FROM THE DIARY OF THE MAN IN THE IRON MASK

Pignerol, August 21, 1669.—Have at last, I think, attained my heart's desire. Arrived last night under the pseudonym of Eustache Danger. Found everything fairly satisfactory. That is to say, the King's promises to me with regard to the absolute solitude I crave have been carried out as far as was possible in the time. The prison is not finished, and this accounts for a fact which annoyed me not a little on my arrival. I found that the walls of my room were not of the thickness promised, so that, should any one be lodged next door to me, which Heaven forfend! he might have the bad taste to try and communicate with me by knocking on the wall. I wear a black velvet mask and the King solemnly promised me that if any officer were to dare to ask me who I was he would be instantly dismissed.

August 22, 1669.—So far so good. Saint Mars, the Governor of the Prison, is certainly doing his best. But last night, when he brought me my dinner, he forgot himself and said, "Bon Soir, Monsieur." If he does this again he will have to be removed. I did not come here to be bothered with conversation.

August 25.—I am enjoying myself immensely. The relief of waking up in the morning and of gradually becoming conscious that it will not be necessary—

(a) To dress in Court clothes.

(b) To go out hunting.

(d) To play cards and lose.

(e) To listen to a play performed in a private house.

(f) To laugh at Madame ——'s chaff.

(g) To make love to J——.

(h) To pretend to enjoy the beauties of nature.

(i) To hear and give opinions on Molière.

(j) To sit through the long, long dinner.

(k) To talk philosophy with Mademoiselle.

(l) To find fault with my servant for giving me the wrong stockings.

(m) To wait for hours in the crown of the Œil-de-Bœuf.

(n) To be taken to the window by the English Ambassador and asked if I think the Spaniards really mean business.

(o) To talk internal politics with Louvois.

(p) To listen to Le Nôtre's account of Lord Carlisle's new garden.

(q) To listen to Bossuet's sermon on Sunday.

(r) Not to annoy the Duchesse de La Vallière.

(s) To have to look as if I thought the King an amusing conversationalist.

(t) To say that a Bal Masqué is great fun.

(u) To go to the opera at the back of a box.

(v) To pretend I like Dutch pictures.

(w) To dance all night in a room like a monkey cage.

(x) To read the Gazette.

(y) To be civil to the German Ambassadress.

(z) To change my clothes three times a day.

That is my alphabet of negation. It is incomplete. Yet to write it and read it over and over again fills me with ecstasy.

March, 1670.—A most annoying incident happened to-day. The upper tower, at the western angle of the Castle, is occupied by Fouquet and Lauzun. The King promised me solemnly that neither of them should be allowed to hold any communication with me. To-day one of Fouquet's servants entered my room and spoke to me, asking me whether I had anything of importance to communicate. I told him very sharply to go to the devil. If this happens again I shall ask to be moved to a quieter prison.

It is extraordinary that even in a place like this one cannot be free from the importunity and the impertinence of human curiosity.

April 3, 1670.—As the days go on, I enjoy myself more and more. A cargo of books arrived yesterday from Paris, sent by the King, but Saint Mars had the good sense not to bring them to me. He merely notified the fact on a slip of paper, which he left on my plate. I scribbled a note to the effect that he could throw them to the bottom of the sea, or read them himself, or give them to Fouquet's servant. Books indeed! It is no longer, thank God, necessary for me to read books, or to have an opinion on them!

November 1, 1671.—Lauzun has been sent here. The prison is getting far too crowded. It will soon be as bad as Versailles.

November 10.—Lauzun is being very tiresome. He taps on my ceiling. I wrote a short note to Saint Mars that if this annoyance continued I should be constrained to leave his prison.

March 3, 1680.—The situation was intolerable. Lauzun and Fouquet found some means of communication and they carried on interminable conversations. What they can have to talk about passes my understanding. I bore it patiently for some days. At last I complained to Saint Mars in writing, he took some steps and it appears that Fouquet has had an attack of apoplexy and died. I cannot endure the neighbourhood of Lauzun, and I have written to the King saying that unless I am transferred to a quieter dungeon I shall leave the prison.

April 8, 1680.—Matters have been arranged satisfactorily, and I have been moved into the lower chamber of the Tour d'en bas. But the whole fortress is far too crowded. There are at least five prisoners in it. Also I found a tame mouse here, left I suppose by a former occupant. Had the nuisance removed at once. It is delicious to be safely in prison just now that the spring is beginning and to think that I shall not have to spend chilly evenings in wet gardens and to speak foolishly of the damp April weather.

January, 1681.—Caused much annoyance by a tiresome Italian fellow prisoner called Mattioli, who, feigning either madness or illness, or both, caused a commotion in the prison, necessitating the arrival of doctors and priests. Kept awake by noise of bolts being drawn, and the opening and shutting of doors. Wrote to the King complaining of this which is a direct infringement of his promise. Asked to be moved to a quieter spot.

September 2,1681.—Moved to the Fortress of Exiles. Prison said to be empty. Hope this will prove true.

October 10,1681.—Saint Mars very nearly spoke to me to-day. He was evidently bursting with something he longed to communicate. However, I made such a gesture, that I think he felt the frown through my velvet mask and withdrew.

January 5, 1687.—After months, and indeed years of peace, perfect peace, with loved ones far away, I have again been subjected to intolerable annoyance. Fouquet's valet fell ill, and Saint Mars informed me of the fact. I wrote to the King at once saying that either Saint Mars or I must go.

April 30, 1687.—King has granted my request. Arrived at Sainte Marguerite in a chair with wheels covered with wax-cloth. I think I shall be quieter here. I have been promised that no other prisoner shall be lodged here at all, but the promises of Kings are as iridescent and as brittle as Venetian glass.

January, 1690.—Alas! Alas! for the vanity of human wishes. Here I was perfectly contented, and, as I thought, quiet at last. Day followed day of perfect enjoyment, unmarred by conversation, undisturbed by study, unvexed by the elements, when the peace of my solitude is rudely shattered by the arrival of two Protestant ministers. It is true I am never to see them, but the mere fact of knowing that there are two Protestant ministers in the same building is enough to poison life!

June 1, 1698.—More Protestant ministers have arrived, worse than the last. They sing hymns. I have written to the King asking him to transfer me to the Bastille at once. I always said that the Bastille was the only tolerable dwelling-place in France.

September 13, 1698.—Arrived at the Bastille this afternoon. Lodged on the third floor of the Bertandière tower—the thickest tower. Really quiet.

September 19.—A man hammered over my head at four o'clock this morning. It is intolerable. Shall I ever find a place where I can sleep from 4 to 8 a.m. without being disturbed? As it is, I might just as well be living in a fashionable inn.

[XIX]

FROM THE DIARY OF AN ENGLISH GOVERNESS RESIDING IN PARIS
DURING THE FRENCH REVOLUTION

Paris, October 7, 1789.—I arrived this afternoon after a rapid and satisfactory journey. To my amazement found that neither the Count nor the Countess were here to receive me. The Hotel was deserted save for the presence of an old servant, and his wife, who appears to be the cook of the household, and to combine with this office the duties of hall porter. As I have no command over even the elementary rudiments of the French language, and as the French never trouble to learn any language but their own, communication is a sorely difficult task and results in perpetual misunderstanding. Nevertheless, I succeeded in apprehending from the voluble expostulations and the superfluous gesticulation of the old servant, whose name appears to be Pierre, but whom I have decided to call Peter, that the family had left Paris. That they had departed but recently and in haste, my senses were able to inform me. All over the house were traces of disorder. Some but half-packed boxes had been left behind; cupboards were open, clothes were strewn on the floor, and everywhere traces of precipitate packing and sudden departure were manifest. I made as if I would depart also, but Peter made it plain by signs that I was expected to remain, and indeed he conducted me to my room, which is airy and commodious enough, and where, after partaking of a light supper, insufficient and badly cooked as all French meals, and accompanied by the sour "wine" of the country, I fell into a comfortable slumber.

October 10, 1789.—I have now been here three days, and as yet I have received neither message, nor token, nor sign from the departed family, nor can I ascertain from Peter or his wife, the obtuse menials who are the sole occupants of this in some respects elegant mansion, whither they have gone: whether they are loitering in their country seat, or whether they have started on a longer peregrination. Paris is very full. The streets are ill-kept and ill-lit, a strange contrast to the blaze (at night) and tidiness (by day) of the London streets. It is a dingy city, and I think it must certainly be insanitary. The French understand no word of English, and if indeed one ventures to address them, all they reply is: "Rosbeef, plom pudding," a form of address which they consider facetious. The house is spacious enough, although inconveniently distant from the centre of the city, but it has the advantage of an extensive garden surrounded by high walls. As for myself, I am well cared for by Peter and his wife. She talks at me with great volubility, but I cannot understand a word of what she says. French is an unmusical language, very sharp and nasal, but not ill-suited to a backward people.

July 14, 1790.—Went for a long walk in the city. The streets quiet and deserted. Peter and his wife went out for the day. She is very handy with her needle. I find altogether that the French are quite amenable to reason, if well treated. Of course, one cannot expect them to work like English people, but they are willing and do their best. It is unfortunate they do not speak English. Received last quarter's salary through the usual channel. No further views.

March 4, 1792.—Went out in the evening with Peter and his wife. They took me to the Opera House, having apparently received tickets from a friend connected with theatrical affairs. Castor and Pollux was the name of the opera. The scenery was gorgeous, and the ballets very skilfully performed. The opera was given in French, so that I could not follow the words. Weather grey and dark. Boulevards as usual ill-lit; but crowded with people coming from the coffee-houses, the theatres and the out-of-door dining houses—all singing at the top of their voices. Returned home between nine and ten.

March 6, 1792.—Again to the Opera House to hear the Alcestis of Gluck, and to see the celebrated Vestris dance in a ballet called Psyche. Scenery as usual gorgeous, singing nasal and most unpleasing.

August 13, 1792.—Nothing worth recording. Spend most of the days in the garden. Weather hot. French people vulgar and loud in their holiday-making, partial also to fireworks, explosives, firing of guns, etc. I now make a point of-staying at home on Feast days and holidays, of which there are far too many.

Sunday, September 2, 1792.—Read the morning service in the garden. Sultry.

January 21, 1793.—Shops shut this morning, although it is Monday. No salary received for the last two quarters.

November 10, 1793.—Sunday. Started out to walk along the river in spite of the damp weather. Streets very muddy. A great crowd of people near the Cathedral. Caught in the crowd and obliged to follow with the stream. Borne by the force of the crowd right into the church. Deeply shocked and disgusted at the display of Romish superstition. A live woman resembling a play actress throned near the altar, representing no doubt the Virgin Mary. Most reprehensible. Was obliged to assist at the mummery until the crowd departed. Think I have taken cold.

November 11, 1793.—Have indeed taken cold in consequence of yesterday's outing. Remained indoors all day. Peter and his wife most obliging. They made me some hot negus flavoured with black currant, not unpalatable.

November 12,1793.—Cold worse. Suffering from ague in the bones as well. Shall not get up to-morrow. Peter's wife spent much time in talking and screaming at me. Gathered from her rapid and unintelligible jargon that she wished me to see a doctor. Shook my head vehemently. Shall certainly not put myself in the hands of a French doctor. One never knows what foreigners may prescribe.

January 1, 1794.—Came downstairs for the first time since I have been laid up. Made many good resolutions for the New Year. Among others to keep my journal more diligently.

May 30, 1794.—Walked in the garden for the first time since my relapse. Peter's wife has nursed me with much care and tenderness. Still very weak.

July 30, 1794.—First walk in the city since my long illness. Feel really better. Bought a lace kerchief.

October 1, 1794.—The family, that is to say, the Countess and her two daughters, arrived unexpectedly in the night. Countess simple and kindly, can scarcely speak any English. Begin lessons to-morrow.

October 2, 1794.—The eldest girl Amelia, aged seven, speaks English but has been shamefully ill-taught during her stay in England (for it appears the family have been in England!). She is sadly backward in spelling: but she has a fair accent and is evidently an intelligent child. Unfortunately, she has picked up many unseemly expressions. The Countess suggested my learning French, but I respectfully declined. Reading Pope's Essay on Man in the evenings. It is improving as well as elegant.

[XX]

FROM THE DIARY OF HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK, DURING
HIS STAY AT ENGLAND, WHITHER HE WAS SENT TO STUDY AT
THE UNIVERSITY AT OXFORD, UNDER THE SPECIAL CARE OF
POLONIUS

Balliol College, Monday.—Read aloud my Essay on Equality to the Master. It began: "Treat all men as your equals, especially the rich." The Master commented on this sentence. He said, "Very ribald, Prince Hamlet, very ribald."

In training for the annual fencing match between the Universities of Oxford and Cambridge. Doing my utmost to reduce my flesh which is far too solid.

Tuesday.—Went to Abingdon for the day. When I came back I found that havoc had been made of my rooms: both the virginals broken to pieces—all the furniture destroyed, and all my pictures including a signed portrait of Ophelia.

Have my suspicions as to who has done this. Shall first make certain and then retaliate terribly. In the meantime it will be politic to conceal my annoyance.

Friday.—Dined last night with a society of Undergraduates who meet together in a Barn to discuss Falconry and French verse. Rhenish wine served in great quantities. Feigned drunkenness in order to discover who was guilty of taking liberties with my furniture. As I suspected, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern were the culprits. They as good as admitted it in their cups.

Intend to be revenged some day, and that royally.

Saturday.—When we returned home from the barn last night, it was of course necessary for me to keep up the false semblance of intoxication with which I had started the evening.

This I did by improvising and singing quaint rhymeless couplets as we strutted across the Quadrangle of the College. It so chanced that we encountered the Dean, who addressed me. I answered, keeping up the part: "Buzz. Buzz."

Monday.—A College meeting was held this morning and I was summoned to appear on the charges:—

(a) Of having been intoxicated.

(b) Of having insulted the Dean.

To which I replied (a) that seeing that I was in strict training it was obvious that the charge of intoxication was unfounded; (b) that so far from insulting the Dean, I had addressed him in Danish, and that familiar as I knew him to be with all the languages of Europe and especially the Scandinavian tongues, he had probably not realized to the full the exact shade of deference, respect, and awe which the expression I used implied; (c) that as far as the charge of corrupting the young was concerned, I was not ashamed to stand in the same dock with Socrates, and I would cheerfully, if the College authorities and my Royal parents thought fit, share the doom of my august master. Finally I reminded the noble and learned assembly that were I to be expelled, even temporarily, from the College I should be unable (a) to represent the Alma Mater with the rapier against the University of Cambridge, who had a powerful champion of the noble art in Laertes, a fellow-countryman of mine; and (b) I should not be able to row in the College boat. I concluded by saying that certain as I was that my royal parents would endorse any decision which should be arrived at by the Master and his Colleagues, I was convinced that were I to be sent down from the College, my royal father, in order that my studies might not be interrupted, would immediately send me to Cambridge.

The net result of all this is that I am admonished.

Later in the Day I received a note from the Dean asking me to dine with him next Thursday.

Sunday.—Breakfasted with the Master to meet the Poet Laureate, the Archbishop of York, the Lord Chancellor, the French ambassador, and Quattrovalli, a celebrated Italian juggler. The poet laureate read out an Ode he had just composed on the King's sixth marriage. Very poor.

Monday.—Took part in the debate held by the College Debating Society. The subject being whether Homer's Epics were written by Homer or by a Committee of Athenian Dons.

Took what seemed to the audience a paradoxical view that they were written by Homer.

Tuesday.—Gave a small dinner party in my rooms. Horatio and a few others. Again compelled to feign intoxication, so as not to mar the harmony of the evening. Burnt a small organ, and rather a complicated printing press, belonging to a German undergraduate named Faustus, in the Quadrangle.

Wednesday.—The master commenting on last night's bonfire said he thought it was not humorous, and fined us heavily. Have as yet found no opportunity of revenging myself on Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.

Thursday.—Coached by Polonius for two hours in Scottish history. Very tedious. In the afternoon went on the river in my boat the "Ophelia." Faustus has been sent down for trying to raise the Devil in the precincts of the College. It appears this is strictly against the rules. His excuse was that he had always understood that the College authorities disbelieved in a personal devil. To which the Dean replied: "We are all bound to believe in the Devil in a spiritual sense, Mr Faustus." And Faustus imprudently asked in what other sense you could believe in him.

Friday.—Must really settle this business of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern soon. It is beginning to prey upon my mind. They are quite insufferable. Have lost one stone since the term began, which is satisfactory. Fencing match is to take place next week, here.

Saturday.—The man who has the rooms opposite mine is a Spaniard. A nobleman very cultivated and amiable. His name is Quixote. Consulted him last night as to what to do about Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. Quixote said it was entirely a point of honour. That if I were certain they were guilty, and certain likewise that they had purposely insulted me, I should challenge them each, separately, to personal combat, with sword and rapier. I pointed out, however, that whereas I was a champion swordsman, and indeed had been chosen to represent the University, they had no skill at all. Moreover, I considered that to challenge them to fight would be doing them too much honour. Quixote said I must indubitably, take action of some kind, or else I would incur the suspicion of cowardice. At that moment—we were talking by the open casement—I saw in the darkness, walking stealthily along the wall a man whom I took to be Guildenstern. Seizing a bottle of white wine from Xeres with which Quixote had entertained me, I flung it out of the window on to the head of the skulker, but alas! it was not Guildenstern but the Dean himself!

Monday.—Again appeared before a College meeting. Accused of having wantonly wounded, and almost murdered the Dean. Protested my innocence in vain. It was further suggested I was intoxicated. Lost my temper, which was a mistake, and called the Dean a villain, losing control over my epithets.

Sent down for the rest of the term. Polonius is very angry. He has written to my father suggesting that I should not go back to Oxford, nor seek to enter Cambridge either, but go to Wittenberg instead. Owing to my abrupt departure the fencing match with Laertes will not come oft. No matter, a day will come, when maybe I shall be revenged on Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. We go to London to-day.