News from Nowhere; Or, An Epoch of Rest<br />Being Some Chapters from a Utopian Romance by William Morris (best reads txt) 📗

a bridge, but never seen such an one out of an illuminated manuscript; for not even the Ponte Vecchio at Florence came anywhere near it.  It was of stone arches, splendidly solid, and as graceful as they were strong; high enough also to let ordinary river traffic through easily.  Over the parapet showed quaint and fanciful little buildings, which I supposed to be booths or shops, beset with painted and gilded vanes and spirelets.  The stone was a little weathered, but showed no marks of the grimy sootiness which I was used to on every London building more than a year old.  In short, to me a wonder of a bridge.

The sculler noted my eager astonished look, and said, as if in answer to my thoughts—

“Yes, it is a pretty bridge, isn’t it?  Even the up-stream bridges, which are so much smaller, are scarcely daintier, and the down-stream ones are scarcely more dignified and stately.”

I found myself saying, almost against my will, “How old is it?”

“Oh, not very old,” he said; “it was built or at least opened, in 2003.  There used to be a rather plain timber bridge before then.”

The date shut my mouth as if a key had been turned in a padlock fixed to my lips; for I saw that something inexplicable had happened, and that if I said much, I should be mixed up in a game of cross questions and crooked answers.  So I tried to look unconcerned, and to glance in a matter-of-course way at the banks of the river, though this is what I saw up to the bridge and a little beyond; say as far as the site of the soap-works.  Both shores had a line of very pretty houses, low and not large, standing back a little way from the river; they were mostly built of red brick and roofed with tiles, and looked, above all, comfortable, and as if they were, so to say, alive, and sympathetic with the life of the dwellers in them.  There was a continuous garden in front of them, going down to the water’s edge, in which the flowers were now blooming luxuriantly, and sending delicious waves of summer scent over the eddying stream.  Behind the houses, I could see great trees rising, mostly planes, and looking down the water there were the reaches towards Putney almost as if they were a lake with a forest shore, so thick were the big trees; and I said aloud, but as if to myself—

“Well, I’m glad that they have not built over Barn Elms.”

I blushed for my fatuity as the words slipped out of my mouth, and my companion looked at me with a half smile which I thought I understood; so to hide my confusion I said, “Please take me ashore now: I want to get my breakfast.”

He nodded, and brought her head round with a sharp stroke, and in a trice we were at the landing-stage again.  He jumped out and I followed him; and of course I was not surprised to see him wait, as if for the inevitable after-piece that follows the doing of a service to a fellow-citizen.  So I put my hand into my waistcoat-pocket, and said, “How much?” though still with the uncomfortable feeling that perhaps I was offering money to a gentleman.

He looked puzzled, and said, “How much?  I don’t quite understand what you are asking about.  Do you mean the tide?  If so, it is close on the turn now.”

I blushed, and said, stammering, “Please don’t take it amiss if I ask you; I mean no offence: but what ought I to pay you?  You see I am a stranger, and don’t know your customs—or your coins.”

And therewith I took a handful of money out of my pocket, as one does in a foreign country.  And by the way, I saw that the silver had oxydised, and was like a blackleaded stove in colour.

He still seemed puzzled, but not at all offended; and he looked at the coins with some curiosity.  I thought, Well after all, he is a waterman, and is considering what he may venture to take.  He seems such a nice fellow that I’m sure I don’t grudge him a little over-payment.  I wonder, by the way, whether I couldn’t hire him as a guide for a day or two, since he is so intelligent.

Therewith my new friend said thoughtfully:

“I think I know what you mean.  You think that I have done you a service; so you feel yourself bound to give me something which I am not to give to a neighbour, unless he has done something special for me.  I have heard of this kind of thing; but pardon me for saying, that it seems to us a troublesome and roundabout custom; and we don’t know how to manage it.  And you see this ferrying and giving people casts about the water is my business, which I would do for anybody; so to take gifts in connection with it would look very queer.  Besides, if one person gave me something, then another might, and another, and so on; and I hope you won’t think me rude if I say that I shouldn’t know where to stow away so many mementos of friendship.”

And he laughed loud and merrily, as if the idea of being paid for his work was a very funny joke.  I confess I began to be afraid that the man was mad, though he looked sane enough; and I was rather glad to think that I was a good swimmer, since we were so close to a deep swift stream.  However, he went on by no means like a madman:

“As to your coins, they are curious, but not very old; they seem to be all of the reign of Victoria; you might give them to some scantily-furnished museum.  Ours has enough of such coins, besides a fair number of earlier ones, many of which are beautiful, whereas these nineteenth century ones are so beastly ugly, ain’t they?  We have a piece of Edward III., with the king in a ship, and little leopards and fleurs-de-lys all along the gunwale, so delicately worked.  You see,” he said, with something of a smirk, “I am fond of working in gold and fine metals; this buckle here is an early piece of mine.”

No doubt I looked a little shy of him under the influence of that doubt as to his sanity.  So he broke off short, and said in a kind voice:

“But I see that I am boring you, and I ask your pardon.  For, not to mince matters, I can tell that you are a stranger, and must come from a place very unlike England.  But also it is clear that it won’t do to overdose you with information about this place, and that you had best suck it in little by little.  Further, I should take it as very kind in you if you would allow me to be the showman of our new world to you, since you have stumbled on me first.  Though indeed it will be a mere kindness on your part, for almost anybody would make as good a guide, and many much better.”

There certainly seemed no flavour in him of Colney Hatch; and besides I thought I could easily shake him off if it turned out that he really was mad; so I said:

“It is a very kind offer, but it is difficult for me to accept it, unless—”  I was going to say, Unless you will let me pay you properly; but fearing to stir up Colney Hatch again, I changed the sentence into, “I fear I shall be taking you away from your work—or your amusement.”

“O,” he said, “don’t trouble about that, because it will give me an opportunity of doing a good turn to a friend of mine, who wants to take my work here.  He is a weaver from Yorkshire, who has rather overdone himself between his weaving and his mathematics, both indoor work, you see; and being a great friend of mine, he naturally came to me to get him some outdoor work.  If you think you can put up with me, pray take me as your guide.”

He added presently: “It is true that I have promised to go up-stream to some special friends of mine, for the hay-harvest; but they won’t be ready for us for more than a week: and besides, you might go with me, you know, and see some very nice people, besides making notes of our ways in Oxfordshire.  You could hardly do better if you want to see the country.”

I felt myself obliged to thank him, whatever might come of it; and he added eagerly:

“Well, then, that’s settled.  I will give my friend a call; he is living in the Guest House like you, and if he isn’t up yet, he ought to be this fine summer morning.”

Therewith he took a little silver bugle-horn from his girdle and blew two or three sharp but agreeable notes on it; and presently from the house which stood on the site of my old dwelling (of which more hereafter) another young man came sauntering towards us.  He was not so well-looking or so strongly made as my sculler friend, being sandy-haired, rather pale, and not stout-built; but his face was not wanting in that happy and friendly expression which I had noticed in his friend.  As he came up smiling towards us, I saw with pleasure that I must give up the Colney Hatch theory as to the waterman, for no two madmen ever behaved as they did before a sane man.  His dress also was of the same cut as the first man’s, though somewhat gayer, the surcoat being light green with a golden spray embroidered on the breast, and his belt being of filagree silver-work.

He gave me good-day very civilly, and greeting his friend joyously, said:

“Well, Dick, what is it this morning?  Am I to have my work, or rather your work?  I dreamed last night that we were off up the river fishing.”

“All right, Bob,” said my sculler; “you will drop into my place, and if you find it too much, there is George Brightling on the look out for a stroke of work, and he lives close handy to you.  But see, here is a stranger who is willing to amuse me to-day by taking me as his guide about our country-side, and you may imagine I don’t want to lose the opportunity; so you had better take to the boat at once.  But in any case I shouldn’t have kept you out of it for long, since I am due in the hay-fields in a few days.”

The newcomer rubbed his hands with glee, but turning to me, said in a friendly voice:

“Neighbour, both you and friend Dick are lucky, and will have a good time to-day, as indeed I shall too.  But you had better both come in with me at once and get something to eat, lest you should forget your dinner in your amusement.  I suppose you came into the Guest House after I had gone to bed last night?”

I nodded, not caring to enter into a long explanation which would have led to nothing, and which in truth by this time I should have begun to doubt myself.  And we all three turned toward the door of the Guest House.

CHAPTER III: THE GUEST HOUSE AND BREAKFAST THEREIN

I lingered a little behind the others to have a stare at this house, which, as I have told you, stood on the site of my old dwelling.

It was a longish building with its gable ends turned away from the road, and long traceried windows coming rather low down set in the wall that faced us.  It was very handsomely built of red brick with a lead roof; and high up above the windows there ran a frieze of figure subjects in baked clay, very well executed, and designed with a force and directness which I had never noticed in modern work before.  The subjects I recognised at once, and indeed was very particularly familiar with them.

However, all this I took in in a minute; for we were presently within doors, and standing in a hall with a floor of marble mosaic and an open timber roof.  There were no windows on the side opposite to the river, but arches below leading into chambers, one of which showed a glimpse of a garden beyond, and above them a long space of wall gaily painted (in fresco, I thought) with similar subjects to those of the frieze outside; everything about the place was handsome and generously solid as to material; and though it was not very large (somewhat smaller than Crosby Hall perhaps), one felt in it that exhilarating sense of space and freedom which satisfactory architecture always gives to an unanxious man who is in the habit of using his eyes.

In this pleasant place, which of course I knew to be the hall of the Guest House,