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Page 28
One word, however, I caught at last from all this jargon, and that
often repeated with a little bow to me, and an uneasy smile on his
white face--"Mishrush, Mishrush!" But whether by this he meant to
convey to me his habitual mood, or his own name, I did not learn till
afterwards. I stopped in the heavy road and raised my hand.
"An inn," I cried in his ear, "I want lodging, supper--a tavern, an
inn!" as if addressing a child or a natural.
He began gesticulating again, evidently vain of having fully
understood me. Indeed, he twisted his little head upon his shoulders
to observe Rosinante gauntly labouring on. "'Ame!--'ame!" he cried
with a great effort.
I nodded.
"Ah!" he cried piteously.
He led me, after a few minutes' journey, into the cobbled yard of a
bright-painted inn, on whose signboard a rising sun glimmered faintly
gold, and these letters standing close above it--"The World's End."
Mr. "Mishrush" seemed not a little relieved at nearing company after
his lonely walk; triumphant, too, at having guided me hither so
cunningly. He lifted his nimble cudgel in the air and waved it
conceitedly to and fro in time to the song that rose beyond the
window. "Fau'ow er Wur'!--Fau'ow er Wur'!" he cried delightedly again
and again in my ear, eager apparently for my approval. So we stood,
then, beneath the starless sky, listening to the rich _choragium_ of
the "World's End." They sang in unison, sang with a kind of forlorn
heat and enthusiasm. And when the song was ended, and the roar of
applause over, Night, like a darkened water whelmed silently in,
engulfed it to the echo:
Follow the World--
She bursts the grape,
And dandles man
In her green lap;
She moulds her Creature
From the clay,
And crumbles him
To dust away:
Follow the World!
One Draught, one Feast,
One Wench, one Tomb;
And thou must straight
To ashes come:
Drink, eat, and sleep;
Why fret and pine?
Death can but snatch
What ne'er was thine:
Follow the World!
It died away, I say, and an ostler softly appeared out of the shadow.
Into his charge, then, I surrendered Rosinante, and followed my
inarticulate acquaintance into the noise and heat and lustre of the
Inn.
It was a numerous company there assembled. But their voices fell to a
man on the entry of a stranger. They scrutinised me, not uncivilly,
but closely, seeking my badge, as it were by which to recognise and
judge me ever after.
Mr. Mistrust, as I presently discovered my guide's name indeed to be,
was volubly explaining how I came into his company. They listened
intently to what, so far as I could gather, might be Houyhnhnmish or
Double-Dutch. And then, as if to show me to my place forthwith, a
great fleshy fellow that sat close beside the hearth this summer
evening continued in a loud voice the conversation I had interrupted.
Whereupon Mr. Mistrust with no little confidence commended me in dumb
show to the landlady of the Inn, a Mrs. Nature, if I understood him
aright. This person was still comely, though of uncertain age, wore
cherry ribbons, smiled rather vacantly from vague, wonderful,
indescribable eyes that seemed to change colour, like the chameleon,
according to that they dwelt on.
I am afraid, as much to my amusement as wonder, I discovered that this
landlady of so much apparent _bonhomie_ was a deaf-mute. If victuals,
or drink, or bed were required, one must chalk it down on a little
slate she carried at her girdle for the purpose. Indeed, the absence
of two of her three chief senses had marvellously sharpened the
remaining one. Her eyes were on all, vaguely dwelling, lightly gone,
inscrutable, strangely fascinating. She moved easily and soundlessly
(as fat women may), and I doubt if ever mug or pot of any of that
talkative throng remained long empty, except at the tippler's
reiterated request.
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