Perhaps his temper, unknown to himself, had been a little injured by his mishap, and he would not have been sorry to charge them with want of common humanity in passing him; or he did not think his plight so bad, else he would have bawled after them had they gone by: far the youths of his description are fools only upon system—however earnestly they indulge the present self-punishing sentiment. The party did not pass; they stopped short, they consulted, and a feminine tongue more urgent than the others, and very musical, sweet to hear anywhere, put him in tune. She said, ‘Brother! brother!’ in German. Our philosopher flung off his hat.
‘You see!’ said the lady’s brother.
‘Ask him, Anton,’ she said to their guide.
‘And quick!’ her brother added.
The guide scrambled along to him, and at a closer glance shouted: ‘The Englishman!’ wheeling his finger to indicate what had happened to the Tomnoddy islander.
His master called to know if there were broken bones, as if he could stop for nothing else.
The cripple was raised. The gentleman and lady made their way to him, and he tried his hardest to keep from tottering on the slope in her presence. No injury had been done to the leg; there was only a stiffness, and an idiotic doubling of the knee, as though at each step his leg pronounced a dogged negative to the act of walking. He said something equivalent to ‘this donkey leg,’ to divert her charitable eyes from a countenance dancing with ugly twitches. She was the Samaritan. A sufferer discerns his friend, though it be not the one who physically assists him: he is inclined by nature to put material aid at a lower mark than gentleness, and her brief words of encouragement, the tone of their delivery yet more, were medical to his blood, better help than her brother’s iron arm, he really believed. Her brother and the guide held him on each side, and she led to pick out the safer footing for him; she looked round and pointed to some projection that would form a step; she drew attention to views here and there, to win excuses for his resting; she did not omit to soften her brother’s visible impatience as well, and this was the art which affected her keenly sensible debtor most.
‘I suppose I ought to have taken a guide,’ he said.
‘There’s not a doubt of that,’ said Chillon Kirby.
Carinthia halted, leaning on her staff: ‘But I had the same wish. They told us at the inn of an Englishman who left last night to sleep on the mountain, and would go alone; and did I not say, brother, that must be true love of the mountains?’
‘These freaks get us a bad name on the Continent,’ her brother replied. He had no sympathy with nonsense, and naturally not with a youth who smelt of being a dreamy romancer and had caused the name of Englishman to be shouted in his ear in derision. And the fellow might delay his arrival at the Baths and sight of the lady of his love for hours!
They managed to get him hobbling and slipping to the first green tuft of the base, where long black tongues of slate-rubble pouring into the grass, like shore-waves that have spent their burden, seem about to draw back to bring the mountain down. Thence to the level pasture was but a few skips performed sliding.
‘Well, now,’ said Chillon, ‘you can stand?’
‘Pretty well, I think.’ He tried his foot on the ground, and then stretched his length, saying that it only wanted rest. Anton pressed a hand at his ankle and made him wince, but the bones were sound, leg and hip not worse than badly bruised. He was advised by Anton to plant his foot in the first running water he came to, and he was considerate enough to say to Chillon:
‘Now you can leave me; and let me thank you. Half an hour will set me right. My name is Woodseer, if ever we meet again.’
Chillon nodded a hurried good-bye, without a thought of giving his name in return. But Carinthia had thrown herself on the grass. Her brother asked her in dismay if she was tired. She murmured to him: ‘I should like to hear more English.’
‘My dear girl, you’ll have enough of it in two or three weeks.’
‘Should we leave a good deed half done, Chillon?’
‘He shall have our guide.’
‘He may not be rich.’
‘I’ll pay Anton to stick to him.’
‘Brother, he has an objection to guides.’
Chillon cast hungry eyes on his watch: ‘Five minutes, then.’ He addressed Mr. Woodseer, who was reposing, indifferent to time, hard-by: ‘Your objection to guides might have taught you a sharp lesson. It ‘s like declining to have a master in studying a science—trusting to instinct for your knowledge of a bargain. One might as well refuse an oar to row in a boat.’
‘I ‘d rather risk it,’ the young man replied. ‘These guides kick the soul out of scenery. I came for that and not for them.’
‘You might easily have been a disagreeable part of the scene.’
‘Why not here as well as elsewhere?’
‘You don’t care for your life?’
‘I try not to care for it a fraction more than Destiny does.’
‘Fatalism. I suppose you care for something?’
‘Besides I’ve a slack purse, and shun guides and inns when I can. I care for open air, colour, flowers, weeds, birds, insects, mountains. There’s a world behind the mask. I call this life; and the town’s a boiling pot, intolerably stuffy.
