WE made Précy about sundown. The plain is rich with tufts of poplar. In
a wide, luminous curve, the Oise lay under the hillside. A faint mist
began to rise and confound the different distances together. There was
not a sound audible but that of the sheep-bells in some meadows by the
river, and the creaking of a cart down the long road that descends the
hill. The villas in their gardens, the shops along the street, all
seemed to have been deserted the day before; and I felt inclined to walk
discreetly as one feels in a silent forest. All of a sudden, we came
round a corner, and there, in a little green round the church, was a bevy
of girls in Parisian costumes playing croquet. Their laughter, and the
hollow sound of ball and mallet, made a cheery stir in the neighbourhood;
and the look of these slim figures, all corseted and ribboned, produced
an answerable disturbance in our hearts. We were within sniff of Paris,
it seemed. And here were females of our own species playing croquet,
just as if Précy had been a place in real life, instead of a stage in the
fairyland of travel. For, to be frank, the peasant woman is scarcely to
be counted as a woman at all, and after having passed by such a
succession of people in petticoats digging and hoeing and making dinner,
this company of coquettes under arms made quite a surprising feature in
the landscape, and convinced us at once of being fallible males.
The inn at Précy is the worst inn in France. Not even in Scotland have I
found worse fare. It was kept by a brother and sister, neither of whom
was out of their teens. The sister, so to speak, prepared a meal for us;
and the brother, who had been tippling, came in and brought with him a
tipsy butcher, to entertain us as we ate. We found pieces of loo-warm
pork among the salad, and pieces of unknown yielding substance in the
_ragoût_. The butcher entertained us with pictures of Parisian life,
with which he professed himself well acquainted; the brother sitting the
while on the edge of the billiard-table, toppling precariously, and
sucking the stump of a cigar. In the midst of these diversions, bang
went a drum past the house, and a hoarse voice began issuing a
proclamation. It was a man with marionnettes announcing a performance
for that evening.
He had set up his caravan and lighted his candles on another part of the
girls’ croquet-green, under one of those open sheds which are so common
in France to shelter markets; and he and his wife, by the time we
strolled up there, were trying to keep order with the audience.
It was the most absurd contention. The show-people had set out a certain
number of benches; and all who sat upon them were to pay a couple of
_sous_ for the accommodation. They were always quite full—a bumper
house—as long as nothing was going forward; but let the show-woman appear
with an eye to a collection, and at the first rattle of her tambourine
the audience slipped off the seats, and stood round on the outside with
their hands in their pockets. It certainly would have tried an angel’s
temper. The showman roared from the proscenium; he had been all over
France, and nowhere, nowhere, ‘not even on the borders of Germany,’ had
he met with such misconduct. Such thieves and rogues and rascals, as he
called them! And every now and again, the wife issued on another round,
and added her shrill quota to the tirade. I remarked here, as elsewhere,
how far more copious is the female mind in the material of insult. The
audience laughed in high good-humour over the man’s declamations; but
they bridled and cried aloud under the woman’s pungent sallies. She
picked out the sore points. She had the honour of the village at her
mercy. Voices answered her angrily out of the crowd, and received a
smarting retort for their trouble. A couple of old ladies beside me, who
had duly paid for their seats, waxed very red and indignant, and
discoursed to each other audibly about the impudence of these
mountebanks; but as soon as the show-woman caught a whisper of this, she
was down upon them with a swoop: if mesdames could persuade their
neighbours to act with common honesty, the mountebanks, she assured them,
would be polite enough: mesdames had probably had their bowl of soup, and
perhaps a glass of wine that evening; the mountebanks also had a taste
for soup, and did not choose to have their little earnings stolen from
them before their eyes. Once, things came as far as a brief personal
encounter between the showman and some lads, in which the former went
down as readily as one of his own marionnettes to a peal of jeering
laughter.
I was a good deal astonished at this scene, because I am pretty well
acquainted with the ways of French strollers, more or less artistic; and
have always found them singularly pleasing. Any stroller must be dear to
the right-thinking heart; if it were only as a living protest against
offices and the mercantile spirit, and as something to remind us that
life is not by necessity the kind of thing we generally make it. Even a
German band, if you see it leaving town in the early morning for a
campaign in country places, among trees and meadows, has a romantic
flavour for the imagination. There is nobody, under thirty, so dead but
his heart will stir a little at sight of a gypsies’ camp. ‘We are not
cotton-spinners all’; or, at least, not all through. There is some life
in humanity yet: and youth will now and again find a brave word to say in
dispraise of riches, and throw up a situation to go strolling with a
knapsack.
An Englishman has always special facilities for intercourse with French
gymnasts; for England is the natural home of gymnasts. This or that
fellow, in his tights and spangles, is sure to know a word or two of
English, to have drunk English _aff-’n-aff_, and perhaps performed in an
English music-hall. He is a countryman of mine by profession. He leaps,
like the Belgian boating men, to the notion that I must be an athlete
myself.
But the gymnast is not my favourite; he has little or no tincture of the
artist in his composition; his soul is small and pedestrian, for the most
part, since his profession makes no call upon it, and does not accustom
him to high ideas. But if a man is only so much of an actor that he can
stumble through a farce, he is made free of a new order of thoughts. He
has something else to think about beside the money-box. He has a pride
of his own, and, what is of far more importance, he has an aim before him
that he can never quite attain. He has gone upon a pilgrimage that will
last him his life long, because there is no end to it short of
perfection. He will better upon himself a little day by day; or even if
he has given up the attempt, he will always remember that once upon a
time he had conceived this high ideal, that once upon a time he had
fallen in love with a star. ‘’Tis better to have loved and lost.’
Although the moon should have nothing to say to Endymion, although he
should settle down with Audrey and feed pigs, do you not think he would
move with a better grace, and cherish higher thoughts to the end? The
louts he meets at church never had a fancy above Audrey’s snood; but
there is a reminiscence in Endymion’s heart that, like a spice, keeps it
fresh and haughty.
To be even one of the outskirters of art, leaves a fine stamp on a man’s
countenance. I remember once dining with a party in the inn at Château
Landon. Most of them were unmistakable bagmen; others well-to-do
peasantry; but there was one young fellow in a blouse, whose face stood
out from among the rest surprisingly. It looked more finished; more of
the spirit looked out through it; it had a living, expressive air, and
you could see that his eyes took things in. My companion and I wondered
greatly who and what he could be. It was fair-time in Château Landon,
and when we went along to the booths, we had our question answered; for
there was our friend busily fiddling for the peasants to caper to. He
was a wandering violinist.
A troop of strollers once came to the inn where I was staying, in the
department of Seine et Marne. There was a father and mother; two
daughters, brazen, blowsy hussies, who sang and acted, without an idea of
how to set about either; and a dark young man, like a tutor, a
recalcitrant house-painter, who sang and acted not amiss. The mother was
the genius of the party, so far as genius can be spoken of with regard to
such a pack of incompetent humbugs; and her husband could not find words
to express his admiration for her comic countryman. ‘You should see my
old woman,’ said he, and nodded his beery countenance. One night they
performed in the stable-yard, with flaring lamps—a wretched exhibition,
coldly looked upon by a village audience. Next night, as soon as the
lamps were lighted, there came a plump of rain, and they had to sweep
away their baggage as fast as possible, and make off to the barn where
they harboured, cold, wet, and supperless. In the morning, a dear friend
of mine, who has as warm a heart for strollers as I have myself, made a
little collection, and sent it by my hands to comfort them for their
disappointment. I gave it to the father; he thanked me cordially, and we
drank a cup together in the kitchen, talking of roads, and audiences, and
hard times.
When I was going, up got my old stroller, and off with his hat. ‘I am
afraid,’ said he, ‘that Monsieur will think me altogether a beggar; but I
have another demand to make upon him.’ I began to hate him on the spot.
‘We play again to-night,’ he went on. ‘Of course, I shall refuse to
accept any more money from Monsieur and his friends, who have been
already so liberal. But our programme of to-night is something truly
creditable; and I cling to the idea that Monsieur will honour us with his
presence.’ And then, with a shrug and a smile: ‘Monsieur understands—the
vanity of an artist!’ Save the mark! The vanity of an artist! That is
the kind of thing that reconciles me to life: a ragged, tippling,
incompetent old rogue, with the manners of a gentleman, and the vanity of
an artist, to keep up his self-respect!
But the man after my own heart is M. de Vauversin. It is nearly two
years since I saw him first, and indeed I hope I may see him often again.
Here is his first programme, as I found it on the breakfast-table, and
have kept it ever since as a relic of bright days:
‘_Mesdames et Messieurs_,
‘_Mademoiselle Ferrario et M. de Vauversin auront l’honneur de
chanter ce soir les morceaux suivants_.
‘_Madermoiselle Ferrario chantera—Mignon—Oiseaux Légers—France—Des
Français dorment là—Le château bleu—Où voulez-vous aller_?
‘_M. de Vauversin—Madame Fontaine et M. Robinet—Les plongeurs à
cheval—Le Mari mécontent—Tais-toi, gamin—Mon voisin
l’original—Heureux comme ça—Comme on est trompé_.’
They made a stage at one end of the _salle-à-manger_. And what a sight
it was to see M. de Vauversin, with a cigarette in his mouth, twanging a
guitar, and following Mademoiselle Ferrario’s eyes with the obedient,
kindly look of a dog! The entertainment wound up with a tombola, or
auction of lottery tickets: an admirable amusement, with all the
excitement of gambling, and no hope of gain to make you ashamed of your
eagerness; for there, all is loss; you make haste to be out of pocket; it
is a competition who shall lose most money for the benefit of M. de
Vauversin and Mademoiselle Ferrario.
M. de Vauversin is a small man, with a great head of black hair, a
vivacious and engaging air, and a smile that would be delightful if he
had better teeth. He was once an actor in the Châtelet; but he
contracted a nervous affection from the heat and glare of the footlights,
which unfitted him for the stage. At this crisis Mademoiselle Ferrario,
otherwise Mademoiselle Rita of the Alcazar, agreed to share his wandering
fortunes. ‘I could never forget the generosity of that lady,’ said he.
He wears trousers so tight that it has long been a problem to all who
knew him how he manages to get in and out of them. He sketches a little
in water-colours; he writes verses; he is the most patient of fishermen,
and spent long days at the bottom of the inn-garden fruitlessly dabbling
a line in the clear river.
You should hear him recounting his experiences over a bottle of wine;
such a pleasant vein of talk as he has, with a ready smile at his own
mishaps, and every now and then a sudden gravity, like a man who should
hear the surf roar while he was telling the perils of the deep. For it
was no longer ago than last night, perhaps, that the receipts only
amounted to a franc and a half, to cover three francs of railway fare and
two of board and lodging. The Maire, a man worth a million of money, sat
in the front seat, repeatedly applauding Mlle. Ferrario, and yet gave no
more than three _sous_ the whole evening. Local authorities look with
such an evil eye upon the strolling artist. Alas! I know it well, who
have been myself taken for one, and pitilessly incarcerated on the
strength of the misapprehension. Once, M. de Vauversin visited a
commissary of police for permission to sing. The commissary, who was
smoking at his ease, politely doffed his hat upon the singer’s entrance.
‘Mr. Commissary,’ he began, ‘I am an artist.’ And on went the
commissary’s hat again. No courtesy for the companions of Apollo! ‘They
are as degraded as that,’ said M. de Vauversin with a sweep of his
cigarette.
But what pleased me most was one outbreak of his, when we had been
talking all the evening of the rubs, indignities, and pinchings of his
wandering life. Some one said, it would be better to have a million of
money down, and Mlle. Ferrario admitted that she would prefer that
mightily. ‘_Eh bien_, _moi non_;—not I,’ cried De Vauversin, striking
the table with his hand. ‘If any one is a failure in the world, is it
not I? I had an art, in which I have done things well—as well as
some—better perhaps than others; and now it is closed against me. I must
go about the country gathering coppers and singing nonsense. Do you
think I regret my life? Do you think I would rather be a fat burgess,
like a calf? Not I! I have had moments when I have been applauded on
the boards: I think nothing of that; but I have known in my own mind
sometimes, when I had not a clap from the whole house, that I had found a
true intonation, or an exact and speaking gesture; and then, messieurs, I
have known what pleasure was, what it was to do a thing well, what it was
to be an artist. And to know what art is, is to have an interest for
ever, such as no burgess can find in his petty concerns. _Tenez_,
_messieurs_, _je vais vous le dire_—it is like a religion.’
Such, making some allowance for the tricks of memory and the inaccuracies
of translation, was the profession of faith of M. de Vauversin. I have
given him his own name, lest any other wanderer should come across him,
with his guitar and cigarette, and Mademoiselle Ferrario; for should not
all the world delight to honour this unfortunate and loyal follower of
the Muses? May Apollo send him rimes hitherto undreamed of; may the
river be no longer scanty of her silver fishes to his lure; may the cold
not pinch him on long winter rides, nor the village jack-in-office
affront him with unseemly manners; and may he never miss Mademoiselle
Ferrario from his side, to follow with his dutiful eyes and accompany on
the guitar!
The marionnettes made a very dismal entertainment. They performed a
piece, called _Pyramus and Thisbe_, in five mortal acts, and all written
in Alexandrines fully as long as the performers. One marionnette was the
king; another the wicked counsellor; a third, credited with exceptional
beauty, represented Thisbe; and then there were guards, and obdurate
fathers, and walking gentlemen. Nothing particular took place during the
two or three acts that I sat out; but you will he pleased to learn that
the unities were properly respected, and the whole piece, with one
exception, moved in harmony with classical rules. That exception was the
comic countryman, a lean marionnette in wooden shoes, who spoke in prose
and in a broad _patois_ much appreciated by the audience. He took
unconstitutional liberties with the person of his sovereign; kicked his
fellow-marionnettes in the mouth with his wooden shoes, and whenever none
of the versifying suitors were about, made love to Thisbe on his own
account in comic prose.
This fellow’s evolutions, and the little prologue, in which the showman
made a humorous eulogium of his troop, praising their indifference to
applause and hisses, and their single devotion to their art, were the
only circumstances in the whole affair that you could fancy would so much
as raise a smile. But the villagers of Précy seemed delighted. Indeed,
so long as a thing is an exhibition, and you pay to see it, it is nearly
certain to amuse. If we were charged so much a head for sunsets, or if
God sent round a drum before the hawthorns came in flower, what a work
should we not make about their beauty! But these things, like good
companions, stupid people early cease to observe: and the Abstract Bagman
tittups past in his spring gig, and is positively not aware of the
flowers along the lane, or the scenery of the weather overhead.