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Page 13

"I suppose he must go his own gait," she muttered, as she picked up
her knitting again. "There's no use in trying to force him this way
or that; if he doesn't want to do a thing he won't do it. Of course
what he says is true enough--I did let him choose the date, and I did
ask these people because I thought it would be good for him, and I did
insist on doing so when he begged me not to. Well, I'm hoist with my
own petard this time, though I wouldn't confess as much to him if my
life depended on it. But the trickery of the little wretch! It's that
I can't get over."

Meanwhile Austin meditated on the little episode on his side, as he
made his way along the road. "I daresay dear old auntie was a bit put
out," he thought, "but she brought it all upon herself. She doesn't
see that everybody must live his own life, that it's a duty one owes
to oneself to realise one's own individuality. Now it's _bad_ for me
to associate with people I detest--bad for my soul's development; just
as bad as it is for anyone's body to eat food that doesn't agree with
him. Those MacTavishes poison my soul just as arsenic poisons the
body, and I won't have my soul poisoned if I can help it. It's very
sad to see how blind she is to the art and philosophy of life. But
she'll have to learn it, and the sooner she begins the better."

Here he left the high road, and turned into a long, narrow lane
enclosed between high banks, which led into a pleasant meadow by the
river side. This shortened the way considerably, and when he reached
the stile at the further end of the meadow he found himself only some
ten minutes' walk from the park gates. Then a subdued excitement fell
upon him. He was going to see the beautiful picture-gallery and the
great collection of engravings, and the gardens with conservatories
full of lovely orchids. He was going to hold delightful converse with
the cultured and agreeable man to whom all these things belonged.
And--well, he might possibly even see a ghost! But now, in the genial
daylight, with the prospect of luncheon immediately before him, the
idea of ghosts seemed rather to retire into the background. Ghosts did
not appear so attractive as they had done yesterday afternoon, when he
had talked about them with Lubin. However--here he was.

Mr St Aubyn, tall and middle-aged, with a refined face set in a short,
pointed beard, received him with exquisite cordiality. How seldom does
a man realise the positive idolatry he can inspire by treating a
well-bred youth on equal terms, instead of assuming airs of patronage
and condescension! The boy accepts such an attitude as natural,
perhaps, but he resents it nevertheless, and never gives the man his
confidence. The perfect manners of St Aubyn won Austin's heart at
once, and he responded with a modest ardour that touched and gratified
his host. The Court, too, exceeded his expectations. It was a grand
old mansion dating from the reign of Elizabeth, with mullioned
casements, and carved doorways, and cool, dim rooms oak-panelled, and
broad fireplaces; and around it lay a shining garden enclosed by old
monastic walls of red brick, with shaped beds of carnations glowing
redly in the sunlight, and, beyond the straight lines of lawn, a
wilderness of nut-trees, with a pool of yellow water-lilies, where
wild hyacinths and pale jonquils rioted when it was spring. On one
side of the garden, at right angles to the house, the wall shelved
into a great grass terrace, and here stood a sort of wing, flanked by
two glorious old towers, crumbling and ivy-draped, forming entrances
to a vast room, tapestried, which had been a banqueting hall in the
picturesque Tudor days. Meanwhile, Austin was ushered by his host into
the library--a moderate-sized apartment, lined with countless books
and adorned with etchings of great choiceness; whence, after a few
minutes' chat on indifferent subjects, they adjourned to the
dining-room, where a luncheon, equally choice and good, awaited them.

At first they played a little at cross-purposes. St Aubyn, with the tact
of an accomplished man entertaining a clever youth, tried to draw Austin
out; while Austin, modest in the presence of one whom he recognised as
infinitely his superior in everything he most valued, was far more
anxious to hear St Aubyn talk than to talk himself. The result was that
Austin won, and St Aubyn soon launched forth delightfully upon art, and
books, and travel. He had been a great traveller in his day, and the boy
listened with enraptured ears to his description of the magnificent
gardens in the vicinity of Rome--the Lante, the Torlonia, the
Aldobrandini, the Falconieri, and the Muti--architectural wonders that
Austin had often read of, but of course had never seen; and then he
talked of Viterbo and its fountains, Vicenza the city of Palladian
palaces, every house a gem, and Sicily, with its hidden wonders, hidden
from the track of tourists because far in the depths of the interior. He
had travelled in Burma too, and inflamed the boy's imagination by
telling him of the gorgeous temples of Rangoon and Mandalay; he had
been--like everybody else--to Japan; and he had lived for six weeks up
country in China, in a secluded Buddhist monastery perched on the edge
of a precipice, like an eagle's nest, where his only associates were
bonzes in yellow robes, and the stillness was only broken by the
deep-toned temple bell, booming for vespers. Then, somehow, his thoughts
turned back to Europe, and he began a disquisition upon the great old
masters--Tintoretto, Rembrandt, Velasquez, Tiziano, and Peter Paul--with
whose immortal works he seemed as familiar as he subsequently showed
himself with the pictures in his own house. He described the Memlings at
Bruges, the Botticellis at Florence and the Velasquezes in
Spain--averring in humorous exaggeration that beside a Velasquez most
other paintings were little better than chromolithographs. Austin put in
a word now and then, asked a question or two as occasion served, and so
suggested fresh and still more fascinating reminiscences; but he had no
desire whatever to interrupt the illuminating stream of words by airing
any opinions of his own. It was not until the meal was drawing to a
close that the conversation took a more personal turn, and Austin was
induced to say something about himself, his tastes, and his
surroundings. Then St Aubyn began deftly and diplomatically to elicit
something in the way of self-disclosure; and before long he was able to
see exactly how things stood--the boy of ideals, of visionary and
artistic tastes, of crude fresh theories and a queer philosophy of life,
full of a passion for Nature and a contempt for facts, on one hand; and
the excellent, commonplace, uncomprehending aunt, with her philistine
friends and blundering notions as to what was good for him, upon the
other. It was an amusing situation, and psychologically very
interesting. St Aubyn listened attentively with a sympathetic smile as
Austin stated his case.

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Books | Photos | Paul Mutton | Fri 19th Dec 2025, 14:40

Austin and His Friends by Frederic H. Balfour