THE JOURNEY.
Quatuor hinc rapimur viginti et millia rhedis
Mansuri oppidulo quod versu dicere non est
Signis perfacile est. Venit vilissima rerum
Hic aqua. Horace.
What can it be? It can not be food, nor climate, nor customs, which make two races of people, living side by side, so very different from each other. Certain it is, that beauty stops short at the gates of Rouen; and that from thence to Berney, they are the ugliest, ill-looking generation that ever I beheld. Not a pretty face was to be seen for love or money. Nature seemed to have expended all her beauty upon the scenery.
About three leagues from Rouen we stopped at the foot of a high hill, and climbing amongst some fine oaks to the left, arrived at the top of a pinnacle, which commanded the whole country round. It was as beautiful a view as can be conceived. One vast forest, with innumerable valleys winding away towards the horizon covered with rich wood; but as the withering touch of time had not affected all the trees alike, the thousand autumnal tints of the foliage, and the various shadows thrown by the undulations of the country, offered a variety and richness of colouring seldom to be equalled.
The height where we stood had anciently been fortified, and some parts of the walls are still remaining, which bear the name of The Château of Robert le Diable. Whence the celebrated legend of that personage derives its origin I know not. The only account I could obtain of him in this part of the country was from an old woman not to be relied on.
"In the old times," she said, "when Normandy was separate from France, the lord of that castle, The Comte Robert, was a bold, wild young man, rather famous for doing what he ought not to have done. His lady mother had been a strange, solitary being, living separate from all the world after her husband's death, only entertaining herself with books, which the people judged to be of sorcery, because nobody but herself understood them, and only talking with spirits; so the people said, though nobody had ever been present at any of these ghostly conversazione. Be that as it may--in her last moments she was attended by a capuchin of the neighbouring monastery, who was so horrified (it appeared) at the confession of her monstrous sins, that he was seen to stagger out of the castle like one distracted; and when one of the servants, entirely from love to his mistress, and without any curiosity whatever, ran after him to ask, what was the matter, he replied, like a man out of his senses, swearing that he would not drink the other bottle and crying out that the young count was the devil, and his mother not a whit better. Now the valet, who was a very religious man, and believed every thing a capuchin said to him, returned to the castle and told all the people that, his young master was the devil.
"'C'est le diable,' said the valet. 'Le diable!' cried the butler, laying his finger on his proboscis. 'Le Diable!' exclaimed the écuyer, pulling up his boots. 'Le Diable!' said the countess's maid, getting closer to the écuyer. 'Do not be frightened, Jeannette,' whispered he, 'the devil himself shan't hurt you--' What he said more was lost in a buzz. 'Fie! don't be blasphemous, Roger,' cried Jeannette, 'who knows what may happen?' and so they talked it all over, and agreed that it was very possible that the young count might be the devil.
"When the old lady was safely dead and buried, Count Robert ordered his cellar to be replenished, for it had fallen much to decay; and getting together a great company of young knights and nobles, they fell into all manner of excesses; hunting till they were tired, eating till they were full, and drinking till they were drunk, bespattering the old women with dirt from their horses' feet, and kissing the young ones in a very unbecoming manner. So that every body cried out that Count Robert was--le diable.
"Now it so happened that the Count fell in love with the abbess of the convent of Beauchamp, whom her brother, the Marquis of Millemonte, had caused to take the veil. He having some religious scruples and qualms of conscience to paying the dower her father had left her, in case she entered into the state of matrimony. Nevertheless, the count, who cared little about religious matters, set his brains to work; and taking the method of the famous Count Orry, he obtained admission to the convent; so that every body cried out more than ever, that Count Robert was certainly--le diable.
"The news of this occurrence was not very palatable to the Marquis of Millemont, but Count Robert heeded not whether he liked it or no, and went on in revelry and feastings, till one night, the marquis, with a large company, suddenly broke in upon him, and began to lay about him without mercy. Now, though the count was as drunk as the sow of a certain celebrated personage, he fought so hard, that every one swore Count Robert was le diable; till, overpowered by numbers, he was driven, with the few of his followers who remained alive, from chamber to chamber, even to the outer wall; whence, sooner than be taken, he threw himself down into the ditch of the castle; and all those who were by vowed and averred, that the water where he fell hissed and fizzed, as if a piece of hot iron had tumbled into it, which completely convinced all the world that Count Robert was really nothing but le diable.
"From that time to this," said the old woman, "the château has gone gradually to decay. I remember it, standing high above every thing around, but now the upstart trees measure their height against it, and in the greenness of their youth seem to mock its forlorn old age, forgetting that they shall decay and fall like it, and like me. Every year robs it of something; and it is only wonderful that it has not fallen before, as for many a century it has never been inhabited: for who would dwell in the château of Robert le Diable?"
I hated sentiment at that time of my life; and as the old woman was beginning to grow somewhat sentimental on the old castle, we wished her good morning, and proceeded as fast as we could to Berney. The postmaster, or rather the post-mistress, for it was a women, was very civil and good-tempered, and as she kept an hotel into the bargain, we should have lodged with her, had it not been for a wet court-yard between the inn and the street. It had been originally carpeted with straw, which had since been beaten into a mash and wetted with a fortnight's rain, so that with the assistance of a number of oxen, horses, goats, and pigs, it had been rendered quite impassable. We went then to l'Equerre where we were shown through the kitchen into a single room with two beds. I hinted to the landlady, that we should require two rooms, and here began our first battle. She had no idea, it appears, of people occupying two rooms, when one would do. But I kept to my point, and told her that an Englishman always required a room to himself. She said that it was very extraordinary. I agreed to that, but told her that the English were an extraordinary nation, and when they could not get two rooms they always went away. Thereupon, she instantly gave us what we required, though she had vowed fifty times before that she had but that one apartment vacant.
While dinner was preparing we went out to visit the churches, and walked through the beautiful valley of Charentonne. We staid a moment in the cemetery, but there was only one tomb to be distinguished from the routine of epitaphs commonplace. On the one I speak of appeared a broken rose, rudely sculptured in the stone, and below were written some lines, the idea of which was better than the versification.
"Flower of a day, that blossom'd but to die,
In native earth thine earth-born beauties lie:
Not so thine odour, tho' thy stem be riven,
It, on the blast that broke thee, rose to heaven."
On our return to the inn, our dinner was placed before us. It consisted of some soup and bouilli, some abortive trout, that I believe on my conscience were originally intended for gudgeons, a stewed hare, or civet de lièvre (which probably was some poor unfortunate cat, for I never could get a sight of the hare-skin), and some plates of vegetables. I saw by this that our bill would be high; for, on the same principle that "he ne'er forgives who does the wrong," an innkeeper who serves you ill always makes you pay for it.
I was not disappointed. Our charges, next morning, were at least twice as much as by any reasonable calculation they ought to have been; and, consequently, I struck off one half of the bill. The landlady vowed that she would not take one sous less than she demanded, and I vowed that I would not give her one sous more than I offered. She swore I should not quit the house till I had paid it. I informed her that the carriage was at the door and that I was going. She said she would go to the maire. I told her to make haste, then, for that I was in a hurry. She flew into a violent passion, and I affected to fly into another. I counted out the half of the bill upon the table; she took it up and put it in her pocket, and the matter being thus settled, we both recomposed our faces. I wished her good morning and perfect health; and she expressed hope, that if we again passed through Bernal, she should have le plaisir infini de notre pratique.
Happy, happy, happy people! An English landlady would have growled for two hours afterwards.
There is more of the beau ideal of cottage life in France than in England. One meets with more of those bright and striking points of original character among the peasantry of France in a day, than one would find in England in a month. All over the world cultivation has put nature out of fashion, and man is all the smoother but none the brighter for it; but, however, it sometimes happens that in our wanderings we find little bits of pure unadulterated nature that are worth any price; and when I meet with such, I ask Memory to pick them up and put them in her pocket for me. It is true that she, careless slut, often drops what is good, and hoards up what she had better cast away; but still I have a little treasure in her hands, consisting simply of bright pictures that I have gathered together as I journey on. Things seen for a moment and passed by. A group of children playing; a girl drawing water, a striking effect of light and shade, or the passing away of a storm, will give me more pleasure and remain longer upon my memory than all the graces and attitudes even of a Taglioni.
In passing through Normandy alone, a painter, who could sketch rapidly, with taste and imagination to guide him, might soon fill his portfolio with groups that would set him above all the artists in the world. I remember as we drove out of Bernay, there was a girl standing at the window of a cottage by the road-side; she was young, and her form had all the loveliness of youth, the wild grace of nature, and the richness of simplicity. Her hands leaned upon the bar of the window, and she seemed watching the progress of a cloud that flitted across the blue sky, with her eyes raised towards heaven, and her brown hair falling back from her face. She was worth all the Magdalens that ever were painted.
The gardens of the Guinguettes, too, are prodigal of undisguised nature. In the evening of a summer Sunday, all the youth of the neighbourhood assemble there to dance away the afternoon, and all is harmony and joy. Nature has full room to act, and she always does it beautifully.
I know not well which is the cause and which the effect--whether a French peasant's peculiar amusements render him a better tempered animal than an Englishman of the same class, or whether it is a disposition naturally gentler, that leads him to those amusements. Certain it is, that his amusements are generally milder in their kind, and more good-humoured in their execution than an Englishman's; and I cannot help thinking, that if our country magistrates would but encourage and revive the nearly forgotten rural sports of our ancestors, many good feelings which have been lost; would come back with those innocent pastimes.
The object of all mankind is happiness; and the object of all good lawgivers is to secure the greatest possible portion of it to those they govern. Every thing that renders the people gentler among themselves, renders them happier; and there is no greater bond of union amongst a whole nation, than general attachment to ancient customs.
In France, every thing is done for the people's amusement. The government aid it; the magistrates encourage it; and the rich, look on with pleasure, while the poor enjoy themselves. It unites all classes of society by the strongest ties; and while an Englishman sits drinking before a public-house, abusing the laws he neither knows nor understands, a Frenchman dances away his hours, contented with himself and all the world.
Among the lower classes of the peasantry (I do not, speak of the inhabitants of cities) the evils of the revolution were little felt. The conscription was the only thing that affected them; and whilst almost every other class lost the better part of their character they remained the same. They may be savage in their resentments, but it needs real injury to excite them; and in their amusements they are mild, cheerful, and orderly. At the fairs and at different fêtes, where there are various sports and prizes supplied at the expense of government, it is truly astonishing to see the general good humour and regularity which prevails; and, in spite of the gensdarmes who stand looking on like the ushers of a school on a half-holiday, nature is not at all checked to produce it. On the contrary, she is always breaking forth; and it is the very spirit of happiness which she breathes, well pleased with herself and with all around her. I have often wished for the pencil of a Wilkie to sketch the faces, I have seen grinning at a merry-andrew, or watching the efforts of a poor devil on a tourniquet,[[3]] striving to keep the unsteady machine on the balance, till he arrives at the prizes within his view; and just when he fancies that he grasps success, round flies the tourniquet and down he falls amongst the people--and what then? Why the people laugh, and he laughs too; and takes his place at the end of the file to try his luck again.
I once saw a country girl watching her lover trying hard to win a tempting mouchoir, which no doubt they had both determined to be the finest thing in the world to deck her out next Sunday at mass. She looked timidly round her every now and then, as if she feared that the eagerness she felt in her heart should shine out before the world, and then she fixed her eyes upon her lover again, while he got on by degrees, till at last the mischievous tourniquet turned him and his hopes upside down together. The long compressed breath burst from the girl's lips in a deep sigh, but the lad gave a gay look through the crowd, and a smile to where his mistress stood, as much as to say--"I am not beaten yet;" and took his place again. But there were half a dozen to try their fortune before him; and as they came nearer and nearer the poll on which the prizes hung, he regarded them anxiously; and I could see that it was not he hoped they would fall, but that he feared they would take the very mouchoir he had fixed his heart upon. I do not know why, but something had made me determine that one way or another the girl should not go away without a mouchoir; and so now, having an interest in the matter, when it came to his turn again I watched him as eagerly as any one. But he managed well, and proceeding slowly and cautiously came near the prizes, gave a spring at the mouchoir, and brought it to the ground. In the triumph of his heart he could not help holding it up to his mistress, which called a laugh from the people. But it mattered little; the girl paid for her mouchoir with a blush; and taking the arm of her lover walked away as happy as a princess--nay a great deal happier.