 | CHAPTER V. The headsman, or, The Abbaye des Vignerons |  |
5. CHAPTER V.
“How like a fawning publican he looks!”
Shylock.
The change of the juggler's scene of action left
the party in the stern of the barge, in quiet possession
of their portion of the vessel. Baptiste and
his boatmen still slept among the boxes; Maso
continued to pace his elevated platform above their
heads; and the meek-looking stranger, whose entrance
from Pippo, sate a little apart, silent, furtively observant,
and retiring, in the identical spot he had
occupied throughout the day. With these exceptions,
the whole of the rest of the travellers were
crowding around the person of the mountebank.
Perhaps we have not done well, however, in classing
either of the two just named with the more
common herd, for there were strong points of
difference to distinguish both from most of their
companions.
The exterior and the personal appointments of
the unknown traveller, who had shrunk so sensitively
before the hits of the Neapolitan, was greatly
superior to those of any other in the bark beneath
the degree of the gentle, not even excepting those
of the warm peasant Nicklaus Wagner, the owner
of so large a portion of the freight. There was a
decency of air that commanded more respect than
it was then usual to yield to the nameless, a quietness
of demeanor that denoted reflection and the
habit of self-study and self-correction, together with
a deference to others that was well adapted to gain
friends. In the midst of the noisy, clamorous
merriment of all around him, his restrained and
rebuked manner had won upon the favor of the
more privileged, who had unavoidably noticed the
difference, and had prepared the way to a more
frank communication between the party of the noble,
and one who, if not their equal in the usual
points of worldly distinction, was greatly superior
to those among whom he had been accidentally
east by the chances of his journey. Not so with
Maso; he, apparently, had little in common with
the unobtruding and silent being that sat so near
his path, in the short turns he was making to and
fro across the pile of freight. The mariner was
much the younger, his years scarcely reaching
already beginning to be sprinkled with gray. The
walk, attitudes, and gestures, of the former, were
also those of a man confident of himself, a little
addicted to be indifferent to others, and far more
disposed to lead than to follow. These are qualities
that it may be thought his present situation
was scarcely suited to discover, but they had been
made sufficiently apparent, by the cool, calculating
looks he threw, from time to time, at the manæuvres
commanded by Baptiste, the expressive sneer
with which he criticised his decisions, and a few
biting remarks which had escaped him in the course
of the day, and which had conveyed any thing but
compliments to the nautical skill of the patron and
his fresh-water followers. Still there were signs
of better stuff in this suspicious-looking person than
are usually seen about men, whose attire, pursuits
and situation, are so indicative of the world's
pressing hard upon their principles, as happened to
be the fact with this poor and unknown seaman.
Though ill clad, and wearing about him the general
tokens of a vagrant life, and that loose connexion
with society that is usually taken as sufficient evidence
of one's demerits, his countenance occasionally
denoted thought, and, during the day, his eye
had frequently wandered towards the group of his
more intelligent fellow-passengers, as if he found
subjects of greater interest in their discourse, than
in the rude pleasantries and practical jokes of those
nearer his person.
The high-bred are always courteous, except in
cases in which presumption repels civility; for they
who are accustomed to the privileges of station,
think far less of their immunities, than they, who,
by being excluded from the fancied advantages,
are apt to exaggerate a superiority that a short
experience would show becomes of very questionable
provision of Providence, the laws of civilized society
would become truly intolerable, for, if peace
of mind, pleasure, and what is usually termed
happiness, were the exclusive enjoyment of those
who are rich and honoured, there would, indeed,
be so crying an injustice in their present ordinances
as could not long withstand the united assaults of
reason and justice. But, happily for the relief of
the less gifted and the peace of the world, the fact
is very different. Wealth has its peculiar woes;
honors and privileges pall in the use; and, perhaps,
as a rule, there is less of that regulated contentment,
which forms the nearest approach to the
condition of the blessed of which this unquiet state
of being is susceptible, among those who are
usually the most envied by their fellow-creatures,
than in any other of the numerous gradations into
which the social scale has been divided. He who
reads our present legend with the eyes that we
could wish, will find in its moral the illustration of
this truth; for, if it is our intention to delineate
some of the wrongs that spring from the abuses of
the privileged and powerful, we hope equally to
show how completely they fall short of their object,
by failing to confer that exclusive happiness
which is the goal that all struggle to attain.
Neither the Baron de Willading, nor his noble
friend, the Genoese, though educated in the opinions
of their caste, and necessarily under the influence
of the prejudices of the age, was addicted
to the insolence of vulgar pride. Their habits
had revolted at the coarseness of the majority of
the travellers, and they were glad to be rid of
them by the expedient of Pippo; but no sooner
did the modest, decent air of the stranger who remained,
make itself apparent, than they felt a desire
to compensate him for the privations he had already
own rank rendered so easy and usually so grateful.
With this view, then, as soon as the noisy
troupe had departed, the Signor Grimaldi raised
his beaver with that discreet and imposing politeness
which equally attracts and repels, and, addressing
the solitary stranger, he invited him to
descend, and stretch his legs on the part of the
deck which had hitherto been considered exclusively
devoted to the use of his own party. The
other started, reddened, and looked like one who
doubted whether he had heard aright.
“These noble gentlemen would be glad if you
would come down, and take advantage of this
opportunity to relieve your limbs;” said the young
Sigismund, raising his own athletic arm towards
the stranger, to offer its assistance in helping him
to reach the deck.
Still the unknown traveller hesitated, in the
manner of one who fears he might overstep discretion,
by obtruding beyond the limits imposed
by modesty. He glanced furtively upwards at
the place where Maso had posted himself, and
muttered something of an intention to profit by its
present nakedness.
“It has an occupant who does not seem disposed
to admit another,” said Sigismund, smiling;
“your mariner has a self-possession when afloat,
that usually gives him the same superiority that
the well-armed swasher has among the timid in
the street. You would do well, then, to accept
the offer of the noble Genoese.”
The stranger, who had once or twice been
called rather ostentatiously by Baptiste the Herr
Müller, during the day, as if the patron were disposed
to let his hearers know that he had those
who at least bore creditable names, even among
his ordinary passengers, no longer delayed. He
deck in his usual, quiet, subdued manner, but in a
way to show that he found a very sensible and
grateful relief in being permitted to make the
change. Sigismund was rewarded for this act
of good-nature by a smile from Adelheid, who
thought his warm interference in behalf of one,
seemingly so much his inferior, did no discredit
to his rank. It is possible that the youthful soldier
had some secret sentiment of the advantage
he derived from his kind interest in the stranger,
for his brow flushed, and he looked more satisfied
with himself, after this little office of humanity
had been performed.
“You are better among us here,” the baron
kindly observed, when the Herr Müller was fairly
established in his new situation, “than among the
freight of the honest Nicklaus Wagner, who,
Heaven help the worthy peasant! has loaded us
fairly to the water's edge, with the notable industry
of his dairy people. I like to witness the
prosperity of our burghers, but it would have
been better for us travellers, at least, had there
been less of the wealth of honest Nicklaus in our
company. Are you of Berne, or of Zurich?”
“Of Berne, Herr Baron.”
“I might have guessed that by finding you on
the Genfer See, instead of the Wallenstätter.
There are many of the Müllers in the Emmen
That?”
“The Herr is right; the name is frequent, both
in that valley, and in Entlibuch.”
“It is a frequent appellation among us of the
Teutonick stock. I had many Müllers in my
company, Gaetano, when we lay before Mantua.
I remember that two of the brave fellows were
buried in the marshes of that low country; for
the fever helped the enemy as much as the sword,
the place.”
The more observant Italian saw that the stranger
was distressed by the personal nature of the conversation,
and, while he quietly assented to his
friend's remark, he took occasion to give it a new
direction.
“You travel, like ourselves, Signore, to get a
look at these far-famed revels of the Vévasians?”
“That, and affairs, have brought me into this
honorable company;” answered the Herr Müller,
whom no kindness of tone, however, could win
from his timid and subdued manner of speaking.
“And thou, father,” turning to the Augustine,
“art journeying towards thy mountain residence,
after a visit of love to the valleys and their
people?”
The monk of St. Bernard assented to the truth
of this remark, explaining the manner in which
his community were accustomed annually to appeal
to the liberality of the generous in Switzerland,
in behalf of an institution that was founded
in the interest of humanity, without reference to
distinction of faith.
“'Tis a blessed brotherhood.” answered the
Genoese, crossing himself, perhaps as much from
habit as from devotion, “and the traveller need
wish it well. I have never shared of your
hospitality, but all report speaks fairly of it, and
the title of a brother of San Bernardo, should
prove a passport to the favor of every Christian.”
“Signore,” said Maso, stopping suddenly, and
taking his part uninvited in the discourse, and yet
in a way to avoid the appearance of an impertinent
interference, “none know this better than I!
A wanderer these many years, I have often seen
the stony roof of the hospice with as much pleasure
as I have ever beheld the entrance of my
against my canvass. Honor and a rich quête to
the clavier of the convent, therefore, for it is
bringing succor to the poor and rest to the
weary!”
As he uttered this opinion, Maso decorously
raised his cap, and pursued his straitened walk
with the industry of a caged tiger. It was so unusual
for one of his condition to obtrude on the
discourse of the fair and noble, that the party exchanged
looks of surprise; but, the Signor Grimaldi,
more accustomed than most of his friends
to the frank deportment and bold speech of mariners,
from having dwelt long on the coast of the
Mediterranean, felt disposed rather to humor than
to repulse this disposition to talk.
“Thou art a Genoese, by thy dialect,” he said,
assuming as a matter of course the right to question
one of years so much fewer, and of a condition
so much inferior to his own.
“Signore,” returned Maso, uncovering himself
again, though his manner betrayed profound personal
respect rather than the deference of the vulgar,
“I was born in the city of palaces, though
it was my fortune first to see the light beneath a
humble roof. The poorest of us are proud of the
splendor of Genova la Superba, even if its glory
has come from our own groans.”
The Signor Grimaldi frowned. But, ashamed
to permit himself to be disturbed by an allusion so
vague, and perhaps so unpremediated, and more
especially coming as it did from so insignificant a
source, his brow regained its expression of habitual
composure.
An instant of reflection, told him it would be
in better taste to continue the conversation, than
churlishly to cut it short for so light a cause.
“Thou art too young to have had much connexion,
rejoined, “with the erection of the gorgeous dwellings
to which thou alludest.”
“This is true, Signore; except as one is the
better or worse for those who have gone before
him. I am what I seem, more by the acts of
others than by any faults of my own. I envy not
the rich or great, however; for one that has seen
as much of life as I, knows the difference between
the gay colors of the garment, and that of the
shrivelled and diseased skin it conceals. We make
our feluccas glittering and fine with paint, when
their timbers work the most, and when the treacherous
planks are ready to let in the sea to drown
us.”
“Thou hast the philosophy of it, young man,
and hast uttered a biting truth, for those who waste
their prime in chasing a phantom. Thou hast well
bethought thee of these matters, for, if content
with thy lot, no palace of our city would make
thee happier.”
“If, Signore, is a meaning word!—Content is
like the north-star—we seamen steer for it, while
none can ever reach it!”
“Am I then deceived in thee, after all? Is thy
seeming moderation only affected; and would'st
thou be the patron of the bark in which fortune
hath made thee only a passenger?”
“And a bad fortune it hath proved,” returned
Maso, laughing. “We appear fated to pass the
night in it, for, so far from seeing any signs of
this land-breeze of which Baptiste has so confidently
spoken, the air seems to have gone to sleep
as well as the crew. Thou art accustomed to this
climate, reverend Augustine; is it usual to see so
deep a calm on the Leman at this late season?”
A question like this was well adapted to effect
the speaker's wish to change the discourse, for it
from a subject that was rather tolerated from idleness
than interesting in itself, to the different natural
phenomena by which they were surrounded.
The sun-set had now fairly passed, and the travellers
were at the witching moment that precedes
the final disappearance of the day. A calm so
deep rested on the limpid lake, that it was not easy
to distinguish the line which separated the two
elements, in those places where the blue of the
land was confounded with the well-known and peculiar
color of the Leman.
The precise position of the Winkelried was near
mid-way between the shores of Vaud and those
of Savoy, though nearer to the first than to the
last. Not another sail was visible on the whole
of the watery expanse, with the exception of one
that hung lazily from its yard, in a small bark that
was pulling towards St. Gingoulph, bearing Savoyards
returning to their homes from the other
side of the lake, and which, in that delusive landscape,
appeared to the eye to be within a stone's-throw
of the base of the mountain, though, in
truth, still a weary row from the land.
Nature has spread her work on a scale so magnificent
in this sublime region that ocular deceptions
of this character abound, and it requires
time and practice to judge of those measurements
which have been rendered familiar in other scenes.
In like manner to the bark under the rocks of Savoy,
there lay another, a heavy-moulded boat,
nearly in a line with Villeneuve, which seemed to
float in the air instead of its proper element, and
whose oars were seen to rise and fall beneath a
high mound, that was rendered shapeless by refraction.
This was a craft, bearing hay from the
meadows at the mouth of the Rhone to their proprietors
in the villages of the Swiss coast. A few
of Vévey, and a forest of low masts and latine
yards, seen in the hundred picturesque attitudes
peculiar to the rig, crowded the wild anchorage
that is termed its port.
An air-line drawn from St. Saphorin to Meillerie,
would have passed between the spars of the
Winkelried, her distance from her haven, consequently,
a little exceeded a marine league. This
space might readily have been conquered in an
hour or two by means of the sweeps, but for the
lumbered condition of the decks, which would have
rendered their use difficult, and the unusual draught
of the bark, which would have caused the exertion
to be painful. As it has been seen, Baptiste
preferred waiting for the arrival of the night-breeze
to having recourse to an expedient so toilsome
and slow.
We have already said, that the point just described
was at the place where the Leman fairly
enters its eastern horn, and where its shores possess
their boldest and finest faces. On the side of
Savoy, the coast was a sublime wall of rocks,
here and there clothed with chestnuts, or indented
with ravines and dark glens, and naked and wild
along the whole line of their giddly summits. The
villages so frequently mentioned, and which have
become celebrated in these later times by the touch
of genius, clung to the uneven declivities, their
lower dwellings laved by the lake, and their upper
confounded with the rugged faces of the mountains.
Beyond the limits of the Leman, the Alps
shot up into still higher pinnacles, occasionally
showing one of those naked excrescences of granite,
which rise for a thousand feet above the rest
of the range—a trifle in the stupendous scale of
the vast piles—and which, in the language of the
country, are not inaptly termed Dents, from some
The verdant meadows of Noville, Aigle and Bex,
spread for leagues between these snow-capped
barriers, so dwindled to the eye, however, that the
spectator believed that to be a mere bottom, which
was, in truth, a broad and fertile plain. Beyond
these again, came the celebrated pass of St. Maurice,
where the foaming Rhone dashed between
two abutments of rock, as if anxious to effect its
exit before the superincumbent mountains could
come together, and shut it out for ever from the
inviting basin to which it was hurrying with a
never-ceasing din. Behind this gorge, so celebrated
as the key of the Valais, and even of the
Alps in the time of the conquerors of the world,
the back-ground took a character of holy mystery.
The shades of evening lay thick in that enormous
glen, which was sufficiently large to contain a
sovereign state, and the dark piles of mountains
beyond were seen in a hazy, confused array. The
setting was a grey boundary of rocks, on which
fleecy clouds rested, as if tired with their long and
high flight, and on which the parting day still lingered
soft and lucid. One cone of dazzling white
towered over all. It resembled a bright steppingstone
between heaven and earth, the heat of the
hot sun falling innocuously against its sides, like
the cold and pure breast of a virgin repelling those
treacherous sentiments which prove the ruin of a
shining and glorious innocence. Across the summit
of this brilliant and cloud-like peak, which
formed the most distant object in the view, ran the
imaginary line that divided Italy from the regions
of the north. Drawing nearer, and holding its
course on the opposite shore, the eye embraced the
range of rampart-like rocks that beetle over Villeneuve
and Chillon, the latter a snow-white pile that
seemed to rest partly on the land and partly on the
the hamlets of Clarens, Montreux, Châtelard,
and all those other places, since rendered so familiar
to the reader of fiction by the vivid pen of
Rousseau. Above the latter village the whole of
the savage and rocky range receded, leaving the
lake-shore to vine-clad côtes that stretch away far
to the west.
This scene, at all times alluring and grand, was
now beheld under its most favorable auspices.
The glare of day had deserted all that belonged to
what might be termed the lower world, leaving in
its stead the mild hues, the pleasing shadows, and
the varying tints of twilight. It is true that a hundred
châlets dotted the Alps, or those mountain
pasturages which spread themselves a thousand
fathoms above the Leman, on the foundation of
rock that lay like a wall behind Montreux, shining
still with the brightness of a bland even, but all below
was fast catching the more sombre colors of
the hour.
As the transition from day to night grew more
palpable, the hamlets of Savoy became gray and
hazy, the shades thickened around the bases of the
mountains in a manner to render their forms indistinct
and massive, and the milder glory of the
scene was transferred to their summits. Seen by
sun-light, these noble heights appear a long range
of naked granite, piled on a foundation of chestnut-covered
hills, and buttressed by a few such salient
spurs as are perhaps necessary to give variety and
agreeable shadows to their acclivities. Their outlines
were now drawn in those waving lines that
the pencil of Raphael would have loved to sketch,
dark, distinct, and appearing to be carved by art.
The inflected and capricious edges of the rocks
stood out in high relief against the back-ground of
pearly sky, resembling so much ebony wrought
fancy could conceive. Of all the wonderful and
imposing sights of this extraordinary region, there
is perhaps none in which there is so exquisite an
admixture of the noble, the beautiful, and the bewitching,
as in this view of these natural arabesques
of Savoy, seen at the solemn hour of twilight.
The Baron de Willading and his friends stood
uncovered, in reverence of the sublime picture,
which could only come from the hands of the Creator,
and with unalloyed enjoyment of the bland
tranquillity of the hour. Exclamations of pleasure
had escaped them, as the exhibition advanced; for
the view, like the shifting of scenes, was in a constant
state of transition under the waning and
changing light, and each had eagerly pointed out
to the others some peculiar charm of the view.
The sight was, in sooth, of a nature to preclude
selfishness, no one catching a glimpse that he did
not wish to be shared by all. Vévey, their journey,
the fleeting minutes, and their disappointment,
were all forgotten in the delight of witnessing this
evening landscape, and the silence was broken only
to express those feelings of delight which had
long been uppermost in every bosom.
“I doff my beaver to thy Switzerland, friend
Melchior,” cried the Signor Grimaldi, after directing
the attention of Adelheid to one of the peaks of
Savoy, of which he had just remarked that it
seemed a spot where an angel might love to light
in his visits to the earth; “if thou hast much of
this, we of Italy must look to it, or—by the shades
of our fathers! we shall lose our reputation for
natural beauty. How is it young lady; hast thou
many of these sun-sets at Willading? or, is this,
after all, but an exception to what thou seest in
common—as much a matter of astonishment to
must even own, it is to thee and me!”
Adelheid laughed at the old noble's good-humored
rhapsody, but, much as she loved her native
land, she could not pervert the truth by pretending
that the sight was one to be often met with.
“If we have not this, however, we have our
glaciers, our lakes, our cottages, our châlets, our
Oberland, and such glens as have an eternal twilight
of their own.”
“Ay, my true-hearted and pretty Swiss, this
is well for thee who wilt affirm that a drop of
thy snow-water is worth a thousand limpid springs,
or thou art not the true child of old Melchior de
Willading; but it is lost on the cooler head of one
who has seen other lands. Father Xavier, thou
art a neutral, for thy dwelling is on the dividing
ridge between the two countries, and I appeal to
thee to know if these Helvetians have much of this
quality of evening?”
The worthy monk met the question in the spirit
with which it was asked, for the elasticity of the
air, and the heavenly tranquillity and bewitching
loveliness of the hour, well disposed him to be
joyous.
“To maintain my character as an impartial
judge,” he answered, “I will say that each region
has its own advantages. If Switzerland is the
most wonderful and imposing, Italy is the most
winning. The latter leaves more durable impressions
and is more fondly cherished. One strikes
the senses, but the other slowly winds its way into
the affections; and he who has freely vented his
admiration in exclamations and epithets in one,
will, in the end, want language to express all the
secret longings, the fond recollections, the deep
repinings, that he retains for the other.”
“Fairly reasoned, friend Melchior, and like an
and vanity. Herr Müller, dost thou agree
in a decision that gives thy muchvaunted Switzerland
so formidable a rival?”
“Signore,” answered the meek traveller, “I see
enough to admire and love in both, as is always
the fact with that which God hath formed. This
is a glorious world for the happy, and most might
be so, could they summon courage to be innocent.”
“The good Augustine will tell thee that this
bears hard on certain points of theology, in which
our common nature is treated with but indifferent
respect. He that would continue innocent must
struggle hard with his propensities.”
The stranger was thoughtful, and Sigismund,
whose eye had been earnestly riveted on his face,
thought that it denoted more of peace then usual.
“Signore,” rejoined the Herr Müller, when time
had been given for reflection, “I believe it is good
for us to know unhappiness. He that is permitted
too much of his own will gets to be headstrong,
and, like the overfed bullock, difficult to be managed;
whereas, he who lives under the displeasure
of his fellow-creatures is driven to look closely
into himself, and comes, at last, to chasten his
spirit by detecting its faults.”
“Art thou a follower of Calvin?” demanded the
Augustine suddenly, surprised to hear opinions so
healthful in the mouth of a dissenter from the true
church.
“Father, I belong neither to Rome nor to the
religion of Geneva. I am a humble worshipper
of God, and a believer in the blessed mediation of
his holy Son.”
“How!—Where dost thou find such sentiments
out of the pale of the church?”
“In mine own heart. This is my temple, holy
Augustine, and I never enter it without adoration
roof of my father at my birth, and I have not been
permitted to mingle much with men; but the solitude
of my life has driven me to study my own
nature, which I hope has become none the worse
for the examination. I know I am an unworthy
and sinful man, and I hope others are as much
better than I as their opinions of themselves would
give reason to think.”
The words of the Herr Müller, which lost none
of their weight by his unaffected and quiet manner,
excited curiosity. At first, most of the listeners
were disposed to believe him one of those exaggerated
spirits who exalt themselves by a pretended
self-abasement, but his natural, quiet, and thoughtful
deportment soon produced a more favorable
opinion. There was a habit of reflection, a retreating
inward look about his eye, that revealed the
character of one long and truly accustomed to
look more at himself than at others, and which
wrought singularly in his behalf.
“We may not all have these flattering opinions
of ourselves that thy words would seem to imply,
Signor Müller,” observed the Genoese, his tone
changing to one better suited to soothe the feelings
of the person addressed, while a shade insensibly
stole over his own venerable features; “neither
are all at peace that so seem. If it will be any
consolation to thee to know that others are probably
no more happy than thyself, I will add that I have
known much pain, and that, too, amid circumstances
which most would deem fortunate, and
which, I fear, a great majority of mankind might
be disposed to envy.”
“I should be base indeed to seek consolation in
such a source! I do not complain, Signore, though
my whole life has so passed that I can hardly say
that I enjoy it. It is not easy to smile when we
As it is, I rather feel than repine.”
“This is a most singular condition of the mind;”
whispered Adelheid to young Sigismund; for both
had been deeply attentive listeners to the calm but
strong language of the Herr Müller. The young
man did not answer, and his fair companion saw,
with surprise, that he was pale, and with difficulty
noticed her remark with a smile.
“The frowns of men, my son,” observed the
monk, “are usually reserved for those who offend
its ordinances. The latter may not be always just,
but there is a common sentiment which refuses to
visit innocence, even in the narrow sense in which
we understand the word, with undeserved displeasure.”
The Herr Müller looked earnestly at the Augustine,
and he seemed about to answer; but,
checking the impulse, he bowed in submission. At
the same time, a wild, painful smile gleamed on
his face.
“I agree with thee, good canon,” rejoined the
simple-minded baron: “we are much addicted to
quarrelling with the world, but, after all, when we
look closely into the matter, it will commonly be
found that the cause of our grievances exists in
ourselves.”
“Is there no Providence, father?” exclaimed
Adelheid, a little reproachfully for one of her respectful
habits and great filial tenderness. “Can
we recall the dead to life, or keep those quick
whom God is pleased to destroy?”
“Thou hast me, girl!—there is a truth in this
that no bereaved parent can deny!”
This remark produced an embarrassed pause,
during which the Herr Müller gazed furtively
about him, looking from the face of one to that of
another, as if seeking for some countenance on
view of those hills which had been so curiously
wrought by the finger of the Almighty, and seemed
to lose himself in their contemplation.
“This is some spirit that has been bruised by
early indiscretion,” said the Signor Grimaldi, in a
low voice, “and whose repentance is strangely
mixed with resignation. I know not whether such
a man is most to be envied or pitied. There is a
fearful mixture of resignation and of suffering in
his air.”
“He has not the mien of a stabber or a knave,”
answered the baron. “If he comes truly of the
Müllers of the Emmen Thal, or even of those of
Entlibuch, I should know something of his history.
They are warm burghers, and mostly of fair name.
It is true, that in my youth one of the family got
out of favor with the councils, on account of some
concealment of their lawful claims in the way of
revenue, but the man made an atonement that was
deemed sufficient in amount, and the matter was
forgotten. It is not usual, Herr Müller, to meet
citizens in our canton who go for neither Rome
nor Calvin.”
“It is not usual, mein Herr, to meet men placed
as I am. Neither Rome nor Calvin is sufficient
for me;—I have need of God!”
“I fear thou hast taken life?”
The stranger bowed, and his face grew livid,
seemingly with the intensity of his own thoughts.
Melchior de Willading so disliked the expression,
that he turned away his eyes in uneasiness. The
other glanced frequently at the forward part of the
bark, and he seemed struggling hard to speak, but,
for some strong reason, unable to effect his purpose.
Uncovering himself, at length, he said
steadily, as if superior to shame, while he fully felt
that was cautiously suppressed—
“I am Balthazar, of your canton, Herr Baron,
and I pray your powerful succor, should those
untamed spirits on the forecastle come to discover
the truth. My blood hath been made to curdle
to-day whilst listening to their heartless threats
and terrible maledictions. Without this fear, I
should have kept my secret,—for God knows I am
not proud of my office!”
The general and sudden surprise, accompanied
as it was by a common movement of aversion,
induced the Signor Grimaldi to demand the reason.
“Thy name is not in much favour apparently,
Herr Müller, or Herr Balthazar, whichever it is
thy pleasure to be called,” observed the Genoese,
casting a quick glance around the circle. “There
is some mystery in it, that to me needs explanation.”
“Signore, I am the headsman of Berne.”
Though long schooled in the polished habits of
his high condition, which taught him ordinarily to
repress strong emotions, the Signor Grimaldi could
not conceal the start which this unexpected announcement
produced, for he had not escaped the
usual prejudices of men.
“Truly, we have been fortunate in our associate,
Melchior,” he said drily, turning without ceremony
from the man whose modest, quiet mien had
lately interested him so much, but whose manner
he now took to be assumed,—few pausing to investigate
the motives of those who are condemned
of opinion:—“here has been much excellent and
useful morality thrown away upon a very unworthy
subject!”
The baron received the intelligence of the real
name of their travelling companion with less feeling.
He had been greatly puzzled to account for
relief in so brief a solution of the difficulty.
“The pretended name, after all, then, is only a
cloak to conceal the truth! I knew the Müllers of
the Emmen Thal so well, that I had great difficulty
in fitting the character which the honest man gave
of himself fairly upon any one of them all. But it
is now clear enough, and doubtless Balthazar has
no great reason to be proud of the turn which Fortune
has played his family in making them executioners.”
“Is the office hereditary?” demanded the
Genoese, quickly.
“It is. Thou knowest that we of Berne have
great respect for ancient usages. He that is born
to the Bürgerschaft will die in the exercise of his
rights, and he that is born out of its venerable pale
must be satisfied to live out of it, unless he has gold
or favor. Our institutions are a hint from nature,
which leaves men as they are created, preserving
the order and harmony of society by venerable
and well-defined laws, as is wise and necessary.
In nature, he that is born strong remains strong,
and he that has little force must be content with
his feebleness.”
The Signor Grimaldi looked like one who felt
contrition.
“Art thou, in truth, an hereditary executioner?”
he asked, addressing Balthazar himself.
“Signore, I am: else would hand of mine have
never taken life. 'Tis a hard duty to perform,
even under the obligations and penalties of the
law;—otherwise, it were accursed!”
“Thy fathers deemed it a privilege!”
“We suffer for their error: Signore, the sins of
the fathers, in our case, have indeed been visited
on the children to the latest generations.”
The countenance of the Genoese grew brighter,
he usually spoke.
“Here has been some injustice of a certainty,”
he said, “or one of thy appearance would not be
found in this cruel position. Depend on our authority
to protect thee, should the danger thou
seemest to apprehend really occur. Still the laws
must be respected, though not always of the rigid
impartiality that we might wish. Thou hast owned
the imperfection of human nature, and it is not
wonderful that its work should have flaws.”
“I complain not now of the usage, which to me
has become habit, but I dread the untamed fury of
these ignorant and credulous men, who have taken
a wild fancy that my presence might bring a curse
upon the bark.”
There are accidental situations which contain
more healthful morals than can be drawn from a
thousand ingenious and plausible homilies, and in
which facts, in their naked simplicity, are far more
eloquent than any meaning that can be conveyed
by words. Such was the case with this meek and
unexpected appeal of Balthazar. All who heard
him saw his situation under very different colors
from those in which it would have been regarded
had the subject presented itself under ordinary circumstances.
A common and painful sentiment attested
strongly against the oppression that had given
birth to his wrongs, and the good Melchior de
Willading himself wondered how a case of this
striking injustice could have arisen under the laws
of Berne.
| CHAPTER V. The headsman, or, The Abbaye des Vignerons | |