The Seine—A wetting—Pump—Locks—Long reach—Rouen—Steering—A mistake—Horny
hands—Henpecked—British flag—The captain’s wife.
Havre was a good resting-place to receive and send letters, read up the
newspapers, get a long walk, and a hot bath, and fresh water and
provisions. Bacon I found, after many trials to cook it, was a delusion,
so I gave mine to a steamboat in exchange for bread. Hung beef too was
discovered to be a snare—it took far too long to cook, and was tough
after all; so I presented a magnificent lump to a bargee, whose time was
less precious and his teeth more sharp. Then one mast had to come down
in preparation for the bridges on the Seine; and therefore with these
things to do, and working with tools and pen, all the hours were busily
employed until, at noon on June 26, I hooked on to a steamer, ‘Porteur,’
with its stern paddles very common in France, to be towed up the river; a
long and troublesome voyage of about 300 miles, so winding is the course
to Paris by the Seine.
This mode of progress was then new to me, and I had made but imperfect
preparations, so that when we rounded the pier to the west, and met the
short, snappish sea in the bay, every wave clashed over me, and in ten
minutes I was wet to the skin, while a great deal of water entered the
fore-compartment of the yawl through the hole for the chain-cable at that
time left open. {85} The surprising suddenness of this drenching was so
absurd that one could only laugh at it, nor was there time to don my
waterproof suit—the sou’wester from Norway ten years ago, the oilskin
coat (better than macintosh) from Denmark last year, and the canvas
trowsers.
A good wetting can be calmly borne if it is dashed in by a heavy sea in
honest sailing, or is poured down upon you from a black cloud above; but
here it was in a mere river-mouth, and on a sunny day, and there was no
opportunity to change for several hours, until we stopped at a village to
discharge cargo. The river at that place was narrow, and all the swell I
thought was past; so, after a complete change of clothes, it was too bad
to find in a mile or two the same story over again, and another wetting
was the result. The evening rest was far from comfortable with my
bedding all moist, and both suits of clothes wet through. One has
therefore to beware of the accompaniments of being towed. The boat has
no time to go over the waves, and, long rope or short, middle or side,
steering ever so well, the water shipped when a heavy boat is swiftly
towed must be as well prepared for as if it were in a regular gale on
open sea.
The Rob Roy had now in the hold a great deal of water, and for the first
time I had to apply the pump, which, having been carefully fitted, acted
well. An india-rubber tube leading down to the keel was in such a
position that I could immediately screw on a copper barrel and work the
piston with one hand, so as to clear the stern compartment. By turning a
screw valve I could let the water come from the centre compartment, if
any was there, and then I went to the fore-compartment, about seven feet
long, which held the spare stores, and a curiosity in the shape of a
regulation chimney-pot hat to be worn on state occasions, but which was
brought out once a week merely to brush off the green mould.
At noon the steamer set off again, dragging the yawl astern, and soon
entered the first lock on the Seine, where the buildings around us, the
neat stone barriers, and the dress and the very looks of the men forcibly
recalled to my mind the numerous river locks passed in my canoe trips,
but in so different a manner, by running the boat round every one of them
on the gravel or over the grass.
The waste of time now in passing through each lock was prodigious. While
nearing it the steamer sounded her shrill whistle to give warning, but
still the lock was sure to be full of barges and boats. Then our
cavalcade had to draw aside until the sluggish barges in front had all
come out, and we went into the great basin with bumps, and knocks, and
jars, and shouting. It required active use of the boathook for me to get
the Rob Roy into the proper place in the lock, and then to keep her
there. The men were not clumsy nor careless, but still the polished
mahogany yawl had no chance with the heavy floats and barges in a
squeezing and scratching match, and it was always sure to go to the wall.
Time seemed no object to these people, they were no doubt paid by the
day. The sun shone upon them and it was pleasant simply to exist and to
loiter in life, so why make haste? Finally we ascended as the lock
filled, and then a second and a third joint cut off from our too long
tail of barges had to be passed in also. After all, the captain and
sometimes the whole crew deliberately adjourned to the lock-keeper’s
house for a “glass” and a chat; and when that was entirely done, and
every topic of the day discussed, they all came back and had another
supplemental parliament on the steamer’s deck, like ladies saying “good
bye” at a morning visit; so that, perhaps, in an hour from beginning it,
the work of ten minutes was accomplished, and the engine turned again
once more—a tedious progress. Thus it was that four nights and part of
five days were passed in mounting the Seine.
The scenery on the banks is in many places interesting, in a few it is
pretty, and it is never positively dull. The traffic on the river is
considerable above Rouen; but as there are two railways besides, few
passengers go by water. The architecture and engineering on this fine
river are indeed splendid. The noble bridges, the vast locks, barrages,
quays, barriers, and embankments are far superior to ours on the Thames,
though that river floats more wealth in a day than the Seine does in a
month.
The sailors and dockmen were eager for my cargo of books; and among the
various odd ways by which these had to be given to men on large vessels,
there is one shown in the sketch alongside, where the cabin-boy of a
steamer looking through the round deadlight with an imploring request in
his face, stretched out an eager hand to catch the book lifted up on the
end of one of my sculls.
[Picture: Cabin-boy reaching for book]
Then the neatness and apparent cleanliness of the villages, and the
well-clothed, well-mannered people—all so “respectable.” France is
progressing by great leaps and bounds, at least in what arrests the eye.
Its progress in government, liberty, and politics, is perhaps rather like
that in a waltz.
Life in a towed yacht, alone on the Seine, is a somewhat hard life. You
have to be alert, and to steer for sometimes twenty hours a day, and to
cook and eat while steering. At about three o’clock in the morning the
steamer’s crew seemed suddenly to rise from the deck by magic, and
stumble over coal-sacks, and thus abruptly to begin the day. We stopped
about nine o’clock at night, and the crew flopped down on deck again,
asleep in a moment, but not I for an hour or two.
As the grey dawn uncovered a new and cloudless sky, the fierce bubblings
in the boiler became strong enough to turn the engine, and our rope was
slipped from the bank. Savoury odours from the steamer soon after
announced to me their breakfast cooking, and the Rob Roy’s lamp too was
speedily in full blast. Eggs or butter or milk were instantly purveyed,
if within reach at a lock; sometimes delicious strawberries and other
fruits or dainties, the only difficulty was to cook at all properly while
steering and being towed.
It is easy to cook and to steer at sea without looking up for many
minutes. The compass tells you by a glance, and if not, the tiller has a
nudge which speaks to the man who knows the meaning of its various
pressures, through any part of his body it may happen to touch. But if
you forget to steer constantly and minutely in a heavy boat towed on a
river, she swerves in an instant, and shoots out right and left, and
dives into banks or trees, or into the steamer’s side-swell, and the man
at the wheel turns round with a courteous French scowl, for he feels by
_his_ tiller in a moment, and you cannot escape his rebuke.
There was no romance in this manner of progress up the river. The poetry
of wandering where you will, and all alone, cannot be thrown around a
boat pulled by the nose while you are sitting in her all day. The Rob
Roy, with mast down, and tied by a tow-rope, was like an eagle limping
with clipped pinion and a chained foot. Still, for the man not churlish,
there is scarcely any time or place or person wholly devoid of interest,
if he is determined to find it there.
The steamboat captain and crew were chatty enough; and when we towed a
string of barges, the yawl was lashed alongside of one of these (and not
at the end of the line), so that I visited my fellow-travellers, and soon
became friends, and then interchanged presents. All this “Social
Science” of the sailor was far better done by the French bargee than in
England.
In both countries they frequently mistook me at first for a common sailor
in charge of a yacht, for my dress told no more. As intercourse
proceeded it was curious to watch the gradual recognition of the fact
that this “sailor” talked and thought not just the same as others. Then
they regarded me as an agent come to sell the pretty boat; but it was in
England only that any of them could be made to believe that the owner of
the Rob Roy “would not part with his boat, did not want a cook or
cabin-boy, and was not at all anxious to see the end of his voyage.”
Sometimes the conversation, begun as between equals, would gradually get
the word “Sir” sprinkled over it; and once or twice—and this not in
France—it came down at last to that “glass of beer,” sheepishly enough
asked for, which of course instantly drowns the converse that has been
free on one side and independent on the other.
“Workmen,” “working men,” “artizans,” or whatever they are, or whatever
you may call them—I mean the class now being spoiled by petting in
England—let them be told (perhaps it may be said plainest by their best
friends) that there are just as many proud exclusives among them as in
any other stratum of society, and that they have at least a full share
too of conceit, foppery, and affectation.
It may be heresy to say so, but the “horny hand” has no necessary
connection whatever with the “honest heart,” as is the fashion to assert
on one side, and almost to believe on the other; and the friend who
really does shake that hand with a brotherly feeling is the most likely
and the best entitled to refuse to talk popular nonsense of this sort
about the “people.”
For the night we stopped usually in towns, but once or twice we rested in
a great bend of the river where the steamer was run straight into the
trees and made fast ashore exactly as if it were on the Mississippi and
not on the Seine.
That thousands of solitary fishermen should sit lonesome on the river was
the same puzzle to me as it had been before in canoeing on other French
streams. Their silence and patience, during hours of this self-inflicted
isolation, were incredible for Frenchmen, fond as we at first think all
of them to be of “billard,” café, or dancing puppies, of anything, in
fact, provided it assumes to be lively.
One thing I am at last decided about, that it is not to catch fish these
men sit there; and the only reasonable explanation I can find of the
phenomenon is that all these meek and lone fishermen are husbands unhappy
at home!
There are numerous sailing-boats and rowing-boats on the Seine; but I did
not see one that there was any difficulty in not coveting—their standard
of marine beauty is not ours. All rigs and all sizes were there, even to
a great centre board cutter, twenty-five feet broad, and any number of
yards long, in which the happy yachtsman could sail up and down between
two bridges which bounded him on either side to a two miles’ reach!
The French national flag is perhaps the prettiest on the world’s waters;
but as it is repeated to the eye by every boat and building, the sight of
it becomes tiresome, and suggests that absence of private influence and
enterprise so striking to an Englishman in every French work. Then again
their sailors (not to say their landsmen) in very many instances do not
even know our English flag when they see it, our union-jack or ensign
flying free on every shore.
At first I used to carry the French flag as well as our British jack out
of compliment to their country, but as I found out that even in some of
their newspapers the Rob Roy was mentioned as a “beautiful little French
yacht,” I determined that _that_ mistake at any rate should not be
fostered by me, so down came the tricolour, and my Cambridge Boat-club
flag took its place.
In one reach of the river we came upon a very unusual sight for a week
day, a French yacht sailing. Her flag was half-mast high, and she was
drifting down the stream, a helpless wreck. A distracted sort of man was
on board, and a lady, or womankind at least, with dishevelled locks
(carefully disordered though), the picture of wan weary wretchedness, and
both of these hapless ones entreated our captain to tow their little
yacht home. But, after a knowing glance, he quickly passed them in
silence, and another steamer behind us also rounded off so as to give the
unhappy pair the widest possible berth. Perhaps both captains preferred
English sovereigns to French francs.
I was charged about 3_l_. for being towed to Paris; but the various
steamers (six in all) I employed on the river were every one well
managed, and with civil people on board. Indeed, I became a favourite
with one captain’s wife, a sturdy-looking body, always cutting up leaves
of lettuce. She gave me a basin of warm soup, and I presented her with
some good Yorkshire bacon. Next day she cooked some of this for me with
beans, and I returned the present by a packet of London tea, a book, a
picture of Napoleon, and another of “the Rob Roy on the Seine,” in the
highest style of art attainable by a man steering all the time he is at
the easel.
From all this it will be readily understood by any one who has travelled
much in various ways that to be towed up the Seine is quite different
from all other modes of progress, and that it brings you among a large,
new, and sharply-defined class of people, who could scarcely be known,
and certainly could not be studied so well in any other way.
Nor is the traveller less interesting to these people than they are to
him. Often it was necessary to restrain the inquisitive French _gamins_,
who would teaze a boat to pieces if not looked after; but it is always
against the grain with me to be strict with boys, especially about boats,
for I hold that it is a good sign of them when they relish nautical
curiosities.