The Jimmyjohn Boss, and Other Stories by Owen Wister (the best novels to read TXT) 📗

the bottom! 'The Huguenots,' Rossini, Herold—I was waiting for 'Il Trovatore.”'

“Is that something new?” said the padre, eagerly.

The young man gave an exclamation. “The whole world is ringing with it,” he said.

“But Santa Ysabel del Mar is a long way from the whole world,” said Padre Ignazio.

“Indeed it would not appear to be so,” returned young Gaston. “I think the Comedie Francaise must be round the corner.”

A thrill went through the priest at the theatre's name. “And have you been long in America?” he asked.

“Why, always—except two years of foreign travel after college.”

“An American!” said the surprised padre, with perhaps a flavor of disappointment in his voice. “But no Americans who have yet come this way have been—have been”—he veiled the too blunt expression of his thought—“have been familiar with 'The Huguenots,'” he finished, making a slight bow.

Villere took his under-meaning. “I come from New Orleans,” he returned. “And in New Orleans there live many of us who can recognize a—who can recognize good music wherever we meet it.” And he made a slight bow in his turn.

The padre laughed outright with pleasure, and laid his hand upon the young man's arm. “You have no intention of going away tomorrow, I trust?” said he.

“With your leave,” answered Gaston, “I will have such an intention no longer.”

It was with the air and gait of mutual understanding that the two now walked on together towards the padre's door. The guest was twenty-five, the host sixty.

“And have you been in America long?” inquired Gaston.

“Twenty years.”

“And at Santa Ysabel how long?”

“Twenty years.”

“I should have thought,” said Gaston, looking lightly at the empty mountains, “that now and again you might have wished to travel.”

“Were I your age,” murmured Padre Ignazio, “it might be so.”

The evening had now ripened to the long after-glow of sunset. The sea was the purple of grapes, and wine colored hues flowed among the high shoulders of the mountains.

“I have seen a sight like this,” said Gaston, “between Granada and Malaga.”

“So you know Spain!” said the padre.

Often he had thought of this resemblance, but never heard it told to him before. The courtly proprietor of San Fernando, and the other patriarchal rancheros with whom he occasionally exchanged visits across the wilderness, knew hospitality and inherited gentle manners, sending to Europe for silks and laces to give their daughters; but their eyes had not looked upon Granada, and their ears had never listened to “William Tell.”

“It is quite singular,” pursued Gaston, “how one nook in the world will suddenly remind you of another nook that may be thousands of miles away. One morning, behind the Quai Voltaire, an old yellow house with rusty balconies made me almost homesick for New Orleans.”

“The Quai Voltaire!” said the padre.

“I heard Rachel in 'Valerie' that night,” the young man went on. “Did you know that she could sing too? She sang several verses by an astonishing little Jew musician that has come up over there.”

The padre gazed down at his blithe guest. “To see somebody, somebody, once again,” he said, “is very pleasant to a hermit.”

“It cannot be more pleasant than arriving at an oasis,” returned Gaston.

They had delayed on the threshold to look at the beauty of the evening, and now the priest watched his parishioners come and go. “How can one make companions—” he began; then, checking himself, he said: “Their souls are as sacred and immortal as mine, and God helps me to help them. But in this world it is not immortal souls that we choose for companions; it is kindred tastes, intelligences, and—and so I and my books are growing old together, you see,” he added, more lightly. “You will find my volumes as behind the times as myself.”

He had fallen into talk more intimate than he wished; and while the guest was uttering something polite about the nobility of missionary work, he placed him in an easy-chair and sought aguardiente for his immediate refreshment. Since the year's beginning there had been no guest for him to bring into his rooms, or to sit beside him in the high seats at table, set apart for the gente fina.

Such another library was not then in California; and though Gaston Villere, in leaving Harvard College, had shut Horace and Sophocles forever at the earliest instant possible under academic requirements, he knew the Greek and Latin names that he now saw as well as he knew those of Shakespeare, Dante, Moliere, and Cervantes. These were here also; nor could it be precisely said of them, either, that they made a part of the young man's daily reading. As he surveyed the padre's august shelves, it was with a touch of the florid Southern gravity which his Northern education had not wholly schooled out of him that he said:

“I fear that I am no scholar, sir. But I know what writers every gentleman ought to respect.”

The subtle padre bowed gravely to this compliment.

It was when his eyes caught sight of the music that the young man felt again at ease, and his vivacity returned to him. Leaving his chair, he began enthusiastically to examine the tall piles that filled one side of the room. The volumes lay richly everywhere, making a pleasant disorder; and as perfume comes out of a flower, memories of singers and chandeliers rose bright from the printed names. “Norma,” “Tancredi,” “Don Pasquale,” “La Vestale”—dim lights in the fashions of to-day—sparkled upon the exploring Gaston, conjuring the radiant halls of Europe before him. “'The Barber of Seville!'” he presently exclaimed. “And I happened to hear it in Seville.”

But Seville's name brought over the padre a new rush of home thoughts. “Is not Andalusia beautiful?” he said. “Did you see it in April, when the flowers come?”

“Yes,” said Gaston, among the music. “I was at Cordova then.”

“Ah, Cordova!” murmured the padre.

“'Semiramide!'” cried Gaston, lighting upon that opera. “That was a week! I should like to live it over, every day and night of it!”

“Did you reach Malaga from Marseilles or Gibraltar?” said the padre, wistfully.

“From Marseilles. Down from Paris through the Rhone Valley, you know.”

“Then you saw Provence! And did you go, perhaps, from Avignon to Nismes by the Pont du Gard? There is a place I have made here—a little, little place—with olive-trees. And now they have grown, and it looks something like that country, if you stand in a particular position. I will take you there to-morrow. I think you will understand what I mean.”