IN the morning, when we came downstairs, the landlady pointed out to us
two pails of water behind the street-door. ‘_Voilà de l’eau pour vous
débarbouiller_,’ says she. And so there we made a shift to wash
ourselves, while Madame Gilliard brushed the family boots on the outer
doorstep, and M. Hector, whistling cheerily, arranged some small goods
for the day’s campaign in a portable chest of drawers, which formed a
part of his baggage. Meanwhile the child was letting off Waterloo
crackers all over the floor.
I wonder, by-the-bye, what they call Waterloo crackers in France; perhaps
Austerlitz crackers. There is a great deal in the point of view. Do you
remember the Frenchman who, travelling by way of Southampton, was put
down in Waterloo Station, and had to drive across Waterloo Bridge? He
had a mind to go home again, it seems.
Pont itself is on the river, but whereas it is ten minutes’ walk from
Quartes by dry land, it is six weary kilometres by water. We left our
bags at the inn, and walked to our canoes through the wet orchards
unencumbered. Some of the children were there to see us off, but we were
no longer the mysterious beings of the night before. A departure is much
less romantic than an unexplained arrival in the golden evening.
Although we might be greatly taken at a ghost’s first appearance, we
should behold him vanish with comparative equanimity.
The good folk of the inn at Pont, when we called there for the bags, were
overcome with marvelling. At sight of these two dainty little boats,
with a fluttering Union Jack on each, and all the varnish shining from
the sponge, they began to perceive that they had entertained angels
unawares. The landlady stood upon the bridge, probably lamenting she had
charged so little; the son ran to and fro, and called out the neighbours
to enjoy the sight; and we paddled away from quite a crowd of wrapt
observers. These gentlemen pedlars, indeed! Now you see their quality
too late.
The whole day was showery, with occasional drenching plumps. We were
soaked to the skin, then partially dried in the sun, then soaked once
more. But there were some calm intervals, and one notably, when we were
skirting the forest of Mormal, a sinister name to the ear, but a place
most gratifying to sight and smell. It looked solemn along the
river-side, drooping its boughs into the water, and piling them up aloft
into a wall of leaves. What is a forest but a city of nature’s own, full
of hardy and innocuous living things, where there is nothing dead and
nothing made with the hands, but the citizens themselves are the houses
and public monuments? There is nothing so much alive, and yet so quiet,
as a woodland; and a pair of people, swinging past in canoes, feel very
small and bustling by comparison.
And surely of all smells in the world, the smell of many trees is the
sweetest and most fortifying. The sea has a rude, pistolling sort of
odour, that takes you in the nostrils like snuff, and carries with it a
fine sentiment of open water and tall ships; but the smell of a forest,
which comes nearest to this in tonic quality, surpasses it by many
degrees in the quality of softness. Again, the smell of the sea has
little variety, but the smell of a forest is infinitely changeful; it
varies with the hour of the day, not in strength merely, but in
character; and the different sorts of trees, as you go from one zone of
the wood to another, seem to live among different kinds of atmosphere.
Usually the resin of the fir predominates. But some woods are more
coquettish in their habits; and the breath of the forest of Mormal, as it
came aboard upon us that showery afternoon, was perfumed with nothing
less delicate than sweetbrier.
I wish our way had always lain among woods. Trees are the most civil
society. An old oak that has been growing where he stands since before
the Reformation, taller than many spires, more stately than the greater
part of mountains, and yet a living thing, liable to sicknesses and
death, like you and me: is not that in itself a speaking lesson in
history? But acres on acres full of such patriarchs contiguously rooted,
their green tops billowing in the wind, their stalwart younglings pushing
up about their knees: a whole forest, healthy and beautiful, giving
colour to the light, giving perfume to the air: what is this but the most
imposing piece in nature’s repertory? Heine wished to lie like Merlin
under the oaks of Broceliande. I should not be satisfied with one tree;
but if the wood grew together like a banyan grove, I would be buried
under the tap-root of the whole; my parts should circulate from oak to
oak; and my consciousness should be diffused abroad in all the forest,
and give a common heart to that assembly of green spires, so that it also
might rejoice in its own loveliness and dignity. I think I feel a
thousand squirrels leaping from bough to bough in my vast mausoleum; and
the birds and the winds merrily coursing over its uneven, leafy surface.
Alas! the forest of Mormal is only a little bit of a wood, and it was but
for a little way that we skirted by its boundaries. And the rest of the
time the rain kept coming in squirts and the wind in squalls, until one’s
heart grew weary of such fitful, scolding weather. It was odd how the
showers began when we had to carry the boats over a lock, and must expose
our legs. They always did. This is a sort of thing that readily begets
a personal feeling against nature. There seems no reason why the shower
should not come five minutes before or five minutes after, unless you
suppose an intention to affront you. The _Cigarette_ had a mackintosh
which put him more or less above these contrarieties. But I had to bear
the brunt uncovered. I began to remember that nature was a woman. My
companion, in a rosier temper, listened with great satisfaction to my
Jeremiads, and ironically concurred. He instanced, as a cognate matter,
the action of the tides, ‘which,’ said he, ‘was altogether designed for
the confusion of canoeists, except in so far as it was calculated to
minister to a barren vanity on the part of the moon.’
At the last lock, some little way out of Landrecies, I refused to go any
farther; and sat in a drift of rain by the side of the bank, to have a
reviving pipe. A vivacious old man, whom I take to have been the devil,
drew near and questioned me about our journey. In the fulness of my
heart, I laid bare our plans before him. He said it was the silliest
enterprise that ever he heard of. Why, did I not know, he asked me, that
it was nothing but locks, locks, locks, the whole way? not to mention
that, at this season of the year, we should find the Oise quite dry?
‘Get into a train, my little young man,’ said he, I and go you away home
to your parents.’ I was so astounded at the man’s malice, that I could
only stare at him in silence. A tree would never have spoken to me like
this. At last I got out with some words. We had come from Antwerp
already, I told him, which was a good long way; and we should do the rest
in spite of him. Yes, I said, if there were no other reason, I would do
it now, just because he had dared to say we could not. The pleasant old
gentleman looked at me sneeringly, made an allusion to my canoe, and
marched of, waggling his head.
I was still inwardly fuming, when up came a pair of young fellows, who
imagined I was the _Cigarette’s_ servant, on a comparison, I suppose, of
my bare jersey with the other’s mackintosh, and asked me many questions
about my place and my master’s character. I said he was a good enough
fellow, but had this absurd voyage on the head. ‘O no, no,’ said one,
‘you must not say that; it is not absurd; it is very courageous of him.’
I believe these were a couple of angels sent to give me heart again. It
was truly fortifying to reproduce all the old man’s insinuations, as if
they were original to me in my character of a malcontent footman, and
have them brushed away like so many flies by these admirable young men.
When I recounted this affair to the _Cigarette_, ‘They must have a
curious idea of how English servants behave,’ says he dryly, ‘for you
treated me like a brute beast at the lock.’