WORDS AND THINGS.
And all the rest is leather and prunella.
As we rolled on at a very tolerable pace, towards le Mans, we met a troop of conscripts on the road; forced from their homes, torn from all early and dear associations--and there they were, as gay as larks, singing and laughing till the welkin rang. Yet the French people do not like the conscription. The government of Napoleon had become intolerable from it; and the irksome taxes comprised under the title of droits réunis, was another source of discontent. It is a very general mistake to suppose that words are merely the representatives of ideas, when every day experience shows us that a change in words is often of much more consequence than a change in things. The Bourbon family, on their restoration, promised that the conscription should be abolished, and that the droits réunis should no longer exist; and consequently their names were expelled from the catalogue of government terms: but as it was found absolutely necessary that the king should be supplied with soldiers, and the state with money, the name of jeunes soldats was substituted for conscrits, and contributions indirectes for that of droits réunis. This proved highly satisfactory to all; and there were only a few weak-minded individuals, who took snuff, and pretended that, in reality, things remained just as they were.
We rolled on.--One little act of kindness, one smile from a warm and benevolent heart, is worth all the cant and politeness in the world. It was a changeable autumn day, and as we came to the top of the hill which overlooks the rich valley of Gacé, a dark heavy storm, which had obscured the sky for more than an hour, suddenly broke away, and left the whole scene beaming in light and loveliness. My friend was much fatigued, and as we were about to change horses here, we agreed to stay and dine. The post-house was the inn, and, on driving up to the door, a fine portly old man, and two black-eyed blooming girls, came out to greet the travellers on their arrival with so much frankness and good-nature in their faces that, had we been travelling on life and death, we must even have stayed to dinner there. The first room in all Norman inns is the kitchen, and thither Monsieur Butet led us, and introduced us in form to Madame sa femme, who was the counterpart of her husband--the same age and size for a woman as he was for a man, with the same look of hilarity and health, and the same frank open countenance that bade you welcome before she spoke. Every thing, too, around them was clean and neat, and bespoke a family of cheerful regularity. My feet were very wet with getting in and out of the carriage to pay the postboys, so the two girls took me under their special protection, and setting me by the side of the large chimney, blew up the fire to dry me, while Madame Butet got, the dinner ready, and her husband showed my friend to a room where he could lie down. I will not say they were civil--civil seems a mercenary word--they were kind.
At dinner they gave us the best of every thing they had; and if we required any little change, it was done with alacrity and good humour. The two girls served us, and laughed and talked, and showed their white teeth, as if they had known us for a hundred years; and the father came in to ask if we had every thing we wished. After dinner he begged to know if he should put to the horses, for, if we intended to go to Alençon that night it was growing late; but we told him that we intended to spend the night with him. He made us a low bow, and said that we did him too much honour, that his was a poor, little inn, and they had nothing to offer us but good will. The bourg, too, had nothing curious or interesting to amuse us, he added; yet he must say, that though he had visited many places, he had never seen a sweeter valley, or a neater little town than Gacé.
The next morning was market-day, and before the windows we had all the women of the country round, in their high white caps and bright gowns either of blue or red. Amongst other commodities, one which had a great sale was the sabot, or wooden shoe; and Mademoiselle Butet advising me to buy a pair to put on in getting out of the carriage, I begged her to send for some to let me see. When they came, she tried them on for me herself, showed me how to wear them, chaffered the vender down five or six sous in the price, and carried them off to show her father what a pretty pair of sabots she had bought for Monsieur.
We had every reason to be contented at Gacé; we were well lodged, and fed, and treated, and the bill was but a trifle. It contained only one word--"bonne chère," good cheer; and was not more simple than the people themselves.
I was almost afraid that some little thing might lower these good souls in my opinion; but no, it went on to the last in the same kind, good-humoured, unpretending way. They had welcomed us like friends, and so they bade us farewell; and coming all out to the door, they wished us a pleasant journey, and many happy years, and looked after us long as we drove away.
Several circumstances amused me much in passing from Alençon to le Mans: but I gradually got tired of my position, and was not at all sorry when the carriage drove up to the inn. It was a cold, cheerless, drizzly night, as one could wish for; and as I hate to take the worst view of a place, by looking at it through a mist of any kind, I turned my eyes obstinately towards the large arched entry of the inn, without regarding whether the town was black, white, or gray. There was, a little sort of bureau on the left hand, and at the door was standing one of the most interesting beings I ever beheld. It was altogether a picture we seldom meet with. The light fell sideways, and showed as beautiful a face as any in the world, in that deep relief of light and shade which Rembrandt only knew how to manage. It was very fair, and very pale; the hair was simply braided on the forehead under a cap shaped like a nun's; and the long dark eyes, as they were turned towards the spot where we stood, caught the light, but seemed more to absorb than to reflect it. There was a degree of quiet peace in the attitude, and a tranquil calmness in the countenance, which expressed a thoughtful mind, and a gentle unperturbed spirit, better than any eloquence could have done it; and the silver cross which hung by a black ribbon round her neck and rested on her hand, seemed to point out more particularly the bent of her thoughts. I know not why (for I never scrutinize my motions), but as I passed by, I instinctively pulled off my hat. My companion was equally struck with myself; and one of our first questions went to obtain further information. "She was daughter (they told us) of the mistress of the house, and intended to become religieuse."
I asked if there was any reason. Perhaps some sorrow had given her mind that bent--some disappointment of that kind which rests on woman's heart like a blight, till the whole tree withers? but they told us no; that she had always been thus. She was, it seems, one of those calm, quiet spirits, which are as strangers in the midst of the busy world, taking no part in its cares and its joys, and looking sorrowfully upon all the evil that is done and suffered, She was very good, the people said, and very charitable, and every body loved her; and for the moment I felt a degree of grief that her heart had never met any one that was worthy of its affection. But no, it was better not; for love is but a brighter name for pain; and God forbid that a spirit which turned towards heaven, should be weighed down by any of the passions of earth.
In the evening I missed my friend for half an hour; and when he rejoined me, "I have been talking with our nun," said he, "over the fire." But I begged him not to tell me any thing about it. "I would not have done it for the world," said I.
"Why not?" demanded he:--and as some one else may ask the same question, and think I meant differently from that which I did, I will give the reasons now, as I gave them then. I would not have done it for the world; for I never like to compare the paintings of fancy with the originals. Realities are seldom the pleasantest parts of life. Hope, memory, and, even enjoyment, are more than half imagination. Every thing is mellowed by distance; and when we come too near, the airy softness is lost, and the hard lines of truth are offered harshly to the eye. Half our sorrows are the breaking of different illusions: sometimes they must be broken; but when, without danger to himself, or injury to others, man can enrich the scene before him with ideal beauties, he is foolish to examine minutely the objects of which it is composed. The cottage, with its broken thatch and shining piece of water in the foreground, is picturesque and beautiful in a landscape;--but what is the reality? The dwelling of misery, decorated with a horse-pond! The splendid pageants, that dazzle the lesser children at a theatre, are but dirty daubs of paint and tinsel; and it is the same with the stage of the world. It never answers to be behind the scenes. In life, I have met with but two things equal to what I fancied them--sunrise from a mountain, and a draught of water when I was thirsty.
A FRENCH COOK.
There is no man on earth, I believe, who has not figured to himself a sort of animal totally distinct from every thing else in nature, and called it in his own mind a French cook.
It is, in a manner, an historical character; and from the very nursery we accustom ourselves to picture him with a long pigtail and a nightcap, skinning cats and fricasseeing frogs. But the breed is nearly extinct: I had sought for one of the true race all over France with the zeal and fervour of an antiquary, and long had only the mortification of finding every kitchen filled with plump, greasy professors (who for fat and solemnity, might have occupied any chair in a Dutch university), skimming their dirty saucepans, and mercilessly compounding mutton and beef to supply the cravings of a nation who have nearly abandoned frogs,[[4]] snails and vipers, to feed upon the same gross aliments as the English. As I have said, much had been my mortification; but there was a reward in store for me, Le Valliant could not have been more gratified when he first met with the giraffe than was I, when, on entering the kitchen at le Mans, my eyes fell upon the minister of the culinary department. It was the beau ideal of a French cook! and had Hogarth seen him, he would have made him immortal.
He was about sixty, and as thin as could be well desired. His complexion was café au lait, set off by a pair of small eyes, high up in his head, as black as jet, and sparkling like the charcoal under his saucepans; while his hair, as white as snow, stuck out in full friz, like a powder-puff, and supported a candid nightcap, which, leaning slightly to one side, let the tassel sway peacefully over his left ear.
Whether it was from constantly leaning to the side of royalty (for he had been an émigré), or from some accident, I do not know, but one of his legs was rather shorter than the other. This, however, nothing deteriorated the dignity of his deportment; and when he appeared in the midst of stews and sauces, with his gray jacket, his snowy apron, and his knife by his side, my imagination became exalted: his nightcap assumed the appearance of a wreath; his jacket transformed itself into pontifical robes; his knife became the instrument of sacrifice; the b[oe]uf au naturel changed to the bellowing victim; the kitchen to the porch of the temple; and I began to fancy myself in ancient Greece, when suddenly he advanced towards us with a smiling air, and placed chairs for us by the fire. "Sit down English gentlemans," said he, in a barbarous corruption of my native language; "sit down, sit down. Oh! I go make you nice dinner. I be in England; I make the kitchen to Lord Salisbury. Do you understand Lord Salisbury? Connaissez-vous Lord Salisbury."
What between himself and his English, I have seldom met any thing equal to him. He had all the importance, too, of his profession; there was a gravity in his emptiness, and a politeness in his gravity. When he cooked, his whole soul seemed in the dish; but when any one addressed him, his face relaxed into a smile, and the dish was forgot. The pride of his heart was in his saucepans, which hung up in innumerable shining rows above our heads, burnished like the armour of Achilles, and from those saucepans he produced fare worthy the great Lucullus. Indeed, he was the best cook I ever met; but that is easily accounted for. He had been cook to a seminary of Catholic priests, and quitted it upon some quarrel. The good father directors, soon finding how much their palates lost by his absence, wished him to return; and he showed with no small triumph a letter he had received to that effect. I copied, and give it word for word. The colouring might be heightened, but it is better as it is; and, as a specimen of an epistle from a priest to a cook, it is unique:--
"Mon cher Monsieur, "Paris, 8 Juillet 1823.
"Voici ce que Monsieur le Supérieur m'a dit de vous répondre. 'Si vous voulez être bien raisonnable, bien gentil, être bon chrétien, vous conformer en tout aux règles de la maison, vous n'avez qu'à revenir au plus tôt. Je ferai votre affaire.' Voilà ses propres paroles.
"Je me réjouis de cette heureuse nouvelle que je vous apprends. Je dis que c'est pour vous une heureuse et très-heureuse nouvelle, car où peut-on être mieux que dans une maison où, si l'on veut, l'on peut se sanctifier si facilement et mériter le bonheur du paradis? Venez donc au plus vite, venez dans ce saint séminaire, où vous vous rendrez digne du ciel, j'en suis sûr. Je suis avec amitié votre très-devoué, "Jean-Baptiste C----."
"P. S. Je me porte beaucoup mieux."