CHAPTER II

A FRESH ACQUAINTANCE

It was a steep pull up to the little village on the hill, which Florian
had selected by pure intuition for their immediate headquarters. But
once they had arrived there the glorious panorama which disclosed itself
in one burst to their enchanted eyes made them forget the fatigues of
their long tramp to reach it. The village was a tiny one, but comely and
prosperous; composed of great farm-houses with big boulders piled high
on their shingled roofs to keep them in place, and a quaint old church,
whose tall and tapering spire was prettily tiled with bright green
slates, after the country fashion. Moreover, what was more important
just then to the footsore travellers, a hospitable _wirthshaus_ or
village inn occupied a place of honour on the small green in the centre.
It was cheerful though homely, and clean in a certain rough countrified
way; and it faced due south, toward the sun and the snow-fields. Florian
saw at a glance there would be a ravishing outlook from the bedroom
windows; and Will Deverill, more practical, and better accustomed to
these out-of-the-way nooks, felt inclined to believe they might count at
least on decent beds, plain wholesome fare, fresh trout from the stream,
and sweet venison from the mountains.

The name over the door was Andreas Hausberger. Will entered the inn with
a polite inclination of the head, and inquired in his very best German
of the first man he saw if he could speak with the landlord.

“I am he,” the stranger said, drawing himself up with much dignity.
“This inn is my Schloss. My name is Hausberger.”

Will Deverill surveyed him with a critical air. He had seen such men
before; they are not uncommon in the rural Tyrol. Tall, powerful,
big-built, with a resolute face and a determined mien, he looked like a
man well able to keep order among the noisy frequenters of his rustic
tavern. For the _wirth_ or innkeeper of these remote villages is often,
after the priest, the most important personage of the little community:
he represents the temporal as the _pfarrer_ represents the spiritual
authority. The owner of four or five horses, the entertainer of strange
guests, the dispenser of liquor to the countryside, the organiser of
festivals, marriage-feasts, and dances, the proprietor of the one club
and assembly-room of the village, the _wirth_ is necessarily a man of
mark and of local position, beyond anything that is usual with his kind
elsewhere. In the communal council his voice is supreme; the parlour is
his court-house: he settles all quarrels, attests all deeds, arranges
all assemblies, and assists, as a matter of course, at all rural
ceremonies.

“Can we have rooms here for a week?” Will inquired, still in German.

The landlord led them upstairs and showed them two bedrooms on the first
floor, roughly furnished, but neat, and, as Florian had foreseen, with a
glorious outlook. Will proceeded to inquire, as interpreter for the
party, about various details of price, possibilities as to meals,
excursions in the neighbourhood, and other practical matters. The
landlord answered all in the same self-respecting and almost haughty
tone as before, assuring him in few words as to the excellence of the
bread and the meat, the cleanliness of the beds, the soundness of the
beer, and the advantages and respectability of his establishment in
general. “You will be as well here,” he said, summing up, “as in New
York or London—a little less luxury, perhaps, but quite as much real
and solid comfort.”

“What does he say?” Florian asked, languidly, as the landlord finished.
For, though in his capacity as man of culture, the philosopher of taste
was prepared to give a critical opinion offhand at any moment, on Goethe
or Heine, the Minnesänger, or the Nibelungenlied, he was innocent of
even the faintest acquaintance with the German language. Two words in it
amply served his turn: with _wieviel_ and _ja wohl_, he made the tour of
the Fatherland.

Will explained to him in brief, and in the vulgar tongue, the nature of
the landlord’s somewhat high-flown commendations.

By way of answer Florian unslung his knapsack, which he flung on the bed
with as much iron determination as his height permitted. “This’ll do,”
he said, decisively—this time in his character as the man of impulse.
“I like the house; I like the place; I like the view; I like the
landlord. He’s a dignified looking old boy in his way, the landlord,
with that independence of mien and that manly chivalry which forms an
integral part of my mental conception of the Tyrolese character. No
bowing and scraping there; no civilised flunkeydom. And that scar on his
face, you observe; what a history it conceals: some free fight on the
hills, no doubt, or some tussle with a wounded bear in his native
forest!”

“Wal, no; not pre-cisely that,” the landlord answered, in very Teutonic
English, strangely tinged with an under-current of a most Western
flavour. “I got that mark in a scrimmage one day on a Mississippi
steamer. It was a pretty hard fight, with a pretty hard lot, too—he was
a real rough customer—one of these professional monte-sharpers that go
up and down on the boats on the lookout for flats; but I settled him,
anyway. He didn’t want another when we’d squared accounts over that gash
on my face. He retired into private life at the St Louis hospital for
the next few voyages.”

Poor Florian collapsed. This was too, too much! He sank on the sofa with
a dejected face, drew a very long breath from the innermost depths of
his manly bosom, and at last gasped out with a violent effort: “Are
there no Tyrolese in the Tyrol at all, then?”

The landlord smiled, a restrained and cautious smile. He was a
self-contained sort of man, very large and roomy. “Why, I’m a Tyroler,
myself,” he said, opening the second window, and bustling about the room
a little—“as Tyrolese as they make ’em; but I’ve been around the world
a bit, for all that, both in Europe and America.”

“You play the zither?” Will inquired, guessing at once what quest was
most likely to have taken him there.

The landlord shook his head. “No; I sing,” he answered. “It was in
charge of a troupe that I went over the water. You know Ludwig Rainer?”

“Who has an hotel on the Achensee?” Will replied. “The well-known jodel
singer? Yes; I’ve stayed there and heard him.”

“Wal, _he_ set the thing going,” Herr Andreas Hausberger continued,
still bustling about the room; “he took over a troupe to New York and
Chicawgo. The first time, he fell in with a pack of scoundrels who
cheated him of everything he made by the trip. The second time, he came
back with a few hundred dollars. The third time, he got into a very good
thing, and made money enough out of his tour to start the Seehof. So _I_
followed suit, but I only saved enough on my first venture to set me up
here in this house in the village. It’s a one-horse affair for a man
like me. Next time, I hope I shall make a little capital to start a big
hotel for foreign tourists and kur-guests at Meran or Innsbruck.”

“Then you mean to go again?” Will Deverill asked, sitting down.

“Why, certainly,” the landlord answered, retreating to the door, “as
soon as ever I can get another good troupe together again.” And with a
ceremonious bow, like a courtly gentleman that he was, he retired
downstairs to superintend the preparation of those fresh mountain trout
he had promised them for dinner.

As soon as he was gone, Florian raised himself on one elbow like a
startled butterfly, with an air of studious vacancy, and stared hard at
Will Deverill. “What an extraordinary country,” he murmured, with a
pensive sigh. “It’s Babel reversed. Everybody seems to speak and
understand every European language. The very babes and sucklings call
one names as one passes, in vile gutter English. It’s really quite
uncanny. Who’d have thought, now, of meeting in an out-of-the-way lost
corner of earth like this, a village innkeeper who’s a man of the world,
a distinguished traveller, an accomplished linguist, and an intelligent
impresario? The ways of Providence are truly mysterious! What a place to
bury such a shining light! Why dump him down so, in this untrodden
valley?”

“Oh, it’s not by any means such a singular case as you suppose,” Will
answered, looking up from the knapsack he was engaged in
unpacking—“above all, in the Zillerthal. I’ve never been here before
myself, but I’ve always been told in other parts of the Tyrol that the
Zillerthalers, men and girls, are every one of them born musicians. And
as for our landlord here, the Tyrolese _wirth_ is always a man of light
and leading in his own society. He opposes the priest, and heads the
liberal party. All the popular leaders in the war of independence in the
Tyrol were monks or innkeepers. Andreas Hofer, himself, you know, had an
inn of his own in the Passer valley.”

“Ah, to be sure,” Florian ejaculated, in an acquiescent tone of a
peculiar calibre, which showed his friend at once he hadn’t the remotest
idea who Andreas Hofer was, or why one should be expected to know
anything about him. Now, want of knowledge on such a point is, of
course, most natural and pardonable in a stranger; but there was no
sufficient reason, Will Deverill thought, for Florian’s pretence at its
possession where he really knew nothing. That, however, was poor
Florian’s foible. He couldn’t bear to have it thought he was ignorant of
anything, from mathematics or music to esoteric Buddhism. If a native of
Siberia had addressed him casually in the Ostiak dialect of the
Tungusian language, Florian would have nodded and smiled a
non-committing assent, as though Ostiak had always been his
mother-tongue, and he had drunk in Tungusian at his nurse’s bosom.

“You know who Andreas Hofer was, of course?” Deverill went on,
persistently. He was a devil of a fellow for not letting you off when he
caught you out in an innocent little piece of social pretension, was
Deverill.

Florian, thus hard pressed, found himself compelled to do what he hated
most in the world—confess his ignorance. “I remember the gentleman’s
respected name, of course!” he said, dubiously, with a sickly smile and
a little forced pleasantry; “but his precise claims to distinction, as
_Men of the Time_ puts it in its cheerful circular, entirely escape my
memory for the moment.”

“He was the leader of the spontaneous Tyrolese peasant movement, you
know, for the expulsion of the French and their Bavarian allies in 1808
or thereabouts,” Will went on, still unpacking. “Napoleon caught him at
last, and had him shot at Mantua. You’ll see his tomb when you go to
Innsbruck, and lots of other mementos of him all over the country
everywhere. He pervades the place. He’s the national hero, in fact—the
martyr of independence—a sort of later and more historical William
Wallace.”

“Dear me, yes; how stupid of me!” Florian cried, clapping his hand to
his head in a sudden burst of pretended recollection. “It comes back to
me now, of course. Good old Andreas Hofer! How could I ever forget him?
The Tyrolese William Tell! The Hampden of the Alps! The undaunted
Caractacus of these snow-clad mountains!”

Deverill pulled off his coat. “If I were you,” he said, drily, “instead
of rhapsodising here, I’d go into my own room, have a jolly good wash,
and get ready for dinner. We must have walked about twenty-two miles
since we got out at Jenbach, and this bracing air gives one a positively
Gargantuan appetite.”

Florian roused himself with a yawn, for though vigorous enough for his
size, he was a lazy creature, and when once he sat down it was with
difficulty he could be prevailed upon to put himself in motion again.
Ten minutes later they were seated at the white-covered table in the
tidy little salon, doing the fullest justice to the delicious broiled
trout, the foaming amber ale, the fresh laid eggs, and the excellent
home-made bread, provided, according to promise, by Herr Andreas
Hausberger.