Fortunio

by Arthur Quiller-Couch

　　From Noughts and Crosses: Stories, Studies and Sketches.

　　At Tregarrick Fair they cook a goose in twenty-two different ways;and as no one who comes to the fair would dream of eating any otherfood, you may fancy what a reek of cooking fills the narrow greystreet soon after mid-day.As a boy, I was always given a holiday to go to the goose-fair; andit was on my way thither across the moors, that I first madeFortunio's acquaintance. I wore a new pair of corduroys, that smeltoutrageously--and squeaked, too, as I trotted briskly along the bleakhigh road; for I had a bright shilling to spend, and it burnt a holein my pocket. I was planning my purchases, when I noticed, on awindy eminence of the road ahead, a man's figure sharply definedagainst the sky.He was driving a flock of geese, so slowly that I soon caught him up;and such a man or such geese I had never seen. To begin with, hisrags were worse than a scarecrow's. In one hand he carried a longstaff; the other held a small book close under his nose, and his leanshoulders bent over as he read in it. It was clear, from the man'sundecided gait, that all his eyes were for this book. Only he wouldlook up when one of his birds strayed too far on the turf that linedthe highway, and would guide it back to the stones again with hisstaff. As for the geese, they were utterly draggle-tailed andstained with travel, and waddled, every one, with so woe-begone alimp that I had to laugh as I passed.The man glanced up, set his forefinger between the pages of his book,and turned on me a long sallow face and a pair of the most beautifulbrown eyes in the world."Little boy," he said, in a quick foreign way--"rosy little boy.You laugh at my geese, eh?"No doubt I stared at him like a ninny, for he went on--"Little wide-mouthed Cupidon, how you gaze! Also, by the way, howyou smell!""It's my corduroys," said I."Then I discommend your corduroys. But I approve your laugh.Laugh again--only at the right matter: laugh at this--"And, opening his book again, he read a long passage as I walkedbeside him; but I could make neither head nor tail of it."That is from the 'Sentimental Journey,' by Laurence Sterne, the mostbeautiful of your English wits. Ah, he is more than French!Laugh at it."It was rather hard to laugh thus to order; but suddenly he set me theexample, showing two rows of very white teeth, and fetching from hishollow chest a sound of mirth so incongruous with the whole aspect ofthe man, that I began to grin too."That's right; but be louder. Make the sounds that you made justnow--"He broke off sharply, being seized with an ugly fit of coughing, thatforced him to halt and lean on his staff for a while. When herecovered we walked on together after the geese, he talking all theway in high-flown sentences that were Greek to me, and I stealing alook every now and then at his olive face, and half inclined to taketo my heels and run.We came at length to the ridge where the road dives suddenly intoTregarrick. The town lies along a narrow vale, and looking down, wesaw flags waving along the street and much smoke curling from thechimneys, and heard the church-bells, the big drum, and the confusedmutterings and hubbub of the fair. The sun--for the morning wasstill fresh--did not yet pierce to the bottom of the valley, but fellon the hillside opposite, where cottage-gardens in parallel stripsclimbed up from the town to the moorland beyond."What is that?" asked the goose-driver, touching my arm and pointingto a dazzling spot on the slope opposite."That's the sun on the windows of Gardener Tonken's glass-house.""Eh?--does he live there?""He's dead, and the garden's 'to let;' you can just see the boardfrom here. But he didn't live there, of course. People don't livein glass-houses; only plants.""That's a pity, little boy, for their souls' sakes. It reminds me ofa story--by the way, do you know Latin? No? Well, listen to this:--if I can sell my geese to-day, perhaps I will hire that glass-house,and you shall come there on half holidays, and learn Latin. Now runahead and spend your money."I was glad to escape, and in the bustle of the fair quickly forgot myfriend. But late in the afternoon, as I had my eyes glued to apeep-show, I heard a voice behind me cry "Little boy!" and turning,saw him again. He was without his geese."I have sold them," he said, "for 5 pounds; and I have taken theglass-house. The rent is only 3 pounds a year, and I shan't livelonger, so that leaves me money to buy books. I shall feed on thesnails in the garden, making soup of them, for there is a beautifulstove in the glass-house. When is your next half-holiday?""On Saturday.""Very well. I am going away to buy books; but I shall be back bySaturday, and then you are to come and learn Latin."It may have been fear or curiosity, certainly it was no desire forlearning, that took me to Gardener Tonken's glass-house next Saturdayafternoon. The goose-driver was there to welcome me."Ah, wide-mouth," he cried; "I knew you would be here. Come and seemy library."He showed me a pile of dusty, tattered volumes, arranged on an oldflower-stand."See," said he, "no sorrowful books, only Aristophanes and Lucian,Horace, Rabelais, Moliere, Voltaire's novels, 'Gil Blas,''Don Quixote,' Fielding, a play or two of Shakespeare, a volume or soof Swift, Prior's Poems, and Sterne--that divine Sterne! And a LatinGrammar and Virgil for you, little boy. First, eat some snails."But this I would not. So he pulled out two three-legged stools, andvery soon I was trying to fix my wandering wits and decline mensa.* * * * * * *After this I came on every half-holiday for nearly a year. Of coursethe tenant of the glass-house was a nine days' wonder in the town.A crowd of boys and even many grown men and women would assemble andstare into the glass-house while we worked; but Fortunio (he gave noother name) seemed rather to like it than not. Only when somewiseacres approached my parents with hints that my studies with aragged man who lived on snails and garden-stuff were uncommonly liketraffic with the devil, Fortunio, hearing the matter, walked over onemorning to our home and had an interview with my mother. I don'tknow what was said; but I know that afterwards no resistance was madeto my visits to the glass-house.They came to an end in the saddest and most natural way.One September afternoon I sat construing to Fortunio out of the firstbook of Virgil's "Aeneid"--so far was I advanced; and coming to thepassage--

　　"Tum breviter Dido, vultum demissa, profatur". . .

　　I had just rendered vultum demissa "with downcast eyes," when thebook was snatched from me and hurled to the far end of theglass-house. Looking up, I saw Fortunio in a transport of passion."Fool--little fool! Will you be like all the commentators? Will youforget what Virgil has said and put your own nonsense into his goldenmouth?"He stepped across, picked up the book, found the passage, and thenturning back a page or so, read out--

　　"Saepta armis solioque alte subnixa resedit."

　　"Alte! Alte!" he screamed: "Dido sat on high: Aeneas stood at thefoot of her throne. Listen to this:--'Then Dido, bending down hergaze . . . '"He went on translating. A rapture took him, and the sun beat inthrough the glass roof, and lit up his eyes. He was transfigured;his voice swelled and sank with passion, swelled again, and then, atthe words--

　　..."Quae te tam laeta tulerunt

　　Saecula? Qui tanti talem genuere parentes?"

　　It broke, the Virgil dropped from his hand, and sinking down on hisstool he broke into a wild fit of sobbing."Oh, why did I read it? Why did I read this sorrowful book?"And then checking his sobs, he put a handkerchief to his mouth, tookit away, and looked up at me with dry eyes."Go away, little one, Don't come again: I am going to die very soonnow."I stole out, awed and silent, and went home. But the picture of himkept me awake that night, and early in the morning I dressed and ranoff to the glass-house.He was still sitting as I had left him."Why have you come?" he asked, harshly. "I have been coughing.I am going to die.""Then I'll fetch a doctor.""No.""A clergyman?""No."But I ran for the doctor.Fortunio lived on for a week after this, and at length consented tosee a clergyman. I brought the vicar, and was told to leave themalone together and come back in an hour's time.When I returned, Fortunio was stretched quietly on the rough bed wehad found for him, and the Vicar, who knelt beside it, was speakingsoftly in his ear.As I entered on tiptoe, I heard--". . . in that kingdom shall be no weeping--""Oh, Parson," interrupted Fortunio, "that's bad. I'm so bored withlaughing that the good God might surely allow a few tears."The parish buried him, and his books went to pay for the funeral.But I kept the Virgil; and this, with the few memories that I impartto you, is all that remains to me of Fortunio.

　　THE END.