ALTHOUGH we came late for dinner, the company at table treated us to
sparkling wine. ‘That is how we are in France,’ said one. ‘Those who
sit down with us are our friends.’ And the rest applauded.
They were three altogether, and an odd trio to pass the Sunday with.
Two of them were guests like ourselves, both men of the north. One
ruddy, and of a full habit of body, with copious black hair and beard,
the intrepid hunter of France, who thought nothing so small, not even a
lark or a minnow, but he might vindicate his prowess by its capture. For
such a great, healthy man, his hair flourishing like Samson’s, his
arteries running buckets of red blood, to boast of these infinitesimal
exploits, produced a feeling of disproportion in the world, as when a
steam-hammer is set to cracking nuts. The other was a quiet, subdued
person, blond and lymphatic and sad, with something the look of a Dane:
‘_Tristes têtes de Danois_!’ as Gaston Lafenestre used to say.
I must not let that name go by without a word for the best of all good
fellows now gone down into the dust. We shall never again see Gaston in
his forest costume—he was Gaston with all the world, in affection, not in
disrespect—nor hear him wake the echoes of Fontainebleau with the
woodland horn. Never again shall his kind smile put peace among all
races of artistic men, and make the Englishman at home in France. Never
more shall the sheep, who were not more innocent at heart than he, sit
all unconsciously for his industrious pencil. He died too early, at the
very moment when he was beginning to put forth fresh sprouts, and blossom
into something worthy of himself; and yet none who knew him will think he
lived in vain. I never knew a man so little, for whom yet I had so much
affection; and I find it a good test of others, how much they had learned
to understand and value him. His was indeed a good influence in life
while he was still among us; he had a fresh laugh, it did you good to see
him; and however sad he may have been at heart, he always bore a bold and
cheerful countenance, and took fortune’s worst as it were the showers of
spring. But now his mother sits alone by the side of Fontainebleau
woods, where he gathered mushrooms in his hardy and penurious youth.
Many of his pictures found their way across the Channel: besides those
which were stolen, when a dastardly Yankee left him alone in London with
two English pence, and perhaps twice as many words of English. If any
one who reads these lines should have a scene of sheep, in the manner of
Jacques, with this fine creature’s signature, let him tell himself that
one of the kindest and bravest of men has lent a hand to decorate his
lodging. There may be better pictures in the National Gallery; but not a
painter among the generations had a better heart. Precious in the sight
of the Lord of humanity, the Psalms tell us, is the death of his saints.
It had need to be precious; for it is very costly, when by the stroke, a
mother is left desolate, and the peace-maker, and _peace-looker_, of a
whole society is laid in the ground with Cæsar and the Twelve Apostles.
There is something lacking among the oaks of Fontainebleau; and when the
dessert comes in at Barbizon, people look to the door for a figure that
is gone.
The third of our companions at Origny was no less a person than the
landlady’s husband: not properly the landlord, since he worked himself in
a factory during the day, and came to his own house at evening as a
guest: a man worn to skin and bone by perpetual excitement, with baldish
head, sharp features, and swift, shining eyes. On Saturday, describing
some paltry adventure at a duck-hunt, he broke a plate into a score of
fragments. Whenever he made a remark, he would look all round the table
with his chin raised, and a spark of green light in either eye, seeking
approval. His wife appeared now and again in the doorway of the room,
where she was superintending dinner, with a ‘Henri, you forget yourself,’
or a ‘Henri, you can surely talk without making such a noise.’ Indeed,
that was what the honest fellow could not do. On the most trifling
matter his eyes kindled, his fist visited the table, and his voice rolled
abroad in changeful thunder. I never saw such a petard of a man; I think
the devil was in him. He had two favourite expressions: ‘it is logical,’
or illogical, as the case might be: and this other, thrown out with a
certain bravado, as a man might unfurl a banner, at the beginning of many
a long and sonorous story: ‘I am a proletarian, you see.’ Indeed, we saw
it very well. God forbid that ever I should find him handling a gun in
Paris streets! That will not be a good moment for the general public.
I thought his two phrases very much represented the good and evil of his
class, and to some extent of his country. It is a strong thing to say
what one is, and not be ashamed of it; even although it be in doubtful
taste to repeat the statement too often in one evening. I should not
admire it in a duke, of course; but as times go, the trait is honourable
in a workman. On the other hand, it is not at all a strong thing to put
one’s reliance upon logic; and our own logic particularly, for it is
generally wrong. We never know where we are to end, if once we begin
following words or doctors. There is an upright stock in a man’s own
heart, that is trustier than any syllogism; and the eyes, and the
sympathies and appetites, know a thing or two that have never yet been
stated in controversy. Reasons are as plentiful as blackberries; and,
like fisticuffs, they serve impartially with all sides. Doctrines do not
stand or fall by their proofs, and are only logical in so far as they are
cleverly put. An able controversialist no more than an able general
demonstrates the justice of his cause. But France is all gone wandering
after one or two big words; it will take some time before they can be
satisfied that they are no more than words, however big; and when once
that is done, they will perhaps find logic less diverting.
The conversation opened with details of the day’s shooting. When all the
sportsmen of a village shoot over the village territory _pro indiviso_,
it is plain that many questions of etiquette and priority must arise.
‘Here now,’ cried the landlord, brandishing a plate, ‘here is a field of
beet-root. Well. Here am I then. I advance, do I not? _Eh bien_!
_sacristi_,’ and the statement, waxing louder, rolls off into a
reverberation of oaths, the speaker glaring about for sympathy, and
everybody nodding his head to him in the name of peace.
The ruddy Northman told some tales of his own prowess in keeping order:
notably one of a Marquis.
‘Marquis,’ I said, ‘if you take another step I fire upon you. You have
committed a dirtiness, Marquis.’
Whereupon, it appeared, the Marquis touched his cap and withdrew.
The landlord applauded noisily. ‘It was well done,’ he said. ‘He did
all that he could. He admitted he was wrong.’ And then oath upon oath.
He was no marquis-lover either, but he had a sense of justice in him,
this proletarian host of ours.
From the matter of hunting, the talk veered into a general comparison of
Paris and the country. The proletarian beat the table like a drum in
praise of Paris. ‘What is Paris? Paris is the cream of France. There
are no Parisians: it is you and I and everybody who are Parisians. A man
has eighty chances per cent. to get on in the world in Paris.’ And he
drew a vivid sketch of the workman in a den no bigger than a dog-hutch,
making articles that were to go all over the world. ‘_Eh bien_, _quoi_,
_c’est magnifique_, _ca_!’ cried he.
The sad Northman interfered in praise of a peasant’s life; he thought
Paris bad for men and women; ‘_centralisation_,’ said he—
But the landlord was at his throat in a moment. It was all logical, he
showed him; and all magnificent. ‘What a spectacle! What a glance for
an eye!’ And the dishes reeled upon the table under a cannonade of
blows.
Seeking to make peace, I threw in a word in praise of the liberty of
opinion in France. I could hardly have shot more amiss. There was an
instant silence, and a great wagging of significant heads. They did not
fancy the subject, it was plain; but they gave me to understand that the
sad Northman was a martyr on account of his views. ‘Ask him a bit,’ said
they. ‘Just ask him.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said he in his quiet way, answering me, although I had not
spoken, ‘I am afraid there is less liberty of opinion in France than you
may imagine.’ And with that he dropped his eyes, and seemed to consider
the subject at an end.
Our curiosity was mightily excited at this. How, or why, or when, was
this lymphatic bagman martyred? We concluded at once it was on some
religious question, and brushed up our memories of the Inquisition, which
were principally drawn from Poe’s horrid story, and the sermon in
_Tristram Shandy_, I believe.
On the morrow we had an opportunity of going further into the question;
for when we rose very early to avoid a sympathising deputation at our
departure, we found the hero up before us. He was breaking his fast on
white wine and raw onions, in order to keep up the character of martyr, I
conclude. We had a long conversation, and made out what we wanted in
spite of his reserve. But here was a truly curious circumstance. It
seems possible for two Scotsmen and a Frenchman to discuss during a long
half-hour, and each nationality have a different idea in view throughout.
It was not till the very end that we discovered his heresy had been
political, or that he suspected our mistake. The terms and spirit in
which he spoke of his political beliefs were, in our eyes, suited to
religious beliefs. And _vice versâ_.
Nothing could be more characteristic of the two countries. Politics are
the religion of France; as Nanty Ewart would have said, ‘A d-d bad
religion’; while we, at home, keep most of our bitterness for little
differences about a hymn-book, or a Hebrew word which perhaps neither of
the parties can translate. And perhaps the misconception is typical of
many others that may never be cleared up: not only between people of
different race, but between those of different sex.
As for our friend’s martyrdom, he was a Communist, or perhaps only a
Communard, which is a very different thing; and had lost one or more
situations in consequence. I think he had also been rejected in
marriage; but perhaps he had a sentimental way of considering business
which deceived me. He was a mild, gentle creature, anyway; and I hope he
has got a better situation, and married a more suitable wife since then.