THE probability is that, if you arrive by train and see first the
Restaurant of the Station, you will stay at Zwinger’s; if you come into
the town by road, crossing the bridge that spans the harbour, and see
first the Restaurant of Zwinger, you will put up at the Restaurant of the
Station.
Assuming that you stay at Zwinger’s, this is what happens. The carrier
of your bag (who looks like a fisherman, and walks as a fisherman, but is
not a fisherman) throws it down outside the restaurant, and, sinking on
one of the green iron chairs, groans aloud a protest against the scheme
by which one has to work ere one can gain five pence; he rolls a
cigarette of black tobacco, and strikes a match which makes other
customers choke and cough. Then comes, leisurely, one of the Misses
Zwinger, accepting salutations with the austere air of a lady bored by
deference. Miss Zwinger, without asking the desires or wishes of the new
arrival, engages in swift and shrill altercation with a dog, hitherto
inoffensive, and occupied with the duties of explorer at the kerb; the
dog goes, but, at a safe distance, expresses an opinion by four sharp
barks, that bring from every corner of the triangular market-place, and
especially from the Town Hall at the base, several dogs, to whom he
explains the grievance.
“You require?”
Miss Zwinger calls her sister from the sanded floor interior to help with
the task of fending off an insurgent boarder. The restaurant is full;
you may be able to engage a furnished room opposite; why not go to the
hotel out in the forest? It is preferred, at this season, to take only
those who wish to stay for a month; would a double-bedded room suit?
Finally, having finished the duet, they leave, with a twirl of skirts,
giving the centre of the stage, so to speak, to a short, grim,
black-capped man who, hands deep in trousers pockets, talks as one giving
an imitation of distant thunder. Outside clients rise from their chairs,
inside customers put down ribald journals with pictures intended to be
amusing, and stroll out to enjoy themselves. Here comes the final test
of the novice.
I have seen young couples, husbands and wives, or brothers and sisters,
come from the narrow lane and, recognising Zwinger’s, say instantly:
“Oh, my goodness! This will never do!”
Others (and these especially when ladies have been of the party) retire
after the contest with the Misses Zwinger. Some, enduring this
encounter, turn and run, trembling and affrighted, on being faced by the
uncompromising host himself. A few (mostly artists) survive all of the
dangers, and are grudgingly permitted to carry their bags up a narrow
wooden staircase, and find a room, the number of which has been screamed
at them: in the room they discover a milk jug nearly half-full of water,
and a small damp piece of linen riding on the clothes-horse. Apart from
these defects, I will say that Zwinger’s, once conquered, gives in, so
far as bedroom and meals are concerned, with a fairly good grace.
Dinner in the large room at the back (entrance gained by way of the
kitchen) is a good, sufficient meal, to which it is only necessary to
bring the appetite to be gained by wandering in the woods, or a brisk
ride in tramcars from the sea. Framed paintings on the wall, and
paintings on the wall with no frames, some a trifle obscured by age, and
possessing the signatures of men no longer youthful. Four tables up and
down the room; the table on the right reserved for a set of young women
who, at the beginning of the evening meal, talk so persistently of the
contributions they have made during the day to the art of England and
America, that one’s French neighbour, with serviette tucked in at throat,
can, I fear, scarcely hear himself eat his soup.
“Most awfully pleased with what I’ve done to-day. If the light hadn’t
begun to go off—”
“I’m like that, too. Sometimes I simply can’t do anything, and then,
another time—”
“My dear, the model was too comic for words. Talking all the time. If
I’d only understood what he was saying, I could write a book about him,
and that’s a fact!”
“Absolutely in love with the place. Could stay here for a whole week,
only I must be getting along.”
The serving of the meal has a touch of over-emphasis that sometimes
startles those who possess nerves; after a while, one becomes accustomed
to the method of banging each dish on the table with a clatter. It is no
exaggeration, but the mere truth to say that, a request being made for
more bread, a chunk is cut from the yard-long loaves and thrown at the
diner; with practice, a certain dexterity can be gained, especially by
those expert in the cricket-field. Five courses to the meal, and now and
again between two, a considerable interval, whilst the Zwinger family and
its dependents have a row in the kitchen, the guests sitting back
patiently until the last word is uttered. The nice question of allotting
this last word is not easy to decide, for when the rumbling bass of
Zwinger has fired what appears to be a parting shot, and the girls return
to the dining-room with plates, and guests pull chairs forward, one of
the young women may think of another argument, and the two go back to the
kitchen, where the dispute recommences. The quarrel finally at an end,
the Zwinger ladies come in, scarlet as a result of animated discussion,
and they serve the next course with more than usual truculence. Boarders
go outside to take their coffee and to smoke, eyed narrowly, as they pass
through, by Zwinger, to be joined at tables on the pavement by wonderful
youths in corduroy suits, which suggest that they are either artists with
a definite aim in life, or porters belonging to the railway of the North.
You can always tell at Zwinger’s a new arrival by the circumstance that,
after taking some thought in regard to the arrangement and wording of the
phrase, he advances to the counter, where Zwinger scowls in a manner that
excuses the acidity of contents of some of the bottles ranged there.
“It makes good weather,” remarks the new arrival, cheerily.
Zwinger replies with an ejaculated grunt.
“Many of the world here?”
Zwinger—a most difficult speaker to report with accuracy—says something
like “S-s-t!”
“If you will have the kindness to give me a good cigar.”
Zwinger pushes a box forward, and the perplexed new arrival, tempted, I
am sure, to fall back on Ollendorf, and to ask for the new inkstand of
his great-uncle, refrains from further speech, and tempts the fates by
making selection from the compartment marked 15 c. Outside he, on
explaining his grievance, ascertains that there is no need to feel
specially dishonoured by the gruffness accorded to him. Zwinger must not
be considered with the eye that one gives to, say, the manager of the
Carlton away in London. Zwinger (declare the hopeful) may be right
enough once you get to know him. Zwinger (admit the candid) is certainly
trying, but you have to put up with something in coming to a quiet place
of this kind. The tramcars clang, and hoot, and screw across the
market-place, and provide a more pleasing subject for conversation.
Disappearance of the curfew bell might have been coincident with the
entry of Zwinger into public life. At a quarter past ten, he shows signs
of restlessness, jerking commands to the long man-servant, keeping at the
doorway a keen eye on the round tables. As each becomes free, Zwinger
orders it, with its chairs, to be taken inside, and, although he permits
himself to exhibit no signs of gratification, I am certain he feels
secretly pleased when small parties of young men come across, and,
finding no place, give up their original intention. If they endeavour to
pass through the doorway, Zwinger, taking no notice of them, remains
there so stolidly that they are compelled to take notice of him. I have
seen him snatch newspapers from the hands of those who appeared
disinclined to observe the face of the clock: I have observed him give a
hint to an occupied chair by kicking it. He turns down the lights, one
by one. In desperate cases, where a couple of young Englishmen, with the
conventional ideas of the licence enjoyed at restaurants abroad, fill a
fresh pipe, I have seen him take a broom, and, with a few resolute
strokes, send them choking and half-blinded from the restaurant. When a
late-stayer, with an idea of making a good and amiable exit, says, in
departing, “Good-night to the company!” Zwinger responds with one of
those grunts not to be found in any French or English dictionary. Every
one gone, he takes a black cigar from the case, orders the girls to go to
bed, and, at the doorway, stands a good half-hour in order to enjoy the
satisfaction of saying, when any one arrives, “Closed!”
Bad luck for any resident who returns so late that Zwinger has retired to
rest. For him, the restaurant presents no light, and, if he cares to be
well-advised, he will give up the attempt at once and spend the hours on
the bridge, smelling the tide, and watching the flashlight that sweeps
round from a point on the coast. Should he prove obstinate, and persist
in knocking, he is engaged on a lengthy sport; the worst thing that can
happen is that Zwinger himself, and not the long man-servant, should come
down presently to give admission. Cheerful blades have, ere this, on the
door being opened, tried to meet Zwinger with a pleasantry, affecting to
have brought the milk, or giving an imitation of the crowing of a cock,
but a look from Zwinger arrests. Others, less daring and more
diplomatic, rush past, snatch their candlestick from the counter, and
vanish with the celerity easy to those possessed by sudden fear; the next
morning they go out by the side door, take a roundabout route to gain the
other side of the market-place, cross the bridge, and hide in the forest.
There is a report (which some credit, but I do not) of one young man,
leaving after a stay of six weeks, during which time the proprietor
exchanged no word with him; in going, he suddenly dropped his kit bag,
seized Zwinger by the hand, wrung the hand with enthusiasm for the space
of nearly a minute, thanking the astonished Zwinger the while for great
amiability and kindness, and genial behaviour; expressing a fervent hope
that Zwinger, when visiting Chelsea, would not fail to call at the Art
Club in Church Street. The statement is that this was done for a bet.
Those who assume it to be true are forced to admit that France, with all
its stirring history, has rarely seen a braver act.
Yet I, who write these words, have seen the proprietor for one whole day
change his outlook, reverse his manner, alter his deportment. The day
came rather late in the season, and nearly every one had left, but
corroborative evidence can be called if necessary. The night before, a
hint, broad without being deep, was given by the Misses Zwinger to the
effect that no guarantee existed that meals would be provided on the day:
they pointed out the example which would be adopted by some other
boarders, of catching the 10.23 in the morning to a neighbouring town,
returning in the evening by the 9.48. Throughout the night, from
half-past ten until an hour I am unable to fix, the noise of sawing, the
thud of hammer and nails, went on in the restaurant, with all the usual
arguments that arise when carpentry has to be done. Clatter and
contention, bustle and loud voices; Zwinger, himself, growling now and
again to express dissatisfaction with everything. I remember that, by
the device of making sympathetic inquiries after rheumatism, it was
possible in the morning to get from cook a roll and a cup of coffee, and
to escape from the din, which had recommenced, through the convenient
side door, and jump on the last carriage of a tram-train that went out to
the sea. At one o’clock, the return.
A crowd outside Zwinger’s. A crowd made up of frock-coated men, with red
ribbon in buttonhole; men in full evening dress, silk hats (some of which
appeared, from their shapes, to be the results of investments in the
’eighties), a few bowler hats coming well down to the ears; boots, in
certain instances, shining and pointed, in others more substantial, with
dust collected from high-roads. Much lifting of these silk hats and
these bowlers, with extraordinary deference on the part of many, beaming
condescension on the part of the rest; an evident desire with the
prosperous to set the remainder at their ease. Inside the restaurant,
long tables set on trestles, that accounted for the turbulent proceedings
which had broken the night, flowers in every spare mug, vase, or glass:
flags dependent from the ceiling; the Misses Zwinger, costumed as though
about to run on in musical comedy. Through the kitchen came, pulling his
white tie, and pushing in one side of a shirt-front that immediately
bulged out on the other side, Zwinger himself. A new Zwinger, a Zwinger
I had never seen before, a smile in every crease of his features,
saluting me with a light, friendly touch on the shoulder.
“What magnificent weather! Ah, how fortunate we are! Monsieur will do
us the honour to sit down with us? But yes. I count upon you! Marie,
Jeannette!”
He gave sprightly orders to his girls, and passed out to be received with
something that resembled long-continued cheers. All came in ten minutes
later, Zwinger leading the way, and escorting a prosperous man with the
figure of an American desk, who, in acknowledging my bow, gave to himself
a third chin. Zwinger, having placed him at the top of one of the long
tables, bustled around, urging the rest to take their seats, giving a
shout of welcome to late comers, and presently taking a chair at the
lower end of the second long table with myself on his right, a Mr. Honoré
on his left.
“Much flattered!” said Mr. Honoré, accepting the introduction.
“Seated,” declared Zwinger of himself, jovially, “seated between two good
friends.”
Red wine stood on the white-clothed tables, and this gave me a moment of
depression, until Zwinger, on soup being cleared, whispered to me a
reassuring word, and I found that, despite similarity of labels, the
contents of the bottles had no resemblance or likeness to the beverage
usually supplied. Talk up and down the tables was mainly of births,
marriages, and deaths, with, now and again, a description of recent
illness. Also, the state of trade and the condition of agriculture, and
a few references to politics, so guarded that I knew it could not be a
lunch given in the interests of any political party. I asked a question.
“Wait!” said Zwinger, mysteriously.