The Recipe for Diamonds Read online

  CHAPTER III.

  VAGABOND.

  "Hysterical madness" was the definition Cospatric clapped on to thatculminating episode of his Cambridge life; "but," he added, with achuckle, "I did enjoy myself whilst the fun lasted. That's just typicalof the particular fool I am. Nature intended me for clown in athird-rate travelling circus. The father made up his mind I was to be abig thing in the lawyering way. The two clashed, and the present stateof affairs is the result. If some far-seeing guardian could only haveaveraged matters, I might have turned out very differently. I'd havemade a good courier, for instance, if such an animal had been in demandnowadays; or a continental drummer, if the commercial part of the workcould have been left out; or even a passable navy officer. As it is,I'm nothing; I'm no mortal good to anybody: and I have a very tolerabletime of it. Look, that's my boat."

  We had worked our way down past the intervening barriers of water andwood, and were walking on the fjord shore. Rounding a bluff, we hadsuddenly opened out a small cutter of some six-and-twenty or thirtytons, riding to her anchor in the mouth of the river. One concludedthat she was a yacht, as she was flush-decked, and had a skylightinstead of a cargo-hatch amidships; but her lines were a good deal ofthe dray-horse type, and as for smartness, she did not know the meaningof the word. I expect traces of this opinion showed in my face, forCospatric saw fit to explain.

  "I learnt my sailoring in an untidy school," he said--"tramp steamers,coasting schooners, collier brigs, and timber barques; and those aren'tthe sort of craft that rub neatness into a man. Our motto in the littledrogher yonder is to keep her afloat with the least possible bother toourselves. We never lie in swagger harbours to be looked at. Thereisn't a burgee or a brass button on board. Strict Spartan utility isvery much the motto of the ship's company. Hence, for example, you findthe decks brown and not white, and yet I can assure you that they areabsolutely staunch. She scarcely leaks a tear anywhere; and althoughshe's beamy and heavy-bowed and deep, she isn't such a sluggard either,especially when it's blowing. In fact, dirty weather's our strong pointwith that ugly duckling of a cutter. She'd sail most of your dandycraft slick under water if it came on really bad. And we got it a weekago by the Dogger here, and last year just to s'uthard of the Bay, asfoul as I've ever seen it anywhere."

  "Here's our boat," I cut in. "My headquarters are in that house at theother side of the river. I'll drop you at your craft as we cross."

  "Not a bit of it, man. You must come and see me now we are here; and,besides"--here he chuckled--"perhaps the belly of the old cutter isn'tquite so uncouth as her hide. You can send Ulus on with the impedimentaif he wants to report himself."

  So we did that--dropped down with the ebb, stepped over the rail,bidding Ulus go his ways with boat and news and trophies. As our shoesclattered on the grimy deck-planks, a close-cropped head bobbed upthrough the forehatch, bowed, and retired.

  "That's Celestin," said Cospatric, "my professional crew. He'sprincipally cook; and at times he's a very good cook, as you may learn.There's another man below; my mate, part-owner with me. We're aqueerly-assorted couple, but we've rubbed on very well together thispast eighteen months."

  He led the way down the ladder, and I followed. The inside of thecutter was certainly "not so uncouth as her hide." Indeed, seldom haveI seen a cosier cabin, and I have been into a good many of one sort andanother. The items of furniture and fitting had evidently been pickedup from over a very wide area, but they had been selected with taste,and harmonized thoroughly. The effect aimed at was comely comfort, andthat effect had been thoroughly gained.

  One thing only seemed out of balance with the whole. The forecastledoor was a narrow sliding panel well over to port. All the starboardside of the bulk-head was filled by a piano, which was bevelled off atits lower right-hand corner so as to fit against the sheathing.

  Cospatric followed my glance. "Yes, it's an upright 'grand,' andGerman, specially made. It is rather bulky for the size of the ship,but you see we're a bit musical here. Haigh plays. By the way, youhaven't seen Haigh yet."

  He called out, and his mate came down the narrow alleyway from theafter-cabin. He was a tall, lean, smooth-faced man, with moist blackhair that was partly sleek and shining, partly bristling out instraggling wisps. His face was dewy, and his eyes perpetually blinking.Cospatric asked him to play something. He peered at me for a moment ortwo as though taking my measure, and then went to the piano and gavevent to a particularly low comic song.

  "Forecastle tastes," thought I; "that upright grand's a wastedinstrument."

  Aloud I expressed conventional thanks. Haigh had another blink or twoin my direction, and then broke into Gounod's "Chantez toujours,"singing it very passably. He hadn't much voice, but he knew how tosing.

  "Like that?" inquired Cospatric.

  "Remarkably," said I.

  "Better than the other?"

  "A hundred per cent."

  "Then keep the same stop out, Haigh, and go ahead."

  And Haigh turned to the piano and rattled off half a dozen othergoodish ballads. Then he said he was tired, and straggled out on a sofaand blinked at the ceiling, whilst Cospatric and I wallowed inCambridge shop again. It's extraordinary how men do like to talk overthe follies of those old times. And afterwards Celestin indulged us indinner, a regular epicurean feast, washed down with decent wine, athing worth much fine gold after a month and a half in Norway.

  "You do know how to take care of yourself on this craft," I observed toCospatric that evening.

  "We don't live like this at sea, you know. It's regular ship's farewith us then. And so, you see, we appreciate little bouts of_gourmandise_ when we get into port. Personally, I've got thatprinciple somewhat ingrained. In fact, I've rubbed along that way eversince I got adrift from England and respectability. The system has itsdrawbacks, but from my point of view it makes life worth living. I'vehad roughish spells between whiles, but I'm so peculiarly constitutedthat a short bright spot of comfort makes me forget the disagreeablesthat have gone before, and wipes the slate clean for a fresh start."

  During the days that followed, when not shooting or fishing, I wasgenerally on that ugly little cutter. Two things drew me: firstly (I'msorry to own), the fare, which was so vastly superior to my own; andsecondly, yarns. There was another attraction later, but I did not knowof it then.

  Those yarns of Cospatric's were tales one would not forget. He told ofthings which are not written down in books. He had travelled because hecouldn't help it, and consequently had seen and done things that morewell-to-do travellers are debarred from. He had housed amongst the mostiniquitous places on God's earth, from Callao to Port Said; he hadwandered from Yokohama to Mandalay; he had been trimmer on aShaw-Savile boat; he had served as mate on a Genovese timber barque.

  He told of all these matters with an open contempt, in which Haigh(when he did not happen to be dozing) readily joined him. The pair ofthem had both knocked about the world largely. But it was not becausethey liked it. It was the Fates that had ordained their first cycle ofvagabondage. This new mode of living in a shifting house--to wit, theugly cutter--was taken up because sea-roaming had been so thoroughlyingrained into their natures that as yet neither of them had found aspot he cared to settle down in permanently.

  The rolling stone aphorism had been pretty accurately fulfilled inCospatric's case. He had gathered during the greater part of hisnomadic life little moss which he could convert into a bank-noteequivalent. Another man might have utilized some of the material; helacked the skill to set it in vendible form. With one solitaryexception, his gains during those vagrant years may be summed up undertwo heads. He had gathered a knowledge of certain orders of his speciesthat was both extensive and peculiar; and he had amassed a collectionof tattooings that was unique for a European. The former he cared notone jot about, displaying his intimate acquaintance with the shadierside of the world's peoples with apologies; but in the latter he tookan almost childish pride. They were not, he pointed out, the rudefrescoings of the British mari
ner, who outlines a diagrammatic femalewith a sail needle, tints her with gunpowder, and labels her with thename of his current lady-love to prevent mistakes. Such crude effortshave their good points; for instance, they promote constancy. But theyare hideously inartistic, and, moreover, to a man of ordinarily ficklenature, are apt to bring in very damning evidence at the mostinopportune moments. Whereas (still according to Cospatric) the highertypes of these human frescoes spell Art, with a very big A, and form aportable picture gallery which no spasmodic poverty can ever induce oneto pawn or otherwise part with.

  The adaptability of the medium for artistic design is a matter open toargument. However, Cospatric bore upon his person better specimens thanI have ever seen before. He had sat to none but the most noted artistsof Burmah and Japan, and the outcome of their brushes--or, rather,needles, as I suppose it should be termed--was in places more thanremarkable. Buddhas, nautch-girls, sacred white elephants, serial fairystories, and the rest were all worth studying; but I think the_chefs-d'oeuvre_ of the two artistic centres were a peacock anda multi-coloured dragon. The bird stood before a temple (on the midforearm), serenely conscious of its own perfection. Every feather onits body was true to life, every spot on its tail a microscopic wonder.The beast (or the creeping thing, if you so prefer to name it) twinedround one of his lower limbs, leaving the dent of its claws in theflesh, and resting its squat, outstretched head on the centre of theknee-cap. And so cunningly was the creature perched (as its ownergleefully pointed out) that the least movement of his crural musclesset the jagged backbone a-quivering, and the slobbering lips to mumbleand mow. Cospatric said that dragon was a most finished piece ofworkmanship, and worth all he had cost.

  "That's the worst of really good tattooing," he explained, _a propos_of this beast; "it's so infernally expensive to get the best men.You've no idea how they are run after. But luckily they've a soft placefor a real connoisseur, even though he comes from the West. And,besides, I've got such a grand skin...."

  Music and dinners absorbed his spare cash when such were available; butout in Burmah and Japan neither were to his taste, and consequently allready funds were wont to be sunk in corporeal decoration.

  Whether the outlay seems judicious I will not say. It was not my hidethat these uncanny limners operated upon.

  Another of Cospatric's tastes was one I could chime in with morereadily. He did not flaunt it, by any means. On the contrary, he keptthe thing hidden, and I stumbled across it only by accident. Moreover,it was a stroke of luck for me that I did so, as my want of knowledgehad been a bar to any intimacy; whereas, once in his confidence uponthis point, we got on together swimmingly, and I had a good time.

  It was an unpremeditated return to the yacht late at night with news ofbear that helped the discovery. Ulus had brought the tidings just as Iwas going to bed that his _bjorn_-ship was expected to call at aneighbouring farm to polish off the remains of a sheep; and as bear wasthe only sort of local game which Cospatric considered worth powder andball, I thought I'd knock him up for the chance of a shot. So I wentout, and tramped down to the shore opposite to where the ugly cutterwas riding. But I did not hail. I stood there and listened--listenedwith some wonder and some delight--I believe I gaped. The strings ofthe "upright grand" were in motion, but they were giving vent toneither ballad tune nor comic jig. And chiming in with them were thenotes of a violin, played tunefully, accurately, boldly. That last, Iknew, must be Cospatric's. I had not seen the instrument here as yet,but I remembered he was supposed to be rather good on it up atCambridge.

  After a bit I pulled myself together and hailed. The music ceasedabruptly. Cospatric's head appeared through the hatch, and Cospatric'svoice inquired with a good deal of impatience what I wanted.

  I told him about the bear, and then added a few words in praise of themusic. "Why ever didn't you let me hear your concert before?" I asked."Did you think it was a case of pearls and pigs?"

  "That's exactly the reason! I didn't know you cared for anything moreadvanced than those ballad affairs. However, if that's a wrong idea,I'm very glad. We'll have some tunes together after this, and perhapsHaigh and I may knock out an item or two that's fresh to you. But forthe present, as you suggest--_bjorn_. I'll be with you on the sandthere in nine seconds."

  As for the bear, of course he didn't turn up, and we three and Se spenta particularly cold night in the open, with absolutely nothing to showfar it. In this there was nothing surprising. It was quite in theordinary way of business. Only Cospatric, who is at heart no sportsman,murmured, "Small potatoes."

  It was not till a couple of days afterwards that we got on the subjectof music again. We came at it this way: the cutter was going to worksouth and west again, and it was proposed that I should join her."Don't go down in one of those beastly coasting steamers," saidCospatric. "They'll give you five sorts of cheese for breakfast, andpoison you at all other meals. You'll live in an atmosphere of driedfish and engine-room oil, and you'll be driven half-mad by children whosquall, and other children who rattle the saloon domino-box all throughthe watches. You'd much better come with me. I'll drop you at asteamer's port in the Channel somewhere some time. You aren't in ahurry. Come, and hear Haigh play again."

  I said I preferred duets.

  "All right, you shall hear the humble combined effort," said he; andthen, after a good deal of pumping, I got more out of him as to whencesprang his powers.

  "The thing's simple enough," he said. "I was fond of fiddling, and Istuck to it. I used to scrape at Cambridge, if you remember, asprobably you don't, and had some goodish lessons there. Afterwards,when I got on the wander and took to pawning things, my spare shirtwent frequently, but I always managed to stick to that little black boxsomehow. And I played on forecastle heads and on beaches and insailors' lodgings ashore, and occasionally I got a week or so's lessonsfrom a good man ashore; and then I heard concerts and good orchestrasall up and down. And so, you see, I picked it up that way.... No, Idon't play from paper much, but Haigh's a bit of a kindred spirit, andbetween us we evolve things. And now let's talk of something else--say,the ptarmigan prospects for next year; you'll be good on that."

  * * * * *

  Now I am fond of music--ordinary music, that is--and I can appreciate agood song or well-performed operas such as _Carmen_ and the_Yeomen of the Guard_, or even a classical concert if it is nottoo long. In fact, I had always plumed myself on being what one calls"very tolerably musical." But these two were streets in advance of suchmediocrity. To begin with, they had a strong contempt for most vocalefforts, considering them as merely a sop for the outside public.Orchestral music was their formula for the highest form of the art, andorchestral music they accordingly played, that queer creature Haighblinking over the upright grand, and Cospatric behind him bringingsounds out of his violin such as I never heard amateur produce before,with a combined result that was always marvellous, and sometimes vergedupon that abstract goal, perfection.

  They seldom had a screed of notes before them. Either they knew thestuff by heart, or, what seemed more likely, there was some sympatheticlink between them which kept both instruments unerringly to the theme.I could not find how it was done; I could only acknowledge the results.

  It was by no means always within my powers to appreciate their work.Sometimes the charm of what they played was too esoteric for myunderstanding. The sounds were unmeaning to me; not infrequently theywere absolutely discordant. But I had confidence enough in thesuperiority of their intellects over mine not to condemn, still less toscoff. At these times I held my tongue. Genius is not improved byirreverent criticism.

  I spoke with Cospatric one day about keeping all these creative giftsto himself. Why did he not share them with the outside world?

  He gave a bit of a shudder. "Don't suggest such an idea," he said."It's my one sensitive place. All the rest have been hammered dull inmy roamings. I must keep that as it is."

  And then at another time: "You know I can't conceive of a sensitivema
n, be he musician or painter, or even writer of romance, who wouldput out his very best for an indiscriminate public to browse upon ortrample over. He knows and feels the thing he has created to be abeautiful thing and an original thing, and he has been at much pains toarrive at it, although there were special items in his own constitutionwhich helped him. And he can be sure that there are a large percentageof pigs in the public by whom his pearl will not be appreciated. Itsshape and its colour are new to them; and not having come within therange of their limited vision before, therefore its building must bealtogether wrong. But that is not the worst. Spoken babblings one mightbe deaf to; written stuff is sure to be cut out by a friend and postedfor you to enjoy with your morning's coffee. Those infernal newspapersget hold of the thing you have made, and their verdict depends upon theindividual taste of some anonymous 'we.' He may not like your sardines,and accordingly, though it does not therefore follow that sardines areunfit for human food, he proceeds to slate sardines with all his tricksof satire and argument, and to cover the maker and even the eater ofsardines with ridicule."

  He stopped then, and I asked if he had been catching it somewhere.

  He laughed, "No, I've never had my name once in a paper that I know of;not even under the heading of Police Intelligence. I'm singularlyuneager for fame. I'm only talking from what I've seen occasionally.That's been warning enough for me. It must sour a man to be jeered atin that sort of way, and, thanks, I prefer not to be soured. I've nosuperfluous sweetness."

  * * * * *

  All this may seem rather absurd, but I give it just to show what mannerof a man Cospatric is when you come to know him intimately. No one frommeeting him casually would guess that he had failings of this sort. Infact, you would take him for a very tough subject indeed, inured tohardship in the past, and liking hardship in the present for its ownsake. As an instance: instead of taking his ugly cutter down coast bythe inner passages, he must needs get out into the open water, which isat this time of year exceptionally unquiet, from sheer delight atgetting kicked about. Indeed, when we picked up an equinoctial galehalf-way across, and had our hands exceedingly full to keep the boatafloat, the man fairly revelled in the scene and the work; and what'smore, that sleepy, straggling person Haigh did too. It wasn't in myline at all. I've not the smallest objection to getting cold and wetwhen there is a big elk or a good bag of grouse in question; that'sdifferent. But when one is perpetually half-drowned and frozen in alittle tub of a sailing craft, I fail to see where the fun comes in.Still, in spite of the hard, rough time, I should have been sorry tohave missed that hammering across the North Sea and the trip downChannel to queer old St. Malo. There was one strong redeemingfeature--Cospatric's accounts of his hunting after the Raymond Lullyinscription. He and I took one watch between us, and to theaccompaniment of northern gale and northern spindrift, he yarned abouta chase under southern skies for an object which I believe to be anabsolutely unique one. He was one of the men who were scouring afterthat Recipe for making Diamonds lost to this world since the death ofits original finder in 1315.