FullReads

“Your tutor, Frantz, sets great store by his spider; we like the trees better–the verdure. Come, let’s go for a walk.”

“Yes, go,” cried the doctor, “and come back for supper at six o’clock.”

Then raising his voice:

“No hard feelings, Sir Hawerburch.”

The commodore replied laughingly, and we got into the carriage, which was always waiting in front of the door of the house.

Sir Thomas wanted to drive himself and dismissed his servant. He made me sit beside him on the same seat and we started off for Rothalps.

While the carriage was slowly ascending the sandy path, an invincible sadness possessed itself of my spirit. Sir Thomas, on his part, was grave. He perceived my sadness and said:

“You don’t like spiders, Frantz, nor do I either. But thank Heaven, there aren’t any dangerous ones in this country. The spider crab which your tutor has in his box comes from French Guiana. It inhabits the great, swampy forests filled with warm vapors, with scalding exhalations; this temperature is necessary to its life. Its web, or rather its vast snare, envelops an entire thicket. In it it takes birds as our spiders take flies. But drive these disgusting images from your mind, and drink a swallow of my old Burgundy.”

Then turning, he raised the cover of the rear seat, and drew from the straw a sort of gourd from which he poured me a full bumper in a leather goblet.

When I had drunk all my good humor returned and I began to laugh at my fright.

The carriage was drawn by a little Ardennes horse, thin and nervous as a goat, which clambered up the nearly perpendicular path. Thousands of insects hummed in the bushes. At our right, at a hundred paces or more, the somber outskirts of the Rothalp forests extended below us, the profound shades of which, choked with briers and foul brush, showed here and there an opening filled with light. On our left tumbled the stream of Spinbronn, and the more we climbed the more did its silvered sheets, floating in the abyss, grow tinged with azure and redouble their sound of cymbals.

I was captivated by this spectacle. Sir Thomas, leaning back in the seat, his knees as high as his chin, abandoned himself to his habitual reveries, while the horse, laboring with his feet and hanging his head on his chest as a counter-weight to the carriage, held on as if suspended on the flank of the rock. Soon, however, we reached a pitch less steep: the haunt of the roebuck, surrounded by tremulous shadows. I always lost my head, and my eyes too, in an immense perspective. At the apparition of the shadows I turned my head and saw the cavern of Spinbronn close at hand. The encompassing mists were a magnificent green, and the stream which, before falling, extends over a bed of black sand and pebbles, was so clear that one would have thought it frozen if pale vapors did not follow its surface.

The horse had just stopped of his own accord to breathe; Sir Thomas, rising, cast his eye over the countryside.

“How calm everything is!” said he.

Then, after an instant of silence:

“If you weren’t here, Frantz, I should certainly bathe in the basin.”

“But, Commodore,” said I, “why not bathe? I would do well to stroll around in the neighborhood. On the next hill is a great glade filled with wild strawberries. I’ll go and pick some. I’ll be back in an hour.”

“Ha! I should like to, Frantz; it’s a good idea. Dr. Weber contends that I drink too much Burgundy. It’s necessary to offset wine with mineral water. This little bed of sand pleases me.”

Then, having set both feet on the ground, he hitched the horse to the trunk of a little birch and waved his hand as if to say:

“You may go.”

I saw him sit down on the moss and draw off his boots. As I moved away he turned and called out: