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Page 34
St. Francis might come back to Assisi and take up his work as he left
it. But I sought in vain for John Calvin in Geneva. The city was too
prosperous and gay. The cheerful houses, the streets with their
cosmopolitan crowds, the parks, the schools, the university, the little
boats skimming over the lake, all bore witness to the well-being of
to-day. But what of yesterday? The citizens were celebrating the
anniversary of Jean Jacques Rousseau. I realized that it was not
yesterday but the day before yesterday that I was seeking. Where was the
stern little city which Calvin taught and ruled? The place that knew him
knows him no more.
Disappointed in my search for Calvin, I sought compensation in Servetus.
I found the stone placed by modern Calvinists to mark the spot where the
Spanish heretic was burned. On it they had carved an inscription
expressing their regret for the act of intolerance on the part of the
reformer, and attributing the blame to the age in which he lived. But
even this did not satisfy modern Geneva. The inscription had been
chipped away in order to give place I was told, to something more
historically accurate.
But whether Calvin was to blame, or the sixteenth century, did not seem
to matter. The spot was so beautiful that it seemed impossible that
anything tragical could ever have happened here. A youth and maiden were
sitting by the stone, engaged in a most absorbing conversation. Of one
thing I was certain, that the theological differences between Calvin and
Servetus were nothing to them. They had something more important to
think about--at least for them.
II
After a time one comes to have a certain modesty of expectation. Time
and Space are different elements, and each has its own laws. At the
price of a steamship ticket one may be transported to another country,
but safe passage to another age is not guaranteed. It is enough if some
slight suggestion is given to the imagination. A walk through a pleasant
neighborhood is all the pleasanter if one knows that something memorable
has happened there. If one is wise he will not attempt to realize it to
the exclusion of the present scene. It is enough to have a slight flavor
of historicity.
It was this pleasure which I enjoyed in a ramble with a friend through
the New Forest. The day was fine, and it would have been a joy to be
under the greenwood trees if no one had been before us. But the New
Forest had a human interest; for on such a day as this, William Rufus
rode into it to hunt the red deer, and was found with an arrow through
his body. And to this day no man knows who killed William Rufus, or why.
Though, of course, some people have their suspicions.
Many other things may have happened in the New Forest in the centuries
that have passed, but they have never been brought vividly to my
attention. So far as I was concerned there were no confusing incidents.
The Muse of History told one tragic tale and then was silent.
On the other side of the Forest was the Rufus stone marking the spot
where the Red King's body was found. At Brockenhurst we inquired the
way, which we carefully avoided. The road itself was an innovation, and
was infested with motor-cars, machines unknown to the Normans. The Red
King had plunged into the Forest and quickly lost himself; so would we.
There were great oaks and wide-spreading beeches and green glades such
as one finds only in England. It was pleasant to feel that it all
belonged to the Crown. I could not imagine a county council allowing
this great stretch of country to remain in its unspoiled beauty through
these centuries.
We took our frugal lunch under a tree that had looked down on many
generations. Then we wandered on through a green wilderness. We saw no
one but some women gathering fagots. I was glad to see that they were
exercising their ancestral rights in the royal domain. They looked
contented, though I should have preferred to have their dress more
antique.
All day we followed William Rufus through the Forest. I began to feel
that I had a real acquaintance with him, having passed through much the
same experience. The forest glades have been little changed since the
day when he hunted the red deer. Nature is the true conservative, and
repeats herself incessantly.
Toward evening my friend pointed out the hill at the foot of which was
the Rufus stone. It was still some two miles away. Should we push on to
it?
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