I PERCEIVED that something darken’d the passage more than myself, as I
stepp’d along it to my room; it was effectually Mons. Dessein, the master
of the hôtel, who had just returned from vespers, and with his hat under
his arm, was most complaisantly following me, to put me in mind of my
wants. I had wrote myself pretty well out of conceit with the
_désobligeant_, and Mons. Dessein speaking of it, with a shrug, as if it
would no way suit me, it immediately struck my fancy that it belong’d to
some _Innocent Traveller_, who, on his return home, had left it to Mons.
Dessein’s honour to make the most of. Four months had elapsed since it
had finished its career of Europe in the corner of Mons. Dessein’s
coach-yard; and having sallied out from thence but a vampt-up business at
the first, though it had been twice taken to pieces on Mount Sennis, it
had not profited much by its adventures,—but by none so little as the
standing so many months unpitied in the corner of Mons. Dessein’s
coach-yard. Much indeed was not to be said for it,—but something
might;—and when a few words will rescue misery out of her distress, I
hate the man who can be a churl of them.
—Now was I the master of this hôtel, said I, laying the point of my
fore-finger on Mons. Dessein’s breast, I would inevitably make a point of
getting rid of this unfortunate _désobligeant_;—it stands swinging
reproaches at you every time you pass by it.
_Mon Dieu_! said Mons. Dessein,—I have no interest—Except the interest,
said I, which men of a certain turn of mind take, Mons. Dessein, in their
own sensations,—I’m persuaded, to a man who feels for others as well as
for himself, every rainy night, disguise it as you will, must cast a damp
upon your spirits:—You suffer, Mons. Dessein, as much as the machine—
I have always observed, when there is as much _sour_ as _sweet_ in a
compliment, that an Englishman is eternally at a loss within himself,
whether to take it, or let it alone: a Frenchman never is: Mons. Dessein
made me a bow.
_C’est bien vrai_, said he.—But in this case I should only exchange one
disquietude for another, and with loss: figure to yourself, my dear Sir,
that in giving you a chaise which would fall to pieces before you had got
half-way to Paris,—figure to yourself how much I should suffer, in giving
an ill impression of myself to a man of honour, and lying at the mercy,
as I must do, _d’un homme d’esprit_.
The dose was made up exactly after my own prescription; so I could not
help tasting it,—and, returning Mons. Dessein his bow, without more
casuistry we walk’d together towards his Remise, to take a view of his
magazine of chaises.
IN THE STREET.
CALAIS.
IT must needs be a hostile kind of a world, when the buyer (if it be but
of a sorry post-chaise) cannot go forth with the seller thereof into the
street to terminate the difference betwixt them, but he instantly falls
into the same frame of mind, and views his conventionist with the same
sort of eye, as if he was going along with him to Hyde-park corner to
fight a duel. For my own part, being but a poor swordsman, and no way a
match for Monsieur Dessein, I felt the rotation of all the movements
within me, to which the situation is incident;—I looked at Monsieur
Dessein through and through—eyed him as he walk’d along in profile,—then,
_en face_;—thought like a Jew,—then a Turk,—disliked his wig,—cursed him
by my gods,—wished him at the devil.—
—And is all this to be lighted up in the heart for a beggarly account of
three or four louis d’ors, which is the most I can be overreached
in?—Base passion! said I, turning myself about, as a man naturally does
upon a sudden reverse of sentiment,—base, ungentle passion! thy hand is
against every man, and every man’s hand against thee.—Heaven forbid! said
she, raising her hand up to her forehead, for I had turned full in front
upon the lady whom I had seen in conference with the monk:—she had
followed us unperceived.—Heaven forbid, indeed! said I, offering her my
own;—she had a black pair of silk gloves, open only at the thumb and two
fore-fingers, so accepted it without reserve,—and I led her up to the
door of the Remise.
Monsieur Dessein had _diabled_ the key above fifty times before he had
found out he had come with a wrong one in his hand: we were as impatient
as himself to have it opened; and so attentive to the obstacle that I
continued holding her hand almost without knowing it: so that Monsieur
Dessein left us together with her hand in mine, and with our faces turned
towards the door of the Remise, and said he would be back in five
minutes.
Now a colloquy of five minutes, in such a situation, is worth one of as
many ages, with your faces turned towards the street: in the latter case,
’tis drawn from the objects and occurrences without;—when your eyes are
fixed upon a dead blank,—you draw purely from yourselves. A silence of a
single moment upon Mons. Dessein’s leaving us, had been fatal to the
situation—she had infallibly turned about;—so I begun the conversation
instantly.—
—But what were the temptations (as I write not to apologize for the
weaknesses of my heart in this tour,—but to give an account of
them)—shall be described with the same simplicity with which I felt them.
THE REMISE DOOR.
CALAIS.
WHEN I told the reader that I did not care to get out of the
_désobligeant_, because I saw the monk in close conference with a lady
just arrived at the inn—I told him the truth,—but I did not tell him the
whole truth; for I was as full as much restrained by the appearance and
figure of the lady he was talking to. Suspicion crossed my brain and
said, he was telling her what had passed: something jarred upon it within
me,—I wished him at his convent.
When the heart flies out before the understanding, it saves the judgment
a world of pains.—I was certain she was of a better order of
beings;—however, I thought no more of her, but went on and wrote my
preface.
The impression returned upon my encounter with her in the street; a
guarded frankness with which she gave me her hand, showed, I thought, her
good education and her good sense; and as I led her on, I felt a
pleasurable ductility about her, which spread a calmness over all my
spirits—
—Good God! how a man might lead such a creature as this round the world
with him!—
I had not yet seen her face—’twas not material: for the drawing was
instantly set about, and long before we had got to the door of the
Remise, _Fancy_ had finished the whole head, and pleased herself as much
with its fitting her goddess, as if she had dived into the Tiber for
it;—but thou art a seduced, and a seducing slut; and albeit thou cheatest
us seven times a day with thy pictures and images, yet with so many
charms dost thou do it, and thou deckest out thy pictures in the shapes
of so many angels of light, ’tis a shame to break with thee.
When we had got to the door of the Remise, she withdrew her hand from
across her forehead, and let me see the original:—it was a face of about
six-and-twenty,—of a clear transparent brown, simply set off without
rouge or powder;—it was not critically handsome, but there was that in
it, which, in the frame of mind I was in, attached me much more to it,—it
was interesting: I fancied it wore the characters of a widow’d look, and
in that state of its declension, which had passed the two first paroxysms
of sorrow, and was quietly beginning to reconcile itself to its loss;—but
a thousand other distresses might have traced the same lines; I wish’d to
know what they had been—and was ready to inquire, (had the same _bon ton_
of conversation permitted, as in the days of Esdras)—“_What aileth thee_?
_and why art thou disquieted_? _and why is thy understanding
troubled_?”—In a word, I felt benevolence for her; and resolv’d some way
or other to throw in my mite of courtesy,—if not of service.
Such were my temptations;—and in this disposition to give way to them,
was I left alone with the lady with her hand in mine, and with our faces
both turned closer to the door of the Remise than what was absolutely
necessary.
THE REMISE DOOR.
CALAIS.
THIS certainly, fair lady, said I, raising her hand up little lightly as
I began, must be one of Fortune’s whimsical doings; to take two utter
strangers by their hands,—of different sexes, and perhaps from different
corners of the globe, and in one moment place them together in such a
cordial situation as Friendship herself could scarce have achieved for
them, had she projected it for a month.
—And your reflection upon it shows how much, Monsieur, she has
embarrassed you by the adventure—
When the situation is what we would wish, nothing is so ill-timed as to
hint at the circumstances which make it so: you thank Fortune, continued
she—you had reason—the heart knew it, and was satisfied; and who but an
English philosopher would have sent notice of it to the brain to reverse
the judgment?
In saying this, she disengaged her hand with a look which I thought a
sufficient commentary upon the text.
It is a miserable picture which I am going to give of the weakness of my
heart, by owning, that it suffered a pain, which worthier occasions could
not have inflicted.—I was mortified with the loss of her hand, and the
manner in which I had lost it carried neither oil nor wine to the wound:
I never felt the pain of a sheepish inferiority so miserably in my life.
The triumphs of a true feminine heart are short upon these discomfitures.
In a very few seconds she laid her hand upon the cuff of my coat, in
order to finish her reply; so, some way or other, God knows how, I
regained my situation.
—She had nothing to add.
I forthwith began to model a different conversation for the lady,
thinking from the spirit as well as moral of this, that I had been
mistaken in her character; but upon turning her face towards me, the
spirit which had animated the reply was fled,—the muscles relaxed, and I
beheld the same unprotected look of distress which first won me to her
interest:—melancholy! to see such sprightliness the prey of sorrow,—I
pitied her from my soul; and though it may seem ridiculous enough to a
torpid heart,—I could have taken her into my arms, and cherished her,
though it was in the open street, without blushing.
The pulsations of the arteries along my fingers pressing across hers,
told her what was passing within me: she looked down—a silence of some
moments followed.
I fear in this interval, I must have made some slight efforts towards a
closer compression of her hand, from a subtle sensation I felt in the
palm of my own,—not as if she was going to withdraw hers—but as if she
thought about it;—and I had infallibly lost it a second time, had not
instinct more than reason directed me to the last resource in these
dangers,—to hold it loosely, and in a manner as if I was every moment
going to release it, of myself; so she let it continue, till Monsieur
Dessein returned with the key; and in the mean time I set myself to
consider how I should undo the ill impressions which the poor monk’s
story, in case he had told it her, must have planted in her breast
against me.
THE SNUFF BOX.
CALAIS.
THE good old monk was within six paces of us, as the idea of him crossed
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; but from what movements, I
leave to the few who feel, to analyze.—Excuse me, Madame, 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.
I knew not that contention could be rendered so sweet and pleasurable a
thing to the nerves as I then felt it.—We remained silent, without any
sensation of that foolish pain which takes place, when, in such a circle,
you look for ten minutes in one another’s faces without saying a word.
Whilst this lasted, the monk rubbed 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 me 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,—with a stream of good nature in
his eyes, 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 my mind on to something better: in 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
found 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
tenderest of passions, he abandoned the sword and the sex together, and
took sanctuary not so much in his convent as in himself.
I feel a damp upon my spirits, as I am going to add, that in my last
return through Calais, upon enquiring after Father Lorenzo, 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.
THE REMISE DOOR.
CALAIS.
I HAD never quitted the lady’s hand all this time, and had held it so
long, that it would have been indecent to have let it go, without first
pressing it to my lips: the blood and spirits, which had suffered a
revulsion from her, crowded back to her as I did it.
Now the two travellers, who had spoke to me in the coach-yard, happening
at that crisis to be passing by, and observing our communications,
naturally took it into their heads that we must be _man and wife_ at
least; so, stopping as soon as they came up to the door of the Remise,
the one of them who was the Inquisitive Traveller, ask’d us, if we set
out for Paris the next morning?—I could only answer for myself, I said;
and the lady added, she was for Amiens.—We dined there yesterday, said
the Simple Traveller.—You go directly through the town, added the other,
in your road to Paris. I was going to return a thousand thanks for the
intelligence, _that Amiens was in the road to Paris_, but, upon pulling
out my poor monk’s little horn box to take a pinch of snuff, I made them
a quiet bow, and wishing them a good passage to Dover.—They left us
alone.—
—Now where would be the harm, said I to myself, if I were to beg of this
distressed lady to accept of half of my chaise?—and what mighty mischief
could ensue?
Every dirty passion, and bad propensity in my nature took the alarm, as I
stated the proposition.—It will oblige you to have a third horse, said
Avarice, which will put twenty livres out of your pocket;—You know not
what she is, said Caution;—or what scrapes the affair may draw you into,
whisper’d Cowardice.—
Depend upon it, Yorick! said Discretion, ’twill be said you went off with
a mistress, and came by assignation to Calais for that purpose;—
—You can never after, cried Hypocrisy aloud, show your face in the
world;—or rise, quoth Meanness, in the church;—or be any thing in it,
said Pride, but a lousy prebendary.
But ’tis a civil thing, said I;—and as I generally act from the first
impulse, and therefore seldom listen to these cabals, which serve no
purpose, that I know of, but to encompass the heart with adamant—I turned
instantly about to the lady.—
—But she had glided off unperceived, as the cause was pleading, and had
made ten or a dozen paces down the street, by the time I had made the
determination; so I set off after her with a long stride, to make her the
proposal, with the best address I was master of: but observing she walk’d
with her cheek half resting upon the palm of her hand,—with the slow
short-measur’d step of thoughtfulness,—and with her eyes, as she went
step by step, fixed upon the ground, it struck me she was trying the same
cause herself.—God help her! said I, she has some mother-in-law, or
tartufish aunt, or nonsensical old woman, to consult upon the occasion,
as well as myself: so not caring to interrupt the process, and deeming it
more gallant to take her at discretion than by surprise, I faced about
and took a short turn or two before the door of the Remise, whilst she
walk’d musing on one side.
IN THE STREET.
CALAIS.
HAVING, on the first sight of the lady, settled the affair in my fancy
“that she was of the better order of beings;”—and then laid it down as a
second axiom, as indisputable as the first, that she was a widow, and
wore a character of distress,—I went no further; I got ground enough for
the situation which pleased me;—and had she remained close beside my
elbow till midnight, I should have held true to my system, and considered
her only under that general idea.
She had scarce got twenty paces distant from me, ere something within me
called out for a more particular enquiry;—it brought on the idea of a
further separation:—I might possibly never see her more:—The heart is for
saving what it can; and I wanted the traces through which my wishes might
find their way to her, in case I should never rejoin her myself; in a
word, I wished to know her name,—her family’s—her condition; and as I
knew the place to which she was going, I wanted to know from whence she
came: but there was no coming at all this intelligence; a hundred little
delicacies stood in the way. I form’d a score different plans.—There was
no such thing as a man’s asking her directly;—the thing was impossible.
A little French _débonnaire_ captain, who came dancing down the street,
showed me it was the easiest thing in the world: for, popping in betwixt
us, just as the lady was returning back to the door of the Remise, he
introduced himself to my acquaintance, and before he had well got
announced, begg’d I would do him the honour to present him to the lady.—I
had not been presented myself;—so turning about to her, he did it just as
well, by asking her if she had come from Paris? No: she was going that
route, she said.—_Vous n’êtes pas de Londres_?—She was not, she
replied.—Then Madame must have come through Flanders.—_Apparemment vous
êtes Flammande_? said the French captain.—The lady answered, she
was.—_Peut être de Lisle_? added he.—She said, she was not of Lisle.—Nor
Arras?—nor Cambray?—nor Ghent?—nor Brussels?—She answered, she was of
Brussels.
He had had the honour, he said, to be at the bombardment of it last
war;—that it was finely situated, _pour cela_,—and full of noblesse when
the Imperialists were driven out by the French (the lady made a slight
courtesy)—so giving her an account of the affair, and of the share he had
had in it,—he begg’d the honour to know her name,—so made his bow.
—_Et Madame a son Mari_?—said he, looking back when he had made two
steps,—and, without staying for an answer—danced down the street.
Had I served seven years apprenticeship to good breeding, I could not
have done as much.
THE REMISE.
CALAIS.
As the little French captain left us, Mons. Dessein came up with the key
of the Remise in his hand, and forthwith let us into his magazine of
chaises.
The first object which caught my eye, as Mons. Dessein open’d the door of
the Remise, was another old tatter’d _désobligeant_; and notwithstanding
it was the exact picture of that which had hit my fancy so much in the
coach-yard but an hour before,—the very sight of it stirr’d up a
disagreeable sensation within me now; and I thought ’twas a churlish
beast into whose heart the idea could first enter, to construct such a
machine; nor had I much more charity for the man who could think of using
it.
I observed the lady was as little taken with it as myself: so Mons.
Dessein led us on to a couple of chaises which stood abreast, telling us,
as he recommended them, that they had been purchased by my lord A. and B.
to go the grand tour, but had gone no further than Paris, so were in all
respects as good as new.—They were too good;—so I pass’d on to a third,
which stood behind, and forthwith begun to chaffer for the price.—But
’twill scarce hold two, said I, opening the door and getting in.—Have the
goodness, Madame, said Mons. Dessein, offering his arm, to step in.—The
lady hesitated half a second, and stepped in; and the waiter that moment
beckoning to speak to Mon. Dessein, he shut the door of the chaise upon
us, and left us.
THE REMISE.
CALAIS.
_C’EST bien comique_, ’tis very droll, said the lady, smiling, from the
reflection that this was the second time we had been left together by a
parcel of nonsensical contingencies,—_c’est bien comique_, said she.—
—There wants nothing, said I, to make it so but the comic use which the
gallantry of a Frenchman would put it to,—to make love the first moment,
and an offer of his person the second.
’Tis their _fort_, replied the lady.
It is supposed so at least;—and how it has come to pass, continued I, I
know not; but they have certainly got the credit of understanding more of
love, and making it better than any other nation upon earth; but, for my
own part, I think them arrant bunglers, and in truth the worst set of
marksmen that ever tried Cupid’s patience.
—To think of making love by _sentiments_!
I should as soon think of making a genteel suit of clothes out of
remnants:—and to do it—pop—at first sight, by declaration—is submitting
the offer, and themselves with it, to be sifted with all their _pours_
and _contres_, by an unheated mind.
The lady attended as if she expected I should go on.