The golden journey of Mr. Paradyne
And, as he played, his heart was uplifted in a strange exultation,
such as--he now remembered dimly--had inspired him once before when he
had put the flageolet to his lips. He caught at an elusive memory and
gripped it hard, and stared wide-eyed before him with open mouth.
A bit of waste land by the roadside under the starlight. It looked like
a brick-field. They sat on some scattered rubbish. He could just see
the young man’s clear-cut, humorous face. ‘Sir, for my music I’ll take
what you like to give me. But my flageolet no money can buy. On the
other hand, to him who can play my composition through without fault, I
yield it gladly.’
Yes; he had played it through from beginning to end.
The young man bowed:
‘It is yours,’ said he....
‘But what will you do without it?’
‘I have a new tune in my head more suited to the piccolo which I carry
in my pocket, and which, indeed, I prefer as an instrument.’
‘This,’ laughed Paradyne, fingering the silver keys and stops, ‘is good
enough for me.’
‘Perhaps for the present. But you will grow more fastidious. It has
none of the woodland softness. The shepherds of Theocritus, if you
remember, piped not into metal but into reed that sprang from organic
life.’
He pulled out the homeliest little piccolo in the world. Paradyne
stretched out a hand. The young man laughed.
‘Not yet,’ said he. Then suddenly: ‘Where are you going?’
‘For a walk.’
‘So am I. First through France. Then through Italy, then Sicily.’
‘France, Italy, Sicily----’ the faint echo of his murmured response
floated back. ‘Fortunate young man!’
‘Why should you be less fortunate than I? The road is open. Come with
me,’ said the young man, and laid a hand upon his arm.
Then, as always, the rift in the curtain that veiled the past three
months closed suddenly. But the vision, as far as it went, had been
startlingly complete.
He laughed aloud as he gazed on the shimmering pipe, and his laughter
was informed with the thrill of pride. It had come to him not as a
thing chaffered for and sordidly purchased; but as a minstrel’s prize,
such as, in the times of which Theocritus sang, he might have been
awarded by a challenging god.
France. Italy. Sicily. _Theocritus_--‘O Singer of Persephone----’ How
did Wilde’s Villanelle go?
‘Slim Lacon keeps a goat for thee,
For thee the jocund shepherds wait;
O Singer of Persephone!
Dost thou remember Sicily?’
He repeated the final quatrain two or three times, enjoying its
flavour. Then, suddenly, inspired with new strength and purpose, he
jumped to the ground, harnessed the horse to the caravan, and started
down the moonlit avenue to the town of Chartres. But he did not stay
at the fair-ground. He passed through and, casting a humorous glance
at the yellow-and-red-striped caravan in which the vivid girl lay
presumably asleep, blew a kiss to her with his fingers, as to a symbol,
and made his slow progress through the narrow streets of the sleeping
city.
The dawn found him, with the shining eyes of one awakened to Life’s
promise, jogging southward on an irrevocable way, never, in this life,
to retrace his steps.
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Transcriber’s Note:
Obvious errors in accents and punctuation have been silently corrected
in this version, but minor inconsistencies have been retained as
printed.
Some illustrations have been moved slightly to better fit the ebook
format.