I am sitting, fatigued, in my study. I have not taken a holiday this
year, or last, for the matter of that. Others have; I haven't. Work!
work! work!--and I am wishing that my goose-quills were wings ("so
appropriate!" whisper my good-natured friends behind their hands to
one another), so that I might fly away and be at rest. To this they
(the goose-quills, not the friends) have often assisted me ere now.
Suddenly, as I sit "a-thinking, a-thinking," my door is opened, and,
without any announcement, there stands before me a slight figure,
of middle height, in middle age, nothing remarkable about his dress,
nothing remarkable about his greyish hair and close-cut beard,
but something very remarkable about his eyes, which sparkle with
intelligence and energy; and something still more remarkable about the
action of his arms, hands, and thin, wiry fingers, which suggests the
idea of his being an animated semaphore worked by a galvanic battery,
telegraphing signals against time at the rate of a hundred words a
minute, the substantives being occasionally expressed, but mostly
"understood,"--pronouns and prepositions being omitted wholesale.
"What! DAUBINET!" I exclaim, he being the last person I had expected
to see, having, indeed, a letter on my desk from him, dated yesterday
and delivered this morning, to that he was then, at the moment of
writing, and practically therefore for the next forty-eight hours--at
least; so it would be with any ordinary individual--in Edinburgh.
But DAUBINET is not an ordinary individual, and the ordinary laws of
motion to and from any given point do not apply to him. He is a Flying
Frenchman--here, there, and everywhere; especially everywhere. So
mercurial, that he will be in advance of Mercury himself, and having
written a letter in the morning to say he is coming, it is not
unlikely that he will travel by the next train, arrive before the
letter, and then wonder that you weren't prepared to receive him.
Such, in a brief sketch, is _mon ami_ DAUBINET.
[Illustration: "He is a Flying Frenchman."]
"Aha! _me voici!_" he cries, shaking my hand warmly. Then he sings,
waving his hat in his left hand, and still grasping my right with his,
"_Voici le sabre de mon père!_" which reminiscence of OFFENBACH has
no particular relevancy to anything at the present moment; but it
evidently lets off some of his superfluous steam. He continues, always
with my hand in his, "_J'arrive! inattendu! Mais, mon cher_,"--here
he turns off the French stop of his polyglot organ, and, as it were,
turns on the English stop,--continuing his address to me in very
distinctly-pronounced English, "I wrote to you to say I would be
here," then pressing the French stop, he concludes with, "_ce matin,
n'est-ce pas?_"
"_Parfaitement, mon cher_," I reply, giving myself a chance of airing
a little French, being on perfectly safe ground, as he thoroughly
understands English; indeed, he understands several languages, and, if
I flounder out of my depth in foreign waters, one stroke will bring
me safe on to the British rock of intelligibility again; or, if I
obstinately persist in floundering, and am searching for the word as
for a plank, he will jump in and rescue me. Under these circumstances,
I am perfectly safe in talking French to him "_Mais je ne vous
attendais ce matin_"--I've got an idea that this is something
uncommonly grammatical--"_à cause de votre lettre que je viens de
recevoir_"--this, I'll swear, is idiomatic--"_ce matin. La voilà!_" I
pride myself on "_La_," as representing my knowledge that "_lettre_,"
to which it refers, is feminine.
"_Caramba!_" he exclaims--an exclamation which, I have every reason
to suppose, from want of more definite information, is Spanish.
"_Caramba!_ that letter is from Edinburgh; _j'ai visité_ Glasgow,
the _Nord et partout, et je suis de retour_, I am going on business
to Reims, _pour revenir par Paris,--si vous voudrez me donner le
plaisir de votre compagnie--de Jeudi prochain à Mardi--vous serez mon
invité,--et je serai charmé, très charmé._"
[Illustration: "Au revoir!"]
Being already carried away in imagination to Reims, and returning by
Paris, I am at once inclined to reply,
"_Enchanté!_ with the greatest pleasure."
"_Hoch! Hoch! Hurrá!_" he cries, by way of response, waving his hat.
Then he sings loudly, "And--bless the Prince of WALES!" After which,
being rather proud of his mastery of Cockneyisms, he changes the
accent, still singing, "Blaass the Prince of WAILES!" which he
considers his _chef d'oeuvre_ as an imitation of a genuine Cockney
tone, to which it bears exactly such resemblance as does a scene
of ordinary London life drawn by a French artist. Then he says,
seriously--"_Eh bien! allons! C'est fixé_--it is fixed. We meet
Victoria, _et alors, par_ London, Chatham & Dover, from Reims _viâ_
Calais, _très bien,--train d'onze heures précises,--bien entendu. J'y
suis. Ihr Diener! Adios! A reverderla! Addio, amico caro!_" Then he
utters something which is between a sneeze and a growl, supposed to
be a term of endearment in the Russian tongue. Finally he says in
English, "Good-bye!"
His hat is on in a jiffy (which I take to be the hundredth part of a
second) and he is down the stairs into the hall, and out at the door
"like a flying light comedian" with an airy "go" about him, which
recalls to my mind the running exits of CHARLES WYNDHAM in one of
his lightest comedy-parts. "_Au revoir! Pour Jeudi alors!_" I hear
him call this out in the hall; the door bangs as if a firework had
exploded and blown my vivacious friend up into the air, and he has
gone.
"_Jeudi alors_" arrives, and I am at Victoria for the eleven o'clock
Express to the minute, having decided that this is the best, shortest,
and cheapest holiday I can take. I've never yet travelled with
my excellent French friend DAUBINET. I am to be his guest; all
responsibility is taken off my shoulders except that of my ticket and
luggage, and to travel without responsibility is in itself a novelty.
To have to think of nothing and nobody, not even of oneself! Away!
away!
* * * * *
[Illustration]
POLITESSE.--The following version of our great popular Naval Anthem
will be issued, it is hoped, from Whitehall (the French being supplied
by the Lords of the Admiralty in conjunction) to all the musical Naval
Captains in command at Portsmouth. The graceful nature of the intended
compliment cannot escape the thickest-headed land-lubber:--
Dirige, Madame la France,
Madame la France dirigera les vagues!
Messieurs les Français ne seront jamais, jamais, jamais,
Esclaves!
The effect of the above, when the metre is carefully fitted to the
tune (which is a work of time), and sung by a choir (with accent) of a
thousand British Blue-jackets, will doubtless be quite electrical.
* * * * *
NOTE BY A TRAVELLING FELLOW FIRST CLASSIC.--There's no passage in
any Classical author, Latin or Greek, so difficult as is the passage
between Dover and Calais on a rough day, and yet, strange to say, the
translation is comparatively easy.
* * * * *
A PICTURE ON THE LINE.--Sketch taken at the Equator.
* * * * *