Book: Austin and His Friends

F >> Frederic H. Balfour >> Austin and His Friends




"What is Art?" queried St Aubyn.

Austin hesitated for some moments. Then he said, very slowly:

"That is a question to which a dozen answers might be given. A whole
book would be required to deal with it."

St Aubyn was delighted, both at the reply and at the hesitation that
had preceded it.

"And are you an artist?" he enquired.

"I believe I am," replied Austin, very seriously. "Of course one
doesn't like to be too confident, and I can't draw a single line, but
still----"

"Good again," approved the other. "Here as in everything else all
depends upon the definition. What is an artist?"

"An artist," exclaimed Austin, kindling, "is one who can see the
beauty everywhere."

"_The_ beauty?" repeated St Aubyn.

"The beauty that exists everywhere, even in ugly things. The beauty
that ordinary people don't see," returned Austin. "Anybody can see
beauty in what are _called_ beautiful things--light, and colour, and
grace. But it takes an artist to see beauty in a muddy road, and
dripping branches, and drenching rain. How people cursed and grumbled
on that rainy day we had last week; it made me sick to hear them. Now
I saw the beauty _under_ the ugliness of it all--the wonderful soft
greys and browns, the tiny glints of silver between the leaves, the
flashes of pearl and orpiment behind the shifting clouds. Do you know,
I even see beauty in this wooden leg of mine, great beauty, though
everybody else thinks it perfectly hideous! So that is why I hope I am
not wrong in imagining that perhaps I may, really, be in some sense an
artist."

For a moment St Aubyn did not speak. "The boy's a great artist," he
muttered to himself. His interest was now excited in good earnest; here
was no common mind. Of art Austin knew practically nothing, but the
artistic instinct was evidently tingling in every vein of him. St Aubyn
himself lived for art and literature, and was amazed to have come
across so curiously exceptional a personality. He drew the boy out a
little more, and then, in a moment of impulse, did a most unaccustomed
thing: he invited Austin to lunch with him on the following Thursday,
promising, in addition, that they should spend the afternoon together
looking over his conservatories and picture-gallery.

So great an honour, so undreamt-of a privilege, sent Austin's blood to
the roots of his hair. He flourished his leg more proudly than ever as
he stumped victoriously home and announced the great news to Aunt
Charlotte. That estimable lady was fingering some notepaper on her
writing-table as her excited nephew came bursting in upon her with his
face radiant.

"Auntie," he cried, "what do you think? You'll never guess. I'm going
to lunch with Mr St Aubyn on Thursday!"

Aunt Charlotte turned round, looking slightly dazed.

"Going to lunch with whom?" she asked.

"With Mr St Aubyn. You know--he lives at Moorcombe Court. I met him in
the woods and had a long talk with him, and now he's going to show me
all his pictures--_and_ his engravings--_and_ his wonderful orchids
and things. I'm to spend all the afternoon with him. Isn't it
splendid! I could never have hoped for such an opportunity. And he's
so awfully nice--so cultured and clever, you know--"

"Really!" said Aunt Charlotte, drawing herself up. "Well, you're
vastly honoured, Austin, I must say. Mr St Aubyn is chary of his
civilities. It is very kind of him to ask you, I'm sure, but I think
it's rather a liberty all the same."

"A liberty!" repeated Austin, aghast.

"He has never called on me," returned Aunt Charlotte, statelily. "If
he had wished to cultivate our acquaintance, that would have been at
least the usual thing to do. However, of course I've no objection. On
Thursday, you say. Well, now just give me your attention to something
rather more important. I intend to invite some people here to tea next
week, and you may as well write the invitations for me now."

Austin's face lengthened. "Oh, why?" he sighed. "It isn't as though
there was anybody worth asking--and really, the horrid creatures that
infest this neighbourhood--. Whom do you want to ask?"

"I'm astonished at you, speaking of our friends like that," replied
his aunt, severely. "They're not horrid creatures; they're all very
nice and kind. Of course we must have the MacTavishes----"

"I knew it," groaned Austin, sinking into a chair. "Those dear
MacTavishes! There are nineteen of them, aren't there? Or is it only
nine?"

"Don't be ridiculous, Austin," said Aunt Charlotte. "Then there are
the Miss Minchins--that'll be eleven; the vicar and his wife, of
_course_; and old Mr and Mrs Cobbledick. Now just come and sit
here----"

"The Cobbledicks--those old murderers!" cried Austin. "Do you want us
to be all assassinated together?"

"Murderers!" exclaimed Aunt Charlotte, horrified. "I think you've gone
out of your mind. A dear kindly old couple like the Cobbledicks! Not
very handsome, perhaps, but--murderers! What in the world will you say
next?"

"The most sinister-looking old pair of cut-throats in the parish,"
returned Austin. "I should be sorry to meet them on a lonely road on a
dark night, I know that. But really, auntie, I do wish you'd think
better of all this. We're quite happy alone; what do we want of all
these horrible people coming to bore us for Heaven knows how many
hours? Of course _I_ shall be told off to amuse the MacTavishes; just
think of it! Seven red-haired, screaming, giggling monsters----"

"Hold your tongue, do, you abominable boy!" cried Aunt Charlotte. "I'm
inviting our friends for _my_ pleasure, not for yours, and I forbid
you to speak of them in that wicked, slanderous, disrespectful way.
Come now, sit down here and write me the invitations at once."

"For the last time, auntie, I entreat you----" began Austin.

"Not a word more!" replied his aunt. "Begin without more ado."

"Well, if you insist," consented Austin, as he dragged himself into
the seat. "Have you fixed upon a day?"

"No--any day will do. Just choose one yourself," said Aunt Charlotte,
as she dived after an errant ball of worsted. "What day will suit you
best?"

"Shall we say the 24th?" suggested Austin.

"By all means," replied his aunt briskly. "If you're sure that that
won't interfere with anything else. I've such a wretched memory for
dates. To-day is the 19th. Yes, I should say the 24th will do very
well indeed."

"It will suit me admirably," said Austin, sitting down and beginning
to write with great alacrity, while his aunt busied herself with her
knitting. As soon as the envelopes were addressed, he slipped them
into his coat pocket, and, rising, said he might as well go out and
post them there and then.

"Do," said Aunt Charlotte, well pleased at Austin's sudden
capitulation. "That is, unless you're too tired with your walk. Martha
can always give them to the milkman if you are."

"Not a bit of it," said Austin hastily, as he swung himself out of the
room. "I shall be back in time for dinner."

"He certainly is the very oddest boy," soliloquised Aunt Charlotte, as
she settled herself comfortably on the sofa and went on clicking her
knitting-needles. "Why he dislikes the MacTavishes so I can't imagine;
nice, cheerful young persons as anyone would wish to see. It really is
very queer. And then the way he suddenly gave in at last! It only
shows that I must be firm with him. As soon as he saw I was in earnest
he yielded at once. He's got a sweet nature, but he requires a firm
hand. He's different, too, since he lost his leg--more full of
fancies, it seems to me, and a great deal too much wrapped up in those
books of his. I suppose that when one's body is defective, one's mind
feels the effects of it. I shall have to keep him up to the mark, and
see that he has plenty of cheerful society. Nothing like nice
companions for maintaining the brain in order."

Thus did Aunt Charlotte decide to her own satisfaction what she
thought would be best for Austin.




Chapter the Third


He stood leaning against the old stone fountain on the straight lawn
under the noonday sun. The bees hummed slumberously around him,
sailing from flower to flower, and the hot air, laden with the scents
of the soil, seemed to penetrate his body at every pore, infusing a
sense of vitality into him which pulsed through all his veins. Austin
always said that high noon was the supreme moment of the day. To some
folks the most beautiful time was dawn, to others sunset, but at noon
Nature was like a flower at its full, a flower in the very zenith of
its strength and glory. He had always loved the noon.

"The world seems literally palpitating with life," he thought, as he
rested his arm on the rim of the time-worn fountain. "I'm sure it's
conscious, in some way or other. How it must enjoy itself! Look at the
trees; so strong, and calm, and splendid. They know well enough how
strong they are, and when there's a storm that tries to blow them
down, how they do revel in battling with it! And then the hot air,
embracing the earth so voluptuously--playing with the slender plants,
and caressing the upstanding flowers. They stand up because they want
to be caressed, the amorous creatures. How wonderful it is--the
different characters that flowers have. Some are shrill and fierce and
passionate, while others are meek and sly, and pretend to shrink when
they are even noticed. Some are wicked--shamelessly, insolently,
magnificently wicked--like those scarlet anthuriums, with their
curling yellow tongues. That flower is the very incarnation of sin;
no, not incarnation--what's the word? I can't think, but it doesn't
matter. Incarnation will do, for the thing is exactly like
recalcitrant human flesh. Lubin!"

"Yes, Sir?" responded Lubin, who was digging near.

"What are the wickedest flowers you know?" asked Austin.

"Well, Sir, I should say them as had most thorns," said Lubin
feelingly.

"I wonder," mused Austin. Then he relapsed into his meditations. "How
thick with life the air is. I'm sure it's populated, if we only had
eyes to see. I feel it throbbing all round me--full of beings as much
alive as I am, only invisible. People used to see them once upon a
time--why can't we now? Naiads, and dryads, and fauns, and the great
god Pan everywhere; oh, to think we may be actually surrounded by
these wonders of beauty, and yet unable to talk to any of them!
Nothing but wicked old women, and horrible young men in plaid
knickerbockers and bowler hats, who worry one about odds and
handicaps. It's all very sad and ugly."

"Aren't you rather hot, standing there in the sun, Sir, all this
time?" said Lubin, looking up.

"Very hot," replied Austin. "I wonder what time it is?"

Lubin glanced up at the sundial. "Just five minutes past the hour, or
thereabouts, I make it."

"Oh, Lubin, let's go and bathe!" cried Austin suddenly. "You must be
far hotter than I am. There's plenty of time--we don't lunch till
half-past one. How long would it take us to get to the bathing-pool
just at the bend of the river?"

"Well--not above ten minutes, I should say," was Lubin's answer. "I'd
like a dip myself more'n a little, but I'm not quite sure if I ought
to--you see the mistress wants all this finished up by the afternoon,
and then----"

"But you must!" insisted Austin. "You forget that I've only got one
leg, so I can't swim as I used, and you've got to come and take care I
don't get drowned. 'O weep for Adonais--he is dead!' How angry Aunt
Charlotte would be. And then she'd cry, poor dear, and go into hideous
mourning for her poor Austin. Come along, Lubin--but wait, I must just
go and get a couple of towels. Oh, I'm simply mad for the water. I'll
be back in less than a flash."

Lubin drove his spade into the earth, turned down his sleeves, and
rested--a fair-skinned, bronzed, wholesome object, good to look
at--while Austin stumped away. In less than five minutes the two
youths started off together, tramping through the long, lush
meadow-grass which lay between the end of the garden and the river.
The sun burned fiercely overhead, and the air quivered in the heat.

"Isn't it wonderful!" cried Austin, when they reached the edge of the
water, and were standing under the shade of some trees that overhung
the towing-path. "Come, Lubin, strip--I'm half undressed already. Look
at the white and purple lights in the water--aren't they marvellous?
Now we're going right down into them. Oh the freedom of air, and
colour, and body--how I do _hate_ clothes! I say, how funny my stump
looks, doesn't it? Just like a great white rolling-pin. You must go in
first, Lubin, and then you'll be prepared to catch me when I begin
drowning."

Lubin, standing nude and shapely, like a fair Greek statue, for a
moment on the bank, took a silent header and disappeared. Then Austin
prepared to follow. He tumbled rather than plunged into the water,
and, unable to attain an erect position owing to his imperfect
organism, would have fared badly if Lubin had not caught him in his
arms and turned him deftly over on his back.

"You just content yourself with floating face upwards, Sir," he said.
"There's no sort of use in trying to strike out, you'd only sink to
the bottom like a boat with a hole in it. There--let me hold you like
this; one hand'll do it. Look out for the river-weeds. Now try and
work your foot. Seems to be making you go round and round, somehow.
But that don't matter. A bathe's a bathe, all said and done. How jolly
cool it is!"

"Isn't it exquisite?" murmured Austin, with closed eyes. "I do think
that drowning must be a lovely death. We're like the minnows, Lubin,
'staying their wavy bodies 'gainst the streams, to taste the luxury of
sunny beams tempered with coolness.' That's what _our_ wavy bodies are
doing now. Don't you like it? 'Now more than ever it seems rich to
die----'"

But the next moment, owing probably to Lubin having lost his
equilibrium, the young rhapsodist found himself, spluttering and
half-choked, nearer to the bed of the river than the surface, while
his leg was held in chancery by a network of clinging water-weeds.
Lubin had some slight difficulty in extricating him, and for the
moment, at least, his poetic fantasies came to an abrupt and
unromantic finish.

"Here, get on my back, and I'll swim you out as far as them
water-lilies," said Lubin, giving him a dexterous hoist. "I'm awfully
keen on the yellow sort, and they look wonderful fine ones. That's
better. Now, Sir, you can just imagine yourself any drownded heathen
as comes into your head, only hold tight and don't stir. If you do
you'll get drownded in good earnest, and I shall have to settle
accounts with your aunt afterwards. Are you ready? Right, then. And
now away we go."

He struck out strongly and slowly, with Austin crouching on his
shoulders. They arrived in safety at the point aimed at, and managed
to tear away a grand cluster of the great, beautiful yellow flowers;
but the process was a very ticklish one, and the struggle resulted,
not unnaturally, in Austin becoming dislodged from his not very secure
position, and floundering head foremost into the depths. Lubin caught
him as he rose again, and, taking him firmly by one hand, helped him
to swim alongside of him back to the shore. It was a difficult feat,
and by the time they had accomplished the distance they were both
pretty well exhausted.

"You _have_ been good to me, Lubin," gasped Austin, as he flung
himself sprawling on the grass. "I've had a lovely time--haven't you
too? Was I very heavy? Perhaps it is rather a bore to have only one
leg when one wants to swim. But now you can always say you've saved me
from drowning, can't you. I should have gone under a dozen times if
you hadn't held me up and lugged me about. Oh, dear, now we must put
on our clothes again--what a barbarism clothes are! I do hate them so,
don't you? But I suppose there's no help for it.

"Rise, Lubin, rise, and twitch thy mantle blue;
To-morrow to fresh woods, and pastures new.

"Oh, do help me to screw on my leg. That's it. I say, it's a
quarter-past one! We must hurry up, or Aunt Charlotte will be cursing.
What _does_ it matter if one eats at half-past one or at a quarter to
two? I really am very fond of Aunt Charlotte, you know, though I find
it awfully difficult to educate her. I sometimes despair of ever being
able to bring her up properly at all, she is so hopelessly Early
Victorian, poor thing. But, then, so many people are, aren't they? Now
animals are never Early Victorian; that's why I respect them so. If
you weren't a human being, Lubin--and a very nice one, as you
are--what sort of an animal would you like to be?"

"Well, I don't rightly know as I ever considered the point," said
Lubin, passing his fingers through his drenched curls. "Perhaps I'd as
lief be a squirrel as anything. I'm awfully fond o' nuts, and when I
was a kid I used to spend half my time a-climbing trees. A squirrel
must have rather a jolly life of it, when one comes to think."

"What a splendid idea!" cried Austin, as they prepared to start. "You
_are_ clever, Lubin. It would be lovely to live in a tree, curtained
all round with thousands of quivering green leaves. I wish I knew what
animals think about all day. It must be very dull for them never to
have any thoughts, poor dears, and yet they seem happy enough
somehow. Perhaps they have something else instead to make up for
it--something that we've no idea of. I _say_--it's half-past one!"

So Austin was late for lunch after all, and got a scolding from Aunt
Charlotte, who told him that it was exceedingly ill-bred to
inconvenience other people by habitual unpunctuality. Austin was very
penitent, and promised he'd never be unpunctual again if he lived to
be a hundred. Then Aunt Charlotte was mollified, and regaled him with
an improving account of a most excellent book she had just been
reading, upon the importance of instilling sound principles of
political economy into the mind of the agricultural labourer. It was
so essential, she explained, that people in that position should
understand something about the laws which govern prices, the relations
of capital and labour, the _metayer_ system, and the ratio which
should exist between an increase of population and the exhaustion of
the soil by too frequent crops of wheat; and she wound up by
propounding a series of hypothetical problems based on the doctrines
she had set forth, for Austin to solve offhand.

Austin listened very dutifully for some time, but the subject bored
him atrociously, and his attention began to wander. At last he made
some rather vague and irrelevant replies, and then announced boldly
that he thought all politicians were very silly old gentlemen,
particularly economists; for his own part, he hated economy,
especially when he wanted to buy something beautiful to look at; he
further considered that political economists would be much better
employed if they sat contemplating tulips instead of writing horrid
books, and that Lubin was a great deal wiser than the whole pack of
them put together. Then Aunt Charlotte got extremely angry, and a
great wrangle ensued, in the course of which she said he was a
foolish, ignorant boy, who talked nonsense for the sake of talking it.
Austin replied by asking if she knew what a quincunx was, or what
Virgil was really driving at when he composed the First Eclogue, and
whether she had ever heard of Lycidas; and when she said that she had
something better to do than stuff her head with quidnunxes and all
such pagan rubbish, he remarked very politely that ignorance was
evidently not all of the same sort. Which sent Aunt Charlotte bustling
away in a huff to look after her household duties.

"It's all very sad and very ugly, isn't it, Gioconda?" sighed Austin,
as he lifted the large, white, fluffy animal upon his lap. "You're a
great philosopher, my dear; I wish I were as wise as you. You're so
scornful, so dignified, so divinely egoistic. But you don't mind being
worshipped, do you, Gioconda? Because you know it's your right, of
course. There--she's actually condescending to purr! Now we'll come
and disport ourselves under the trees, and you shall watch the birds
from a safe distance. I know your wicked ways, and I must teach you
how to treat your inferiors with proper benignity and toleration."

But Gioconda had plans of her own for the afternoon, and declined the
proposed discipline; so Austin strolled off by himself, and lay down
under the trees with a large book on Italian gardens to console him.
His improvised exertions in the water had produced a certain fatigue,
and he felt lazy and inert. Gradually he dropped off into a doze,
which lasted more than an hour. And he had a curious dream. He thought
he was in some strange land--a land like a garden seen through yellow
glass--where everything was transparent, and people glided about as
though they were skating, without any conscious effort. Then Aunt
Charlotte appeared upon the scene, and he saw by her eyes that she was
very angry because Lycidas had been drowned while bathing; but Austin
assured her that it was Lubin who was drowned, and that it really was
of no consequence, because Lubin was only a squirrel after all. At
this point things got extremely mixed, and the sound of voices broke
in upon his slumbers. He opened his eyes, and saw Aunt Charlotte
herself in the act of walking away with a toss of her head that
betokened a ruffled temper.

Austin's interest was immediately aroused. "Lubin!" he called softly,
motioning the lad to come nearer. "What was she rowing you about? Was
she blowing you up about this morning?"

"Well," confessed Lubin with a broad smile, "she didn't seem
over-pleased. Said you might have lost your life, going out o' your
depth with only one leg to stand on, and that if you'd been drownded I
should have had to answer for it before a judge and jury."

"What a wicked, abandoned old woman!" cried Austin. "Only one leg to
stand on, indeed!--she hasn't a single leg to stand on when she says
such things. She ought to have gone down on her knees and thanked you
for taking such care of me. But I shall never make anything of her,
I'm afraid. The more I try to educate her the worse she gets."

"I shouldn't wonder," replied Lubin sagely. "The old hen feels herself
badly off when the egg teaches her to cackle. That's human nature,
that is. And then she was riled because she was afraid I shouldn't
have time to get the garden-things in order by to-morrow, when it
seems there's some sort o' company expected. I told her 'twould be all
right."

"Oh, those brutes! Of course, they're coming to-morrow. I'd nearly
forgotten all about it. It's just like Aunt Charlotte to be so fond of
all those hideous people. You hate the MacTavishes, don't you, Lubin?
_Do_ hate the MacTavishes! Fancy--nine of them, no less, counting the
old ones, and all of them coming together. What a family! I despise
people who breed like rabbits, as though they thought they were so
superlative that the rest of the world could never have enough of
them."

"Ay, fools grow without watering," assented Lubin. "Can't say I ever
took to 'em myself--though it's not my place to say so. The young
gents make a bit too free with one, and when they opens their mouths
no one else may so much as sneeze. Think they know everything, they
do. There's a saying as I've heard, that asses sing badly 'cause they
pitch their voices too high. Maybe it's the same wi' them."

"Well, I hope Aunt Charlotte will enjoy their conversation," said
Austin comfortably. "I say, Lubin, do you know anything about a Mr St
Aubyn, who lives not far from here?"

"What, him at the Court?" replied Lubin. "I don't know him myself, but
they say as _he's_ a gentleman, and no mistake. Keeps himself to
himself, he does, and has always got a civil word for everybody. Fine
old place, too, that of his."

"Have you ever been inside?" asked Austin.

"Lor' no, Sir," answered Lubin. "Don't know as I'm over anxious to,
either. The garden's a sight, it's true--but it seems there's
something queer about the house. Can't make out what it can be, unless
the drains are a bit out of order. But it ain't that neither. Sort o'
frightening--so folks say. But lor', some folks'll say anything. I
never knew anybody as ever _saw_ anything there. It's only some old
woman's yarn, I reckon."

"Oh, is it haunted? Are there any ghosts?" cried Austin, in great
excitement. "I'd give anything in this world to see a ghost!"

"I don't know as I'd care to sleep in a haunted house myself," said
Lubin, beginning to sweep the lawn. "Some folks don't mind that sort
o' thing, I s'pose; must have got accustomed to it somehow. Then
there's those as is born ghost-seers, and others as couldn't see one,
not if it was to walk arm-in-arm with 'em to church. Let's hope Mr St
Aubyn's one o' that sort, seeing as he's got to live there. It's poor
work being a baker if your head's made of butter, I've heard say."

"Then it _is_ haunted!" exclaimed Austin. "What a bit of luck. You
see, Lubin, I know Mr St Aubyn just a little, and soon I'm going to
lunch with him. How I shall be on the look-out! I wonder how it feels
to see a ghost. You've never seen one, have you?"

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