ON a fine Sunday morning in the Midsummer time and weather of eighteen
hundred and forty-four, it was, my good friend, when—don’t be alarmed;
not when two travellers might have been observed slowly making their way
over that picturesque and broken ground by which the first chapter of a
Middle Aged novel is usually attained—but when an English
travelling-carriage of considerable proportions, fresh from the shady
halls of the Pantechnicon near Belgrave Square, London, was observed (by
a very small French soldier; for I saw him look at it) to issue from the
gate of the Hôtel Meurice in the Rue Rivoli at Paris.
I am no more bound to explain why the English family travelling by this
carriage, inside and out, should be starting for Italy on a Sunday
morning, of all good days in the week, than I am to assign a reason for
all the little men in France being soldiers, and all the big men
postilions; which is the invariable rule. But, they had some sort of
reason for what they did, I have no doubt; and their reason for being
there at all, was, as you know, that they were going to live in fair
Genoa for a year; and that the head of the family purposed, in that space
of time, to stroll about, wherever his restless humour carried him.
And it would have been small comfort to me to have explained to the
population of Paris generally, that I was that Head and Chief; and not
the radiant embodiment of good humour who sat beside me in the person of
a French Courier—best of servants and most beaming of men! Truth to say,
he looked a great deal more patriarchal than I, who, in the shadow of his
portly presence, dwindled down to no account at all.
[Picture: Civil and military]
There was, of course, very little in the aspect of Paris—as we rattled
near the dismal Morgue and over the Pont Neuf—to reproach us for our
Sunday travelling. The wine-shops (every second house) were driving a
roaring trade; awnings were spreading, and chairs and tables arranging,
outside the cafés, preparatory to the eating of ices, and drinking of
cool liquids, later in the day; shoe-blacks were busy on the bridges;
shops were open; carts and waggons clattered to and fro; the narrow,
up-hill, funnel-like streets across the River, were so many dense
perspectives of crowd and bustle, parti-coloured nightcaps,
tobacco-pipes, blouses, large boots, and shaggy heads of hair; nothing at
that hour denoted a day of rest, unless it were the appearance, here and
there, of a family pleasure-party, crammed into a bulky old lumbering
cab; or of some contemplative holiday-maker in the freest and easiest
dishabille, leaning out of a low garret window, watching the drying of
his newly polished shoes on the little parapet outside (if a gentleman),
or the airing of her stockings in the sun (if a lady), with calm
anticipation.
Once clear of the never-to-be-forgotten-or-forgiven pavement which
surrounds Paris, the first three days of travelling towards Marseilles
are quiet and monotonous enough. To Sens. To Avallon. To Chalons. A
sketch of one day’s proceedings is a sketch of all three; and here it is.
We have four horses, and one postilion, who has a very long whip, and
drives his team, something like the Courier of Saint Petersburgh in the
circle at Astley’s or Franconi’s: only he sits his own horse instead of
standing on him. The immense jack-boots worn by these postilions, are
sometimes a century or two old; and are so ludicrously disproportionate
to the wearer’s foot, that the spur, which is put where his own heel
comes, is generally halfway up the leg of the boots. The man often comes
out of the stable-yard, with his whip in his hand and his shoes on, and
brings out, in both hands, one boot at a time, which he plants on the
ground by the side of his horse, with great gravity, until everything is
ready. When it is—and oh Heaven! the noise they make about it!—he gets
into the boots, shoes and all, or is hoisted into them by a couple of
friends; adjusts the rope harness, embossed by the labours of innumerable
pigeons in the stables; makes all the horses kick and plunge; cracks his
whip like a madman; shouts ‘En route—Hi!’ and away we go. He is sure to
have a contest with his horse before we have gone very far; and then he
calls him a Thief, and a Brigand, and a Pig, and what not; and beats him
about the head as if he were made of wood.
There is little more than one variety in the appearance of the country,
for the first two days. From a dreary plain, to an interminable avenue,
and from an interminable avenue to a dreary plain again. Plenty of vines
there are in the open fields, but of a short low kind, and not trained in
festoons, but about straight sticks. Beggars innumerable there are,
everywhere; but an extraordinarily scanty population, and fewer children
than I ever encountered. I don’t believe we saw a hundred children
between Paris and Chalons. Queer old towns, draw-bridged and walled:
with odd little towers at the angles, like grotesque faces, as if the
wall had put a mask on, and were staring down into the moat; other
strange little towers, in gardens and fields, and down lanes, and in
farm-yards: all alone, and always round, with a peaked roof, and never
used for any purpose at all; ruinous buildings of all sorts; sometimes an
hôtel de ville, sometimes a guard-house, sometimes a dwelling-house,
sometimes a château with a rank garden, prolific in dandelion, and
watched over by extinguisher-topped turrets, and blink-eyed little
casements; are the standard objects, repeated over and over again.
Sometimes we pass a village inn, with a crumbling wall belonging to it,
and a perfect town of out-houses; and painted over the gateway, ‘Stabling
for Sixty Horses;’ as indeed there might be stabling for sixty score,
were there any horses to be stabled there, or anybody resting there, or
anything stirring about the place but a dangling bush, indicative of the
wine inside: which flutters idly in the wind, in lazy keeping with
everything else, and certainly is never in a green old age, though always
so old as to be dropping to pieces. And all day long, strange little
narrow waggons, in strings of six or eight, bringing cheese from
Switzerland, and frequently in charge, the whole line, of one man, or
even boy—and he very often asleep in the foremost cart—come jingling
past: the horses drowsily ringing the bells upon their harness, and
looking as if they thought (no doubt they do) their great blue woolly
furniture, of immense weight and thickness, with a pair of grotesque
horns growing out of the collar, very much too warm for the Midsummer
weather.
Then, there is the Diligence, twice or thrice a-day; with the dusty
outsides in blue frocks, like butchers; and the insides in white
nightcaps; and its cabriolet head on the roof, nodding and shaking, like
an idiot’s head; and its Young-France passengers staring out of window,
with beards down to their waists, and blue spectacles awfully shading
their warlike eyes, and very big sticks clenched in their National grasp.
Also the Malle Poste, with only a couple of passengers, tearing along at
a real good dare-devil pace, and out of sight in no time. Steady old
Curés come jolting past, now and then, in such ramshackle, rusty, musty,
clattering coaches as no Englishman would believe in; and bony women
dawdle about in solitary places, holding cows by ropes while they feed,
or digging and hoeing or doing field-work of a more laborious kind, or
representing real shepherdesses with their flocks—to obtain an adequate
idea of which pursuit and its followers, in any country, it is only
necessary to take any pastoral poem, or picture, and imagine to yourself
whatever is most exquisitely and widely unlike the descriptions therein
contained.
You have been travelling along, stupidly enough, as you generally do in
the last stage of the day; and the ninety-six bells upon the
horses—twenty-four apiece—have been ringing sleepily in your ears for
half an hour or so; and it has become a very jog-trot, monotonous,
tiresome sort of business; and you have been thinking deeply about the
dinner you will have at the next stage; when, down at the end of the long
avenue of trees through which you are travelling, the first indication of
a town appears, in the shape of some straggling cottages: and the
carriage begins to rattle and roll over a horribly uneven pavement. As
if the equipage were a great firework, and the mere sight of a smoking
cottage chimney had lighted it, instantly it begins to crack and
splutter, as if the very devil were in it. Crack, crack, crack, crack.
Crack-crack-crack. Crick-crack. Crick-crack. Helo! Hola! Vite!
Voleur! Brigand! Hi hi hi! En r-r-r-r-r-route! Whip, wheels, driver,
stones, beggars, children, crack, crack, crack; helo! hola! charité pour
l’amour de Dieu! crick-crack-crick-crack; crick, crick, crick; bump,
jolt, crack, bump, crick-crack; round the corner, up the narrow street,
down the paved hill on the other side; in the gutter; bump, bump; jolt,
jog, crick, crick, crick; crack, crack, crack; into the shop-windows on
the left-hand side of the street, preliminary to a sweeping turn into the
wooden archway on the right; rumble, rumble, rumble; clatter, clatter,
clatter; crick, crick, crick; and here we are in the yard of the Hôtel de
l’Ecu d’Or; used up, gone out, smoking, spent, exhausted; but sometimes
making a false start unexpectedly, with nothing coming of it—like a
firework to the last!
The landlady of the Hôtel de l’Ecu d’Or is here; and the landlord of the
Hôtel de l’Ecu d’Or is here; and the femme de chambre of the Hôtel de
l’Ecu d’Or is here; and a gentleman in a glazed cap, with a red beard
like a bosom friend, who is staying at the Hôtel de l’Ecu d’Or, is here;
and Monsieur le Curé is walking up and down in a corner of the yard by
himself, with a shovel hat upon his head, and a black gown on his back,
and a book in one hand, and an umbrella in the other; and everybody,
except Monsieur le Curé, is open-mouthed and open-eyed, for the opening
of the carriage-door. The landlord of the Hôtel de l’Ecu d’Or, dotes to
that extent upon the Courier, that he can hardly wait for his coming down
from the box, but embraces his very legs and boot-heels as he descends.
‘My Courier! My brave Courier! My friend! My brother!’ The landlady
loves him, the femme de chambre blesses him, the garçon worships him.
The Courier asks if his letter has been received? It has, it has. Are
the rooms prepared? They are, they are. The best rooms for my noble
Courier. The rooms of state for my gallant Courier; the whole house is
at the service of my best of friends! He keeps his hand upon the
carriage-door, and asks some other question to enhance the expectation.
He carries a green leathern purse outside his coat, suspended by a belt.
The idlers look at it; one touches it. It is full of five-franc pieces.
Murmurs of admiration are heard among the boys. The landlord falls upon
the Courier’s neck, and folds him to his breast. He is so much fatter
than he was, he says! He looks so rosy and so well!
The door is opened. Breathless expectation. The lady of the family gets
out. Ah sweet lady! Beautiful lady! The sister of the lady of the
family gets out. Great Heaven, Ma’amselle is charming! First little boy
gets out. Ah, what a beautiful little boy! First little girl gets out.
Oh, but this is an enchanting child! Second little girl gets out. The
landlady, yielding to the finest impulse of our common nature, catches
her up in her arms! Second little boy gets out. Oh, the sweet boy! Oh,
the tender little family! The baby is handed out. Angelic baby! The
baby has topped everything. All the rapture is expended on the baby!
Then the two nurses tumble out; and the enthusiasm swelling into madness,
the whole family are swept up-stairs as on a cloud; while the idlers
press about the carriage, and look into it, and walk round it, and touch
it. For it is something to touch a carriage that has held so many
people. It is a legacy to leave one’s children.
The rooms are on the first floor, except the nursery for the night, which
is a great rambling chamber, with four or five beds in it: through a dark
passage, up two steps, down four, past a pump, across a balcony, and next
door to the stable. The other sleeping apartments are large and lofty;
each with two small bedsteads, tastefully hung, like the windows, with
red and white drapery. The sitting-room is famous. Dinner is already
laid in it for three; and the napkins are folded in cocked-hat fashion.
The floors are of red tile. There are no carpets, and not much furniture
to speak of; but there is abundance of looking-glass, and there are large
vases under glass shades, filled with artificial flowers; and there are
plenty of clocks. The whole party are in motion. The brave Courier, in
particular, is everywhere: looking after the beds, having wine poured
down his throat by his dear brother the landlord, and picking up green
cucumbers—always cucumbers; Heaven knows where he gets them—with which he
walks about, one in each hand, like truncheons.
Dinner is announced. There is very thin soup; there are very large
loaves—one apiece; a fish; four dishes afterwards; some poultry
afterwards; a dessert afterwards; and no lack of wine. There is not much
in the dishes; but they are very good, and always ready instantly. When
it is nearly dark, the brave Courier, having eaten the two cucumbers,
sliced up in the contents of a pretty large decanter of oil, and another
of vinegar, emerges from his retreat below, and proposes a visit to the
Cathedral, whose massive tower frowns down upon the court-yard of the
inn. Off we go; and very solemn and grand it is, in the dim light: so
dim at last, that the polite, old, lanthorn-jawed Sacristan has a feeble
little bit of candle in his hand, to grope among the tombs with—and looks
among the grim columns, very like a lost ghost who is searching for his
own.
Underneath the balcony, when we return, the inferior servants of the inn
are supping in the open air, at a great table; the dish, a stew of meat
and vegetables, smoking hot, and served in the iron cauldron it was
boiled in. They have a pitcher of thin wine, and are very merry; merrier
than the gentleman with the red beard, who is playing billiards in the
light room on the left of the yard, where shadows, with cues in their
hands, and cigars in their mouths, cross and recross the window,
constantly. Still the thin Curé walks up and down alone, with his book
and umbrella. And there he walks, and there the billiard-balls rattle,
long after we are fast asleep.
We are astir at six next morning. It is a delightful day, shaming
yesterday’s mud upon the carriage, if anything could shame a carriage, in
a land where carriages are never cleaned. Everybody is brisk; and as we
finish breakfast, the horses come jingling into the yard from the
Post-house. Everything taken out of the carriage is put back again. The
brave Courier announces that all is ready, after walking into every room,
and looking all round it, to be certain that nothing is left behind.
Everybody gets in. Everybody connected with the Hôtel de l’Ecu d’Or is
again enchanted. The brave Courier runs into the house for a parcel
containing cold fowl, sliced ham, bread, and biscuits, for lunch; hands
it into the coach; and runs back again.
What has he got in his hand now? More cucumbers? No. A long strip of
paper. It’s the bill.
The brave Courier has two belts on, this morning: one supporting the
purse: another, a mighty good sort of leathern bottle, filled to the
throat with the best light Bordeaux wine in the house. He never pays the
bill till this bottle is full. Then he disputes it.
He disputes it now, violently. He is still the landlord’s brother, but
by another father or mother. He is not so nearly related to him as he
was last night. The landlord scratches his head. The brave Courier
points to certain figures in the bill, and intimates that if they remain
there, the Hôtel de l’Ecu d’Or is thenceforth and for ever an hôtel de
l’Ecu de cuivre. The landlord goes into a little counting-house. The
brave Courier follows, forces the bill and a pen into his hand, and talks
more rapidly than ever. The landlord takes the pen. The Courier smiles.
The landlord makes an alteration. The Courier cuts a joke. The landlord
is affectionate, but not weakly so. He bears it like a man. He shakes
hands with his brave brother, but he don’t hug him. Still, he loves his
brother; for he knows that he will be returning that way, one of these
fine days, with another family, and he foresees that his heart will yearn
towards him again. The brave Courier traverses all round the carriage
once, looks at the drag, inspects the wheels, jumps up, gives the word,
and away we go!
It is market morning. The market is held in the little square outside in
front of the cathedral. It is crowded with men and women, in blue, in
red, in green, in white; with canvassed stalls; and fluttering
merchandise. The country people are grouped about, with their clean
baskets before them. Here, the lace-sellers; there, the butter and
egg-sellers; there, the fruit-sellers; there, the shoe-makers. The whole
place looks as if it were the stage of some great theatre, and the
curtain had just run up, for a picturesque ballet. And there is the
cathedral to boot: scene-like: all grim, and swarthy, and mouldering, and
cold: just splashing the pavement in one place with faint purple drops,
as the morning sun, entering by a little window on the eastern side,
struggles through some stained glass panes, on the western.
In five minutes we have passed the iron cross, with a little ragged
kneeling-place of turf before it, in the outskirts of the town; and are
again upon the road.