A Sentimental Journey Through France
and Italy
_I.--Setting Out_
No literary career has ever been more singular than that
of Laurence Sterne. Born in Clonmel Barracks, Ireland, on
November 24, 1713, he was forty-six years of age before he
discovered his genius. By calling he was a country parson
in Yorkshire, yet more unconventional books than "Tristram
Shandy" (see FICTION) and "A Sentimental Journey" never
appeared. The fame of the former brought Sterne to London,
where he became, says Walpole, "topsy-turvey with
success." In the intervals of supplying an ever increasing
demand with more "Tristrams" he composed and published
volumes of sermons. Their popularity proved that he was as
eloquent in his pulpit gown as he was diverting without
it. The turmoil of eighteenth century social and literary
life soon shattered his already failing health, and he
died on March 18, 1768, the first two volumes of "A
Sentimental Journey" appearing on February 27th. The
"Journey" proved equally as fascinating and as popular as
"Shandy." Walpole, who described the latter as tiresome,
declared the new book to be "very pleasing though too much
dilated, and marked by great good nature and strokes of
delicacy." Like its predecessor, the "Journey" is
intentionally formless--narrative and digression, pathos
and wit, sentiment and coarse indelicacy, all commingled
freely together.
"They order," said I, "this matter better in France." "You have been in
France?" said my gentleman, turning quick upon me with the most civil
triumph in the world. Strange! quoth I, debating the matter with myself,
that one and twenty miles' sailing, for 'tis absolutely no further from
Dover to Calais, should give a man these rights: I'll look into them; so
giving up the argument, I went straight to my lodgings, put up
half-a-dozen shirts and a black pair of silk breeches,--"the coat I have
on," said I, looking at the sleeve, "will do,"--took place in the Dover
stage; and, the packet sailing at nine the next morning, by three I had
got sat down to my dinner upon a fricasseed chicken--incontestably in
France.
When I had finished my dinner, and drank the King of France's health--to
satisfy my mind that I bore him no spleen, but, on the contrary, high
honour to the humanity of his temper--I rose up an inch taller for the
accommodation. "Just God!" said I, kicking my portmanteau aside, "what
is there in this world's goods which should sharpen our spirits, and
make so many kind-hearted brethren of us fall out so cruelly as we do,
by the way?"
_II.--The Monk--Calais_
I had scarce uttered the words when a poor monk of the order of St.
Francis came into the room to beg something for his convent. No man
cares to have his virtues the sport of contingencies. The moment I cast
my eyes upon him, I was determined not to give him a single sou; and
accordingly I put my purse into my pocket--button'd it up--set myself a
little more upon my centre, and advanced up gravely to him; there was
something, I fear, forbidding in my look: I have his figure this moment
before my eyes, and think there was that in it which deserved better.
The monk, as I judged from the break in his tonsure, a few scatter'd
white hairs upon his temples being all that remained of it, might be
about seventy--he was certainly sixty-five.
It was one of those heads which Guido has often painted--mild, pale,
penetrating, free from all commonplace ideas of fat contented ignorance
looking downwards upon the earth--it look'd forwards; but look'd as if
it look'd at something beyond this world.
When he had entered the room three paces, he stood still; and laying his
left hand upon his breast, when I had got close up to him, he introduced
himself with the little story of the wants of his convent, and the
poverty of his order--and he did it with so simple a grace--I was
bewitch'd not to have been struck with it.
A better reason was, I had predetermined not to give him a single sou.
"'Tis very true," said I, "'tis very true--and Heaven be their resource
who have no other but the charity of the world, the stock of which, I
fear, is no way sufficient for the many _great claims_ which are hourly
made upon it."
As I pronounced the words _great claims_, he gave a single glance with
his eye downwards upon the sleeve of his tunic--I felt the full force of
the appeal. "I acknowledge it," said I, "a coarse habit, and that but
once in three years, with meagre diet--are no great matters; and the
true point of pity is, as they can be earn'd in the world with so little
industry, that your order should wish to procure them by pressing upon a
fund which is the property of the lame, the blind, the aged, and the
infirm; and had you been of the _order of mercy_, instead of the order
of St. Francis, poor as I am," continued I, pointing at my portmanteau,
"full cheerfully should it have been open'd to you, for the ransom of
the unfortunate"--the monk made me a bow--"but of all others," resumed
I, "the unfortunate of our own country, surely, have the first rights;
and I have left thousands in distress upon our own shore." The monk gave
a cordial wave with his head, as much as to say, "No doubt, there is
misery enough in every corner of the world, as well as within our
convent." "But we distinguish," said I, laying my hand upon the sleeve
of his tunic, "we distinguish, my good father! betwixt those who wish
only to eat the bread of their own labour--and those who eat the bread
of other people's, and have no other plan in life, but to get through it
in sloth and ignorance, _for the love of God_."
The poor Franciscan made no reply: a hectic of a moment pass'd across
his cheeks, but could not tarry. Nature seemed to have done with her
resentments in him; he showed none, but press'd both his hands with
resignation upon his breast and retired.
My heart smote me the moment he shut the door. "Psha!" said I, with an
air of carelessness, but it would not do: every ungracious syllable I
had utter'd crowded back into my imagination. I reflected, I had no
right over the poor Franciscan, but to deny him; I consider'd his grey
hairs--his courteous figure seem'd to re-enter and gently ask me what
injury he had done me? And why I could use him thus? I would have given
twenty livres for an advocate--I have behaved very ill, said I, within
myself; but I have only just set out upon my travels, and shall learn
better manners as I get along.
_III.--The Remise Door--Calais_
Now, there being no travelling through France and Italy without a
chaise--and Nature generally prompting us to the thing we are fittest
for, I walk'd out into the coach yard to buy or hire something of that
kind to my purpose. Mons. Dessein, the master of the hotel, having just
returned from vespers, we walk'd together towards his remise, to take a
view of his magazine of chaises. Suddenly I had turned upon a lady who
had just arrived at the inn and had followed us unperceived, and whom I
had already seen in conference with the Franciscan.
Monsieur Dessein had _diabled_ the key above fifty times before he found
out that he had come with a wrong one in his hand: we were as impatient
as himself to have it open'd, when he left us together, with our faces
towards the door, and said he would be back in five minutes. "This,
certainly, fair lady!" said I, "must be one of Fortune's whimsical
doings; to take two utter strangers by their hands, and in one moment
place them together in such a cordial situation as Friendship herself
could scarce have achieved for them." Then I set myself to consider how
I should undo the ill impressions which the poor monk's story, in case
he had told it to her, must have planted in her breast against me.
_IV.--The Snuff-box--Calais_
The good old monk was within six paces from us, as the idea of him
cross'd my mind; and was advancing towards us a little out of the line,
as if uncertain whether he should break in upon us or no. He stopp'd,
however, as soon as he came up to us, with a world of frankness: and
having a horn snuff-box in his hand, he presented it open to me. "You
shall taste mine," said I, pulling out my box (which was a small
tortoise one), and putting it into his hand. "'Tis most excellent," said
the monk. "Then do me the favour," I replied, "to accept of the box and
all, and, when you take a pinch out of it, sometimes recollect it was
the peace-offering of a man who once used you unkindly, but not from his
heart."
The poor monk blush'd as red as scarlet. "_Mon Dieu_," said he, pressing
his hands together, "You never used me unkindly." "I should think," said
the lady, "he is not likely." I blush'd in my turn. "Excuse me, Madam,"
replied I, "I treated him most unkindly; and from no provocations."
"'Tis impossible," said the lady. "My God!" cried the monk, with a
warmth of asseveration which seem'd not to belong to him, "The fault was
in me, and in the indiscretion of my zeal." The lady opposed it, and I
joined with her in maintaining it was impossible, that a spirit so
regulated as his could give offence to any.
Whilst this contention lasted the monk rubb'd his horn box upon the
sleeve of his tunic; and as soon as it had acquired a little air of
brightness by the friction, he made a low bow, and said 'twas too late
to say whether it was the weakness or goodness of our tempers which had
involved us in this contest. But be it as it would, he begg'd we might
exchange boxes. In saying this, he presented his to me with one hand, as
he took mine from me in the other; and having kissed it, he put it into
his bosom and took his leave.
I guard this box, as I would the instrumental parts of my religion, to
help mind on to something better; truth, I seldom go abroad without it:
and oft and many a time have I called up by it the courteous spirit of
its owner to regulate my own, in the justlings of the world; they had
full employment for his, as I learnt from his story, till about the
forty-fifth year of his age, when upon some military services ill
requited, and meeting at the same time with a disappointment in the
tenderness of passions, he abandoned the sword and the sex together, and
took sanctuary, not so much in his convent as in himself.
I felt a damp upon my spirits, that in my last return through Calais,
upon inquiring after Father Lorengo, I heard he had been dead near three
months, and was buried not in his convent, but, according to his desire,
in a little cemetery belonging to it, about two leagues off; I had a
strong desire to see where they had laid him--when upon pulling out his
little horn box, as I sat by his grave, and plucking up a nettle or two
at the head of it, which had no business to grow there, they all struck
together so forcibly upon my affections, that I burst into a flood of
tears--but I am as weak as a woman; and I beg the world not to smile but
to pity me.
_V.--Montreuil_
I had once lost my portmanteau from behind my chaise, and twice got out
in the rain, and one of the times up to the knees in dirt, to help the
postillion to tie it on, without being able to find out what was
wanting. Nor was it till I got to Montreuil, upon the landlord's asking
me if I wanted not a servant, that it occurred to me, that that was the
very thing.
"A servant! That I do most sadly!" quoth I. "Because, Monsieur," said
the landlord, "there is a clever young fellow, who would be very proud
of the honour to serve an Englishman." "But, why an English one more
than any other?" "They are so generous," said the landlord. I'll be shot
if this is not a livre out of my pocket, quoth I to myself, this very
night. "But they have wherewithal to be so, Monsieur," added he. Set
down one livre more for that, quoth I.
The landlord then called in La Fleur, which was the name of the young
man he had spoke of--saying only first, that as for his talents, he
would presume to say nothing--Monsieur was the best judge what would
suit him; but for the fidelity of La Fleur, he would stand responsible
in all he was worth.
The landlord deliver'd this in a manner which instantly set my mind to
the business I was upon--and La Fleur, who stood waiting without, in
that breathless expectation which every son of nature of us has felt in
our turns, came in.
_VI.--Montreuil--La Fleur_
I am apt to be taken with all kinds of people at first sight; but never
more so, than when a poor devil comes to offer his services to so poor a
devil as myself.
When La Fleur entered the room, the genuine look and air of the fellow
determined the matter at once in his favour; so I hired him first--and
then began to enquire what he could do. But I shall find out his
talents, quoth I, as I want them. Besides, a Frenchman can do
everything.
Now poor La Fleur could do nothing in the world but beat a drum, and
play a march or two upon the pipe. I was determined to make his talents
do: and can't say my weakness was ever so insulted by my wisdom, as in
the attempt.
La Fleur had set out early in life, as gallantly as most Frenchmen do,
with _serving_ for a few years: at the end of which, having satisfied
the sentiment, and found moreover, that the honour of beating a drum was
likely to be its own reward, as it open'd no further track of glory to
him--he retired _à ses terres_, and lived _comme il plaisait à
Dieu_--that is to say, upon nothing.
"But you can do something else, La Fleur?" said I. O yes, he could make
spatterdashes (leather riding gaiters), and play a little upon the
fiddle. "Why, I play bass myself," said I; "we shall do very well. You
can shave and dress a wig a little, La Fleur?" He had all the
disposition in the world. "It is enough for Heaven!" said I,
interrupting him, "and ought to be enough for me!" So supper coming in,
and having a frisky English spaniel on one side of my chair, and a
French valet with as much hilarity in his countenance as ever Nature
painted in one, on the other, I was satisfied to my heart's content with
my empire; and if monarchs knew what they would be at, they might be
satisfied as I was.
As La Fleur went the whole tour of France and Italy with me, I must
interest the reader in his behalf, by saying that I had never less
reason to repent of the impulses which generally do determine me, than
in regard to this fellow. He was a faithful, affectionate, simple soul
as ever trudged after the heels of a philosopher; and notwithstanding
his talents of drum-beating and spatterdash making, which, though very
good in themselves, happened to be of no great service to me, yet was I
hourly recompensed by the festivity of his temper--it supplied all
defects. I had a constant resource in his looks, in all difficulties and
distresses of my own--I was going to have added, of his too; but La
Fleur was out of the reach of everything; for whether it was hunger or
thirst, or cold or nakedness, or watchings, or whatever stripes of ill
luck La Fleur met with in our journeyings, there was no index in his
physiognomy to point them out by--he was eternally the same; so that if
I am a piece of a philosopher, which Satan now and then puts it into my
head I am--it always mortifies the pride of the conceit, by reflecting
how much I owe to the complexional philosophy of this poor fellow for
shaming me into one of a better kind.
_III.--The Passport--Paris_
When I got home to my hotel, La Fleur told me I had been enquired after
by the lieutenant of police. "The deuce take it," said I, "I know the
reason."
I had left London with so much precipitation that it never enter'd my
mind that we were at war with France; and had reached Dover, and looked
through my glass at the hills beyond Boulogne, before the idea presented
itself; and with this in its train, that there was no getting there
without a passport. Go but to the end of a street, I have a mortal
aversion for returning back no wiser than I set out; and as this was one
of the greatest efforts I had ever made for knowledge, I could less bear
the thoughts of it; so hearing the Count de ---- had buried the packet, I
begged he would take me in his _suite_. The count had some little
knowledge of me, so made little or no difficulty--only said his
inclination to serve me could reach no further than Calais, as he was to
return by way of Brussels to Paris; however, when I had once passed
there I might get to Paris without interruption; but that in Paris I
must make friends and shift for myself. "Let me get to Paris, Monsieur
le Comte," said I, "and I shall do very well." So I embark'd, and never
thought more of the matter.
When La Fleur told me the lieutenant of police had been enquiring after
me--the thing instantly recurred--and by the time La Fleur had well told
me, the master of the hotel came into my room to tell me the same thing
with this addition to it, that my passport had been particularly asked
after. The master of the hotel concluded with saying he hoped I had one.
"Not I, faith!" said I.
The master of the hotel retired three steps from me, as from an infected
person, as I declared this, and poor La Fleur advanced three steps
towards me, and with that sort of movement which a good soul makes to
succour a distress'd one--the fellow won my heart by it; and from that
single _trait_ I knew his character as perfectly, and could rely upon it
as firmly, as if he had served me with fidelity for seven years.
"_Mon Seigneur!_" cried the master of the hotel--but recollecting
himself as he made the exclamation, he instantly changed the tone of
it--"If Monsieur," said he, "has not a passport, in all likelihood he
has friends in Paris who can procure him one."
"Not that I know of," quoth I, with an air of indifference.
"Then, _certes_," replied he, "you'll be sent to the Bastille or the
Chatelet, _au moins_."
"Pooh!" said I, "the King of France is a good-natur'd soul--he'll hurt
nobody."
"_Cela n'empèche pas_," said he--"You will certainly be sent to the
Bastille to-morrow morning."
"But I've taken your lodgings for a month," answered I, "and I'll not
quit them a day before the time for all the kings of France in the
world." La Fleur whispered in my ear, that nobody could oppose the King
of France.
"_Pardi!_" said my host, "_ces Messieurs Anglais sont des gens très
extraordinaires_"--And having said and sworn it he went out.
_VII.--Le Pâtissier--Versailles_
As I am at Versailles, thought I, why should I not go to the Count de
B----, and tell him my story? So seeing a man standing with a basket on
the other side of the street, as if he had something to sell, I bid La
Fleur go up to him and enquire for the count's hotel.
La Fleur returned a little pale; and told me it was a Chevalier de St.
Louis selling pâtés. He had seen the croix set in gold, with its red
ribband, he said, tied to his button-hole--and had looked into the
basket and seen the pâtés which the chevalier was selling.
Such a reverse in man's life awakens a better principle than
curiosity--I got out of the carriage and went towards him. He was begirt
with a clean linen apron, which fell below his knees, and with a sort of
bib that went half way-up his breast; upon the top of this hung his
croix. His basket of little pâtés was covered over with a white damask
napkin; and there was a look of _propreté_ and neatness throughout, that
one might have bought his pâtés of him, as much from appetite as
sentiment.
He was about 48--of a sedate look, something approaching to gravity. I
did not wonder--I went up rather to the basket than him, and having
lifted up the napkin, and taken one of his pâtés into my hand I begged
he would explain the appearance which affected me.
He told me in a few words, that the best part of his life had pass'd in
the service, in which he had obtained a company and the croix with it;
but that, at the conclusion of the last peace, his regiment being
re-formed and the whole corps left without any provision, he found
himself in a wide world without friends, without a livre--"And indeed,"
said he, "without anything but this" (pointing, as he said it, to his
croix). The king could neither relieve nor reward everyone, and it was
only his misfortune to be amongst the number. He had a little wife, he
said, whom he loved, who did the _pâtisserie_; and added, he felt no
dishonour in defending her and himself from want in this way--unless
Providence had offer'd him a better.
It would be wicked to pass over what happen'd to this poor Chevalier of
St. Louis about nine months after.
It seems his story reach'd at last the king's ear--who, hearing the
chevalier had been a gallant officer, broke up his little trade by a
pension of 1,500 livres a year.