THE ROAD TO PARIS.—They vaunt much of the _Lower Road_ from Rouen to
Paris; but it is not so fine as that from Dieppe to Rouen. You have
comparatively few trees, the soil is less fertile, and you are (nearly
the whole way) tantalized with the vast, marshy-looking plains of
Normandy, with the Seine glittering through them like a snake, and a
chain of abrupt chalky hills, like a wall or barrier bounding them.
There is nothing I hate like a distant prospect without any thing
interesting in it—it is continually dragging the eye a wearisome
journey, and repaying it with barrenness and deformity. Yet a Frenchman
contrived to make a panegyric on this scene, after the fashion of his
countrymen, and with that sort of tripping jerk which is peculiar to
their minds and bodies—‘_Il y a de l’eau, il y a des bois, il y a des
montagnes, il y a de la verdure_,’ &c. It is true, there were all these
things in the abstract, or as so many detached particulars to make a
speech about, which was all that he wanted. A Frenchman’s eye for nature
is merely _nominal_. I find that with the novelty, or on farther
experience my enthusiasm for the country and the people, palls a little.
During a long day’s march (for I was too late, or rather too ill to go
by the six o’clock morning Diligence,) I got as tired of toiling on
under a scorching sun and over a dusty road, as if I had been in
England. Indeed, I could almost have fancied myself there, for I
scarcely met with a human being to remind me of the difference. I at one
time encountered a horseman mounted on a _demipique_ saddle, in a half
military uniform, who seemed determined to make me turn out of the
foot-path,[13] or to ride over me. This looked a little English, though
the man did not. I should take him for an Exciseman. I suppose in all
countries people on horseback give themselves airs of superiority over
those who are on foot. The French character is not altogether compounded
of the amiable, any more than the English is of the respectable. In
judging of nations, it will not do to deal in mere abstractions. In
countries, as well as individuals, there is a mixture of good and bad
qualities; yet we may attempt to strike a general balance, and compare
the rules with the exceptions. Soon after my equestrian adventure (or
escape,) I met with another pleasanter one; a little girl, with regular
features and dark eyes, dressed in white, and with a large straw bonnet
flapping over her face, was mounted behind a youth who seemed to be a
relation, on an ass—a common mode of conveyance in this country. The
young lad was trying to frighten her, by forcing the animal out of its
usual easy pace into a canter, while she, holding fast, and between
laughing and crying, called out in a voice of great sweetness and
_naïveté_—‘_Il n’est pas bon trotter, il n’est pas bon trotter_.’ There
was a playfulness in the expression of her terrors quite charming, and
quite French. They turned down an avenue to a villa a little way out of
the road. I could not help looking after them, and thinking what a
delightful welcome must await such innocence, such cheerfulness, and
such dark sparkling eyes! _Mais allons._ These reflections are perhaps
misplaced: France is not at present altogether the land of gallantry or
sentiment, were one ever so much disposed to them.
Within half a mile of Louviers (which is seven leagues from Rouen) a
Diligence passed me on the road at the full speed of a French Diligence,
rolling and rumbling on its way over a paved road, with five
clumsy-looking horses, and loaded to the top like a Plymouth van. I was
to stop at Louviers, at the Hotel de Mouton, and to proceed to Paris by
the coach the next day; for I was told there was no conveyance onwards
that day, and I own that this apparition of a Diligence in full sail,
and in broad day (when I had understood there were none but night
coaches) surprised me. I was going to set it down in ‘my tables,’ that
there is no faith to be placed in what they say at French inns. I
quickened my pace in hopes of overtaking it while it changed horses. The
main street of Louviers appeared to me very long and uneven. On turning
a corner, the Hotel de Mouton opened its gates to receive me, the
Diligence was a little farther on, with fresh horses just put to and
ready to start (a critical and provoking dilemma;) I hesitated a moment,
and at last resolved to take my chance in the Diligence, and seeing
Paris written on the outside, and being informed by _Monsieur le
Conducteur_, that I could stop at Evreux for the night, I took the rest
for granted, and mounted in the cabriolet, where sat an English
gentleman (one of those with whom I had come over in the steam-boat,)
solitary and silent. My seating myself in the opposite corner of the
cabriolet (which is that part of a French Diligence which is placed in
front, and resembles a post-chaise in form and ease,) did not break the
solitude or the silence. In company, _two negatives do not make an
affirmative_. I know few things more delightful than for two Englishmen
to loll in a post-chaise in this manner, taking no notice of each other,
preserving an obstinate silence, and determined to send their country
_to Coventry_.[14] We pretended not to recognise each other, and yet our
saying nothing proved every instant that we were not French. At length,
about half way, my companion opened his lips, and asked in thick, broken
French, ‘How far it was to Evreux?’ I looked at him, and said in
English, ‘I did not know.’ Not another word passed, yet, I dare say,
both of us had a very agreeable time of it, as the Diligence moved on to
Evreux, making reflections on the national character, and each thinking
himself an exception to its absurdities, an instance of its virtues; so
easy is it always (and more particularly abroad) to fancy ourselves free
from the errors we witness in our neighbours. It is this, indeed, which
makes us so eager to detect them, as if to see what is wrong was the
same thing as being in the right!
At Evreux, I found I had gone quite out of my road, and that there was
no conveyance to Paris till the same hour the next night. I was a good
deal mortified and perplexed at this intelligence, but found some
consolation at the Office where I obtained it, from casually hearing the
name of my companion, which is a great point gained in travelling. Of
course, the discovery is pleasant, if it is a name you are acquainted
with; or if not, at least you have the satisfaction of knowing it is
some one you do _not_ know, and so are made easy on that head. I bespoke
a bed, and was shown into the common room, where I took coffee, and had
what the Scotch call a _brandered fowl_ for supper. The room was papered
with marine landscapes, so that you seemed sitting in the open air with
boats and trees and the sea-shore all round you, and Telemachus and
Calypso, figures landing or embarking on halcyon seas. Even a
country-inn in France is classical. It is a pity that the English are so
dull and sluggish, ‘like the fat weed that roots itself at ease on
Lethe’s wharf,’ that they cannot lend themselves to these airy fictions,
always staring them in the face, but rather turn away from them with an
impatience and disgust proportioned to the elegance of the design and
the tax levied on their taste. A Frenchman’s imagination, on the
contrary, is always at the call of his senses. The latter have but to
give the hint, and the former is glad to take it! I tired every one out
by inquiring my best mode of getting on to Paris next day; and being
slow to believe that my only way was to go back to Louviers, like a fool
as I had come, a young Frenchman took compassion on my embarrassment,
and offered to be my interpreter, ‘as he spoke both languages.’ He said,
‘I must feel great pain in not being able to express myself.’ I said
‘None but in giving others the trouble to understand me.’ He shook his
head, I spoke much too fast for him; he apologized for not being able to
follow me from want of habit, though he said, ‘he belonged to a society
of twelve at Paris, where they spoke English every evening generally.’ I
said, ‘we were well matched,’ and when this was explained to him, he
repeated the word ‘_matched_,’ with a ludicrous air of distress, at
finding that there was an English phrase which was not familiarised to
him in ‘the society of twelve, where they spoke the English language
generally every evening.’ We soon came to a dead stand, and he turned to
my English companion in the cabriolet, on whom he bestowed, for the rest
of the evening, the tediousness of any ‘society of twelve.’ I could not
help laughing to see my luckless fellow-countryman, after one or two
attempts to rally and exchange remarks, reduced to the incessant
repetition of his melancholy ‘_oui_,’ and my lively Parisian rioting in
the advantage he had obtained over a straggling Englishman, gliding from
topic to topic without contradiction or control, passing from the
population of Paris to the _Beaux-Arts_, from the Belles-Lettres to
politics, running the circle of knowledge, and finding himself still at
home, faltering at the mention of the Allies and the Bourbons, and
rising with outstretched arm and continuous voice at the name of
_Buonopar-r_ (like the eagle soaring on level wing)—getting nearer and
nearer the victim of his volubility, seizing my poor friend by the
button, and at last retiring abruptly, as if afraid of a re-action, and
wishing him ‘good repose’ for the evening. Happy member of a ‘society of
twelve!’ Apt representative of thirty millions of people, who build
their self-esteem on the basis of vanity, and weave happiness out of
breath, which costs them nothing! Why envy, why wish to interrupt them,
like a mischievous school-boy, who throws a great stone into a pond full
of frogs, who croak their delights ‘generally every evening,’ and who,
the instant the chasm is closed, return to the charge with unabated glee
and joyous dissonance!
I must not forget to mention a favourable trait in the common French
character. I asked to speak to the _Conducteur_, and something like a
charge of deception was brought, from which he defended himself
strenuously. The whole kitchen and stable-yard gathered round to hear a
dispute, which was by no means waged with equal war of words. They
understood that I was disappointed, and had made a ridiculous mistake.
Not a word or look of derision was observable in the whole group; but
rather a rising smile, suppressed for fear of giving pain, and a wish to
suggest some expedient on the occasion. In England, I will venture to
say, that a Frenchman, in similar circumstances, stammering out a grave
charge of imposition against a coachman, and evidently at a loss how to
proceed, would have been hooted out of the place, and it would have been
well for him if he had escaped without broken bones. If the French have
the vices of artificial refinement and effeminacy, the English still
retain too many of those which belong to a barbarous and savage state.
I returned to Louviers the next morning under the safe conduct of my
former guide, where I arrived half an hour before the necessary time,
found myself regularly booked for Paris, with five francs paid on
account; and after a very comfortable breakfast, where I was waited on
by a pretty, modest-looking _brunette_ (for the French country-girls are
in general modest-looking,) I took my seat in the _fourth place_ of the
Diligence. Here I met with every thing to annoy an Englishman. There was
a Frenchman in the coach, who had a dog and a little boy with him, the
last having a doll in his hands, which he insisted on playing with; or
cried and screamed furiously if it was taken from him. It was a true
French child; that is, a little old man, like Leonardo da Vinci’s
_Laughing Boy_, with eyes glittering like the glass ones of his
favourite doll, with flaxen ringlets like hers, with cheeks as smooth
and unhealthy, and a premature expression of cunning and
self-complacency. A disagreeable or ill-behaved child in a stage coach
is a common accident, and to be endured. But who but a Frenchman would
think of carrying his dog? He might as well drag his horse into the
coach after him. A Frenchman (with leave be it spoken) has no need to
take a dog with him to ventilate the air of a coach, in which there are
three other Frenchmen. It was impossible to suffer more from heat, from
pressure, or from the periodical ‘exhalation of rich-distilled
perfumes.’ If the French have lost the sense of smell, they should
reflect (as they are a reflecting people) that others have not. Really,
I do not see how they have a right in a public vehicle to assault one in
this way by proxy, any more than to take one literally by the nose. One
does not expect from the most refined and polished people in Europe
grossnesses that an Esquimaux Indian would have too much sense and
modesty to be guilty of. If the presence of their dogs is a nuisance,
the conversation of their masters is often no less offensive to another
sense—both are suffocating to every body but themselves, and worthy of
each other. Midas whispered his secret to the reeds, that whispered it
again. The French, if they are wise, ought not to commit the national
character on certain delicate points in the manner they do. While they
were triumphant, less caution might be necessary: but no people can
afford at the same time to be odious as well as contemptible in the eyes
of their enemies. We dined at Mantes, where the ordinary was plentiful
and excellent, and where a gentleman of a very prepossessing appearance
took up the conversation (descanting on the adventures of a
shooting-party the day before) in that gay, graceful, and animated tone,
which I conceive to be characteristic of the best French society. In
talking and laughing, he discovered (though a young man) the inroads
which hot soups and high-seasoned ragouts had made in his mouth, with
the same alacrity and good-humour as if he had to shew a complete set of
the whitest teeth. We passed an interesting village, situated on the
slope of a hill, with a quaint old tower projecting above it, and
over-hanging the Seine. Not far from the high road stands Rosny, once
the seat of the celebrated Sully. The approach to the capital on the
side of St. Germain’s is one continued succession of imposing beauty and
artificial splendour, of groves, of avenues, of bridges, of palaces, and
of towns like palaces, all the way to Paris, where the sight of the
Thuilleries completes the triumph of external magnificence, and
oppresses the soul with recollections not to be borne or to be
expressed!—Of them, perhaps, hereafter.
In the coach coming along, a Frenchman was curious to learn of a Scotch
gentleman, who spoke very respectable French, whether Lord Byron was
much regretted in England? He said there was much beauty in his
writings, but too much straining after effect. He added, that there was
no attempt at effect in Racine. This with the French is a final appeal
in matters of poetry and taste. A translation of Lord Byron’s Works
complete is common in all the shops here. I am not sure whether an
English Poet ought to be proud of this circumstance or not. I also saw
an _Elegy on his Death_ advertised, said to be written by his friend,
Sir Thomas More. How oddly the French combine things! There is a Sir
Thomas More in English History and Letters; but _that_ Sir Thomas More
is not _this_ Mr. Thomas Moore—‘let their discreet hearts believe it!’