The Whine of the Country.
À propos of walks in a wretched condition, why don't their Worships, the Maires of Royat and Chamalière, lay their heads together and mend the footpaths? In making the above suggestion, I do not contemplate wood-pavement. No: but I do think that these beggars might be utilised.
Pensées d'un Baigneur.—A bather has plenty of time to emulate the celebrated parrot. What can he do—the bather not the parrot—in his bath, except think? He can talk, hum, or sing. He can recite: and exercise his voice and memory. But this would attract attention, and I fancy the talking, singing, or reciting bather would very soon be requested to keep quiet. Therefore he must think. He may not sleep: it is not permitted by the faculty. No: thinking is the thing. The time in a bath,—thirty-five minutes of it—passes as a dream, and the thoughts are as difficult to catch and fix as butterflies. Here are a few:—
It is absolutely necessary to please oneself even in things apparently indifferent. Out of politeness, I yielded yesterday to an invitation to take a drive of two hours. I was ill for nearly a couple of days afterwards.... So was the kind person who took me. I believe she meant it well, and intended it as an act of politeness. (N. B. This was written within the first seven days of the "traitement." This sort of thing must come out of you. The waters bring out selfishness and ingratitude.)
Morning after morning I find myself staring at the notice on the wall at the foot of my bath. From that I gather that I am a "titulaire." My bath-cell is No. 17. So as Titulaire I am Number Seventeen,—like a convict. My Gaoler, the bathman, does not know me perhaps by any other name than "Monsieur &c., Dix-Sept." Ah, well, I never thought I should be seventeen again. But I am—at Royat. How it must be re-juvenising me!
I have been looking over a list of excursions to various "Salubrities Abroad." Among them I find this:—"De Lyon en Savoie et en Dauphiné par Saint-André-le-Gaz, et retour."
"St. Andrew-the-Gas" sounds a novel name in a calendar. He was evidently a Saint much in advance of his time. An excellent man of course "according to his lights."
I saw a subject here for Mr. Marks, R.A. A bearded Franciscan Monk in his brown habit, with cord and rosary at his waist, sending a telegram at the telegraph office. Imagine the surroundings. Mr. Marks might call it an Anachronism.
When abroad, I make notes of the names of any new dishes. The following one was new to me as a name, not as a dish, which was simple enough, "Culottes de bœuf à la fermière." What next? "Caleçons de veau à la baigneuse?" "Gilets de mouton à la bergère?" "Culottes de veau à la Brian O'Lynn?" "Chapeau de volaille à la coq?"
Music.—This morning, the fifteenth of my sojourn here, the band is playing something new. This is refreshing, as I am becoming a little tired of the overtures to Zampa, Guillaume Tell, Italiano in Algeria, selections from the Huguenots (highly popular as a good finish to any concert) and the dance music, waltzes and mazurkas, which have been popular for the last two years.
The clocks of Royat are still in an undecided state. The uninitiated person who takes his time—(Note, en passant for all baigneurs here—Never be in a hurry, and always "take your time," no matter from where you take it)—from the Hotel, and starts at 7·30 in order to reach his bath by 8,—a walk of five minutes,—will find, on arriving at the Etablissement, that it is just 8·5, so that he has taken a quarter of an hour to do the distance. If he starts from the Etablissement at 8·30, to meet a friend at the station, on arriving there he will discover that it is 8·15 by the Railway Clock, so that he is at the end of his journey a quarter of an hour before he set out, having done the distance in considerably less than no time,—a record worth preserving. The Post Office Authorities, in despair, have put up a notice informing everybody that their clock has no connection with that of the Etablissement, which may just do what it likes and be wound to it, and ignoring all church-clock authority and all municipal authority too, they (the Post Office Authorities aforesaid) announce that they intend to take their time from the Railway station, but even then will give themselves a margin of five minutes one way or the other, so that the public wishing to send letters must ascertain what the post times ought to be, and then give themselves another margin of at least ten minutes on the safe side. The calculation is not very complicated when you are accustomed to it, and its uncertainty lends a gentle stimulus to the ordinary routine of the uneventful life at Royat.
For "Excursions from Royat by Rail or Road," see my Guide-Book, forthcoming.
This advice, "See my Guide," or "See my History," is perpetually recurring as a friendly hint—it really being a most artful way of introducing an advertisement to your notice—in that invaluable publication, the Guides Diamant, P. Joanne, series, Hachette & Cie., without which no traveller's pocket or bag is completely furnished. Time for siesta.