Inn of the Two Witches by Joseph Conrad - Part 1 of 3

The Inn of the Two Witches, A Find, by Joseph Conrad, read by Donald Miller. This tale, episode, experience, call it how you will, was related in the 50s of the last century by a man who, by his own confession, was 60 years old at the time. 60 is not a bad age, unless in perspective, when no doubt it is contemplated by the majority of us with mixed feelings. It is a calm age. The game is practically over by then, and standing aside, one begins to remember with a certain vividness what a fine fellow one used to be. I have observed that, by an amiable attention of Providence, most people at 60 begin to take a romantic view of themselves. Their very failures exhale a charm of peculiar potency, and indeed, the hopes of the future are a fine company to live with, exquisite forms, fascinating if you like, but, so to speak, naked, stripped for a run. The robes of glamour are luckily the property of the immovable past, which, without them, would sit, a shivery sort of thing, under the gathering shadows. I suppose it was the romanticism of growing age which set our man to relate his experience for his own satisfaction or for the wonder of his posterity. It could not have been for his glory, because the experience was simply that of an abominable fright, terror, he calls it. You would have guessed that the relation alluded to in the very first lines was in writing. This writing constitutes the find, declared in the subtitle. The title itself is my own contrivance, can't call it invention, and has the merit of veracity. We will be concerned with an end here, as to the witches that merely a conventional expression, we must take our man's word for it, that it fits the case. The find was made in a box of books, bought in London, in a street which no longer exists, from a second-hand bookseller, and the last stage of decay. As to the books themselves, they were, at least, twentieth-hand, and on inspection turned out not worth the very small sum of money I dispersed. It might have been some premonition of that fact which made me say, but I must have the box too. The decayed bookseller, assented by the careless tragic gesture of a man already doomed to extinction, a litter of loose pages at the bottom of the box excited my curiosity, but faintly. The close, neat, regular handwriting was not attractive at first sight, but in one place the statement that, in A.D. 1813, I was twenty-two years old, he begins earnestly, and goes on with every appearance of calm, horrible industry. Don't imagine, however, that there is anything archaic in my find. Diabolic ingenuity and invention, though as old as the world, is by no means a lost art. Look at the telephones for shattering the little peace of mind given to us in this world, or at the machine guns for letting, with dispatch, life out of our bodies. Now-a-days, any blear-eyed old witch, if only strong enough to turn an insignificant little handle, could lay low a hundred young men of twenty in the twinkling of an eye. If this isn't progress, why, immense, we have moved on, and so you must expect to meet here a certain naiveness and contrivance and simplicity of aim appertaining to the remote epoch. And, of course, no motoring tourist can hope to find such an inn anywhere now. This one, the one of the title, was situated in Spain. That much I discovered only from internal evidence, because a good many pages of that relation were missing, perhaps not a great misfortune after all. The writer seemed to have entered into a most elaborate detail of the why and wherefore of his presence on that coast, presumably the north coast of Spain. His experience has nothing to do with the sea, though. As far as I can make it out, he was an officer on board a sloop of war. There's nothing strange in that. At all stages of the long peninsular campaign, many of our men of war, of the smaller kind, were cruising off the north coast of Spain, as risky and disagreeable a station as can be well imagined. It looks as though that ship of his had had some special service to perform. A careful explanation of all the circumstances was to be expected from our man. Only, as I've said, some of his pages, good tough paper, too, were missing, gone in covers for jam pots or in wadding for the fouling pieces of irreverent posterity. But it is to be seen clearly that communication with the shore and even the sending of messengers inland was part of her service, either to obtain intelligence from or to transmit orders or advice to patriotic Spaniards, guerrilla rows or secret juntas of the province. Something of the sort. All this can be only inferred from the preserved scraps of his conscientious writing. Next, we come upon the Panegyric of a very fine sailor, a member of the ship's company, having the rating of the captain's cockswain. He was known on board as Cuba Tom, not because he was Cuban, however, he was indeed the best type of a genuine British tar of that time, and a man of wars, man for years. He came by the name on account of some wonderful adventures he had had in that island in his young days. Adventures which were the favorite subject of the yarns he was in the habit of spinning to his shipmates of an evening on the forecastle head. He was intelligent, very strong, and of proved courage. Incidentally, we are told, so exact is our narrator, that Tom had the finest pigtail for thickness and length of any man in the navy. This appendage, much cared for and sheathed tightly in a porpoise skin, hung halfway down his broad back to the great admiration of all beholders, and to the great envy of some. Our young officer dwells on the manly qualities of Cuba Tom with something like affection. The sort of relation between officer and man was not then very rare. A youngster on joining the service was put under the charge of a trustworthy seaman, who slung his first hammock for him, and often later on became a sort of humble friend to the junior officer. The narrator on joining the sloop had found this man on board after some years of separation. There is something touching in the warm pleasure he remembers and records at this meeting with the professional mentor of his boyhood. We discover then that, no Spaniard being forthcoming for the service, this worthy seaman with the unique pigtail, and a very high character for courage and steadiness, had been selected as messenger for one of these missions inland, which have been mentioned. His preparations were not elaborate. One gloomy autumn morning, the sloop ran close to a shallow cove, where a landing could be made on that iron-bound shore. A boat was lowered and pulled in with Tom Corbin. Cuba Tom, perched in the bow, and our young man, Mr. Edgar Byrne, was his name on this earth, which knows him no more, sitting on the stern sheets. A few inhabitants of a hamlet, whose graystone houses could be seen a hundred yards or so up a deep ravine, had come down to the shore and watched the approach of the boat. The two Englishmen leaped ashore. Either from dullness or astonishment, the peasants gave no greeting, and only fell back in silence. Mr. Byrne had made up his mind to see Tom Corbin started fairly on his way. He looked round at the heavy surprised faces. There isn't much to get out of them, he said. Let us walk up to the village. There will be a wine shop, for sure, where we may find somebody more promising to talk to and get some information from. Aye, aye, sir, said Tom, falling into step behind his officer. A bit of palaver, as to courses and distances, can do no harm. I crossed the broadest part of Cuba by the help of my tongue, though knowing far less Spanish than I do now. As they say themselves, it was four words and no more with me, that time when I got left behind on shore by the blanchy frigate. He made light of what was before him, which was but a day's journey into the mountains. It is true that there was a full day's journey before striking the mountain path, but that was nothing for a man who had crossed the island of Cuba on his two legs, and with no more than four words of the language to begin with. The officer and the man were walking now on a thick sodden bed of dead leaves, which the peasants thereabouts accumulate in the streets of their villages to rot during the winter for field manure. Turning his head, Mr. Byrne perceived that the whole male population of the hamlet was following them on the noiseless, springy carpet. Women stared from the doors of the houses, and the children had apparently gone into hiding. The village knew the ship by sight, afar off, but no stranger had landed on that spot, perhaps for a hundred years or more. The cocktail of Mr. Byrne, the bushy whiskers, and the enormous pigtail of the sailor filled them with mute wonder. They pressed behind the two Englishmen, staring like those islanders discovered by Captain Cook in the South Seas. It was then that Byrne had his first glimpse of the little cloaked man in a yellow hat. Faded and dingy as it was, this covering for his head made him noticeable. The entrance to the wine shop was like a rough hole in a wall of flints. The owner was the only person who was not in the street, for he came out from the darkness at the back, where the inflated forms of wine skins hung on nails, could be vaguely distinguished. He was a tall, one-eyed Asturian with scrubby, hollow cheeks, a grave expression of countenance, contrasted enigmatically with the roaming restlessness of his solitary eye. On learning that the matter in hand was the sending on his way of that English mariner toward a certain Gonzales in the mountains, he closed his good eye for a moment, as if in meditation, then opened it very lively again. Possibly, possibly, it could be done. A friendly murmur arose in the group in the doorway, at the name of Gonzales, the local leader against the French. Inquiring as to the safety of the road, Byrne was glad to learn that no troops of that nation had been seen in the neighborhood for months, not the smallest little detachment of these impious Polizonis. While giving these answers, the owner of the wine shop busied himself in drawing into an earthenware jug some wine, which he set before the heretic English. Pocketing with grave abstraction the small piece of money the officer threw upon the table, in recognition of the unwritten law that none may enter a wine shop without buying drink, his eye was in constant motion as if it were trying to do the work of the two. But when Byrne made inquiries as to the possibility of hiring a mule, it became immovably fixed in the direction of the door, which was closely besieged by the curious. In front of them, just within the threshold, the little man in the large cloak and yellow hat had taken his stand. He was a diminutive person, a mere homunculus. Byrne describes him in a ridiculously mysterious yet assertive attitude, a corner of his cloak thrown cavalierly over his left shoulder, muffling his chin and mouth, while the broad-brimmed yellow hat hung on a corner of his square little head. He stood there taking snuff repeatedly. A mule, repeated the wine seller, his eyes fixed on that quaint and snuffy figure. No, senor officer, decidedly no mule is to be got in this poor place. A cockswain, who stood by with the true sailor's air of unconcern and strange surroundings, struck in quietly. If your honor will believe me, shanks ponies the best for this job. I would have to leave the beast somewhere anyhow, since the captain has told me that half my way will be along paths fit only for goats. The diminutive man made a step forward in speaking through the folds of the cloak, which seemed to muffle a sarcastic intention. Si, senor. They are too honest in this village to have a single mule amongst them for your worship service. To that I can bear testimony, and these times it's only rogues or very clever men who can manage to have mules or any other four-footed beasts and the wherewithal to keep them. But what this valiant mariner wants is a guide, and here, senor, behold my brother-in-law Bernardino, wine seller, and alcade of this most Christian and hospitable village, who will find you one. This Mr. Burn says in his relation was the only thing to do. A youth in a ragged coat and goatskin breaches was produced after some more talk. The English officer stood treat to the whole village, and while the peasants drank, he and Cuba Tom took their departure accompanied by the guide. The diminutive man and the cloak had disappeared. Burn went along with the cockswain out of the village. He wanted to see him fairly on his way, and he would have gone a greater distance if the seaman had not suggested respectfully the advisability of return so as not to keep the ship a moment longer than necessary so close in with the shore on such an unpromising looking morning. A wild gloomy sky hung over their heads when they took their leave of each other, and their surroundings of rank bushes and stony fields were dreary. In four days time were Burn's last words. The ship will stand in and send a boat on shore if the weather permits. If not, you'll have to make it out on shore the best you can till we come along to take you off. Right you are, sir, answered Tom and strode on. Burn watched him step out on a narrow path in a thick pea jacket with a pair of pistols in his belt, a cutlass by his side, and a stout cudgel in his hand. He looked a sturdy figure and well able to take care of himself. He turned round for a moment to wave his hand, giving to Burn one more view of his honest bronzed face with bushy whiskers. The lad in goatskin breeches looking Burn says, like a fawn or a young satyr leaping ahead, stopped to wait for him and then went off at a bound. Both disappeared. Burn turned back. The hamlet was hidden in a fold of the ground, and the spot seemed the most lonely corner of the earth, and as if accursed in its uninhabited desolate barrenness. Before he had walked many yards, there appeared very suddenly from behind a bush the muffled up diminutive Spaniard. Naturally Burn stopped short. The other made a mysterious gesture with a tiny hand peeping from under his cloak. His hat hung very much at the side of his head, signore, he said, without any preliminaries. Caution! It is a positive fact that one-eyed Bernardino, my brother-in-law, has at this moment a mule in his stable, and why he who is not clever has a mule there? Because he is a rogue, a man without conscience. Because I had to give up the macho to him to secure for myself a roof to sleep under and a mouthful of ola to keep my soul in this insignificant body of mine. Yet, signore, it contains a heart many times bigger than the mean thing which beats in the breast of that brute connection of mine, of which I am ashamed, though I opposed that marriage with all my power. Well, the misguided woman suffered enough. She had her purgatory on this earth, God rest her soul. Burn says he was so astonished by the sudden appearance of that sprite-like being, and by the sardonic bitterness of the speech, that he was unable to disentangle the significant fact from what seemed to be but a piece of family history fired out at him without rhyme or reason, not at first. He was confounded, and at the same time he was impressed by the rapid forcible delivery, quite different from the frothy, excited locacity of an Italian. So he stared, while the homunculus, letting his cloak fall about him, aspired an immense quantity of snuff out of the hollow of his palm. A mule, exclaimed Burn, seizing at last the real aspect of the discourse. You say he has got a mule. That's queer. Why did he refuse to let me have it? The diminutive Spaniard muffled himself up again with great dignity. Quien sabe? he said coldly, with a shrug of his draped shoulders. He is a great politico, in everything he does, but one thing your worship may be certain of, that his intentions are always rascally. This husband of my defuncta sister ought to have been married a long time ago to the widow with the wooden legs. Widow with the wooden legs, the gallows supposed to be widowed of the last executed criminal and waiting for another. I see. But remember that, whatever your motives, your worship countenanced him in this lie. The bright unhappy eyes on each side of a predatory nose confronted Burn without wincing, while with that testiness which lurks so often at the bottom of Spanish dignity. No doubt the senior officer would not lose an ounce of blood if I were stuck under the fifth rib, he retorted. But what of this poor sinner here? Then changing his tone, Senor, by the necessities of the times I live here in exile, a Castilian and an old Christian, existing miserably in the midst of these brute Asturians, and dependent on the worst of them all, who has less conscience and scruples than a wolf, and being a man of intelligence I govern myself accordingly. Yet I can hardly contain my scorn. You have heard the way I spoke, a caballero of parts like your worship might have guessed that there was a cat in there. What cat, said Burn uneasily? Oh, I see, something suspicious. No, Senor, I guessed nothing. My nation are not good guessers at that sort of thing, and therefore I ask you plainly whether that wine cellar has spoken the truth in other particulars. There are certainly no Frenchmen anywhere about, said the little man with a return of to his indifferent manner, or robbers, ladronios, ladrones en grande, no, assuredly not, was the answer in a cold philosophical tone. What is there left for them to do after the French? And nobody travels in these times, but who can say? Opportunity makes the robber. Still that mariner of yours has a fierce aspect, and with the son of a cat rats will have no play. But there is a saying, too, that where honey is, there will soon be flies. This oracular discourse exasperated Burn. In the name of God, he cried, tell me plainly if you think my man is reasonably safe on his journey. The homunculus, undergoing one of his rapid changes, seized the officer's arm. The grip of his little hand was astonishing. Senor Barnandino had taken notice of him. What more do you want? And listen, men have disappeared on this road, on a certain portion of this road, when Barnandino kept a messen, an inn, and I, his brother-in-law, had coaches and mules for hire. Now there are no travelers, no coaches. The French have ruined me. Barnandino has retired here for reasons of his own after my sister died. They were three to torment the life out of her, he and Armenia and Lucilia, two aunts of his, all affiliated to the devil, and now he has robbed me of my last mule. You are an armed man. Demand the macho from him with a pistol to his head, senor. It is not his, I tell you, and right after your man, who is so precious to you, and then you shall both be safe, for no two travelers have been ever known to disappear together in those days, as to the beast, I, its owner, confide it to your honor. They were staring hard at each other, and Bern nearly burst into a laugh at the ingenuity and transparency of the little man's plot to regain possession of his mule, but he had no difficulty to keep a straight face, because he felt deep within himself a strange inclination to do that very extraordinary thing. He did not laugh, but his lip quivered, at which the diminutive Spaniard, detaching his black glittering eyes from Bern's face, turned his back on him brusquely with a gesture and a fling of the cloak, which somehow expressed contempt, bitterness, and discouragement all at once. He turned away and stood still, his hat a slant, muffled up to the ears, but he was not offended to the point of refusing the silver duro, which Bern offered him, with a non-committal speech, as if nothing extraordinary had passed between them. I must make haste on board now, said Bern then. Vaya usted con Dios, muttered the gnome, and this interview ended with a sarcastic low sweep of the hat, which was replaced at the same perilous angle as before.