The Fortunes of Garin. Mary Johnston
and an overhanging pine, and the end, on this side, of the fief of Castel-Noir. Beyond came a strip of stony and unprofitable land, a debated possession, claimed by two barons and of no especial use to any man. Garin threw himself down upon the boundary stone and, chin in hand, regarded the sliding stream.
It was this stone, perhaps, that brought into mind Tuesday’s boulder and the jongleur. Rather than the jongleur came the figure of the jongleur’s lute. Garin’s fingers moved as though they felt beneath them the strings. A verse was running, running through his head. Only after a slow, lilting, inward saying of it over twice or thrice did it come to him, like the opening of a flower, that it was his own, not another’s. He had made it, lying there. He rose from the stone and walked forward, still going with the gliding stream. As he walked, the second verse came to him. He said over the two, said over his first poem and said it over again, tasting it, savouring it, hearing it now with music. He was in a dream of dawn. …
There was no longer a path, but he went on over the stony soil, beneath old gnarled and stunted trees. The sun rode high and made the water a flood of diamonds. Garin walked with a light and rapid step. When a tree came in his way he swerved and rounded it and went on, but he was hardly conscious that it had been there. The fishing-rod was yet in his hand, but he did not think of the rod, nor of fishing, nor of Castel-Noir, nor Foulque, nor the abbot, nor of the decision which the abbot’s visit would force. He hardly knew of what he was thinking. It was diffused—the world was diffused—drifting and swinging, and in the mist he touched a new power.
A hawk shot downwards, plunged beak in water, rose with the taken fish and soared into the eye of day. Garin started, shook himself, and looked about him. He had come farther than he meant. He half-turned, then stood irresolute, then again faced downstream. The day was not old, and a distaste seized him for going back and listening to Foulque on what the abbot might or might not do. He wandered on.
An hour later he came upon another boundary mark. This was a cross cut in stone, with a rude carving upon the block that formed the base. Garin sat down to rest, and sitting so, fell to scraping with his knife the encrusting lichen from this carving. There was a palm tree and a pyramid, which stamped Egypt in mind. Here was Saint Joseph, and here was the ass bearing the Mother and Child. Above was Latin, to the effect that you were upon the lands of the Convent of Our Lady in Egypt. Garin knew that, and that two miles down the stream the nuns would be now at the noon office. He wondered if, yesterday or to-day, they had sent Jael the herd back to her own. But, on the surface, at least, of consciousness there floated no long thought of that matter. His mood was one of half-melancholy, half-exaltation, all threaded with the warm wonder of making verses.
The nature of the land changed here. For stone and dwarfed growth there began a richer soil and nobler trees. The latter made, all along the water’s edge, a narrow grove, with here and there a fairy opening and lawn of fine grass. Garin, having scraped away the lichen, looked at the sun, which was now past the meridian, and thought that he would retrace his steps.
Before him, out of a covert a little way down the stream, a nightingale sang suddenly. Garin listened, and it might be his mood of to-day that made him think that never before had he heard any bird sing so sweetly. It carolled on, rich and deep, and the young man went toward it. The ribbon of wood was dark and sweet; the bird sang like a soul imprisoned. When it silenced itself Garin still stood looking up into its tree. Presently it flew from that bower and, crossing one of the elfin lawns, lost itself in the farther trees. Garin went on to this grove and it sang for him again. When it ceased he did not go back to the boundary stone. This country pleased him and he thought, “I will go on and see how Our Lady in Egypt looks from this side.”
He followed the stream a mile and more. It was slipping now beneath mighty trees. Their arching boughs made a roof; it was like walking in cloisters. Between the pillars, inland, could be seen fields and vineyards and, at last, the convent’s self, with her olive trees behind her. Garin came now to thickly planted laurels, a grove within a grove. This he threaded, pushing aside the heavy leaves. The laurels ended suddenly, standing close and trim, a high green wall. This followed a curving line and half enclosed a goodly space of turf, a shaven floor of emerald, laved by the little river and shaded by a plane, a poplar, and a cedar. The cedar stood close to the laurels and close to Garin, and beneath the cedar was placed a seat of stone carved like a great chair. The spot was all chequered with light and shade, the air was sweet and fine, and the water sang as it passed. A fairer place for dreaming, for talk or sober merry-making, might not be found. Just now it was as clean as fairyland of human occupancy.
Garin stepped from the laurel wall and sat in the stone seat. It pleased him, this place! A sense of mystery gathered; he began to dream, dream. All manner of coloured, gleaming thought-motes danced over the threshold. The minutes passed.
Voices—women’s voices! Doubly a trespasser that he was, he was not willing to be found here, reigning it from this seat over the sweep of lawn, the three trees, and the singing water. He rose, and stepped back into the wall of laurel; then, being young and not incurious, waited to see who it was that was coming. Lay sisters, perhaps, going from vineyard to vineyard, or bringing clothes for the washing to the river bank which here was rightly shelving. A gleam of grey garments between the tree-trunks on the other side of the sylvan theatre seemed to prove him right; and indeed, in a moment, there did emerge three or four of these same lay sisters—strong, tanned, peasant women, roughly dressed, fit for outdoor labour. They carried on their heads huge osier baskets, but when they set these down, what was taken out was not linen or woollen for washing, but rugs of Eastern weave and cushions of Eastern make.
Moreover, with or following the lay sisters came others—young women—who were certainly not under convent rule. These seized the rugs and cushions and scattered them here and there, to advantage, over the grass. They also set out dishes of fruit and Eastern comfits, and one placed a harp upon a square of gold silk which she spread beneath the poplar. As they worked they chattered like magpies. They were dressed well and fancifully but not richly; it was to be made out that they were waiting-women of those who did dress richly. One cocked her ear, then raised her hand in a gesture to the others, whereupon all fell into a demure silence. The lay sisters who had been stolid and still throughout, now drew off by a path which carried them to the vineyards. The waiting women cast a look around, then, with nods of satisfaction, picked up the empty baskets and found for them and for themselves some pleasant subordinate haven down by the stream, around the corner of the lawn.
The little lawn lay prepared, festive and a desert. Now was the moment when Garin might withdraw and the rustle of the laurel leaves tell no tale where were no ears to hear. Truly, he thought once and twice of departing, but then before the third thought which might have passed into action, he caught, floating out of the opposite wood, delightful voices, laughter that rippled, and a sheen and flash of colours. What he forthwith determined to do was to please a little longer eye and ear and sate curiosity. Then—and it need not be long—he would turn, and as noiselessly as an innocent green-and-brown serpent, slip away toward Castel-Noir. Given that he were discovered, plain truth-telling were not bad. Discovery might bring him rebuke not too scornful, with, perhaps, some laughter in her eye.
He laid his fishing-rod down, then knelt beside it upon the brown earth between the laurel stems. Couched so, he could look past the stone seat and the cedar trunk, and so observe what pageant might appear. Had he had a wand in his hand he could have touched with it this carven chair.
Out from the shadowy opposite grove came bright ladies, seven or eight. One was dressed in violet and one in rose, one in green and white, and one in daffodil, one in a bright medley, one in white sprigged with gold, and one in the colour of the sky. After the fashion of the time their hair hung in long braids from beneath fillet, or garland, or veil of gauze twisted turban-wise or floating loose. Their shoes were of soft-coloured leather or of silk, their dress close-fitting and sweeping the grass. The wide and long mantles that were worn by both sexes were not in evidence here—the day was warm and the convent, whence alone these fair ones could have come, at no distance. Garin wondered, and then he bethought himself that some great reigning countess—perhaps some duchess or princess of Italy or Spain or further yet afield, perhaps some queen—might be travelling through the land, going from one court to another and by the way pausing to refresh herself in the house