I might have readily forgotten the new comer—indeed, I had almost done so ere I closed the window—had not his memory been preserved for me by a process peculiar to small and unfrequented inns,—a species of absorption by which the traveller of higher pretensions invariably draws in all the stray articles of comfort scattered through the establishment. First my table took flight, and in its place a small and ricketty thing of white deal had arrived; next followed a dressing-glass; then waddled forth a fat, unwieldy, old arm-chair, that seemed by its difficulty of removal to have strong objections to locomotion; and lastly, a chest of drawers set out on its travels, but so stoutly did it resist, that it was not captured without the loss of two legs, while every drawer was thrown out upon the floor, to the manifest detriment of the waiter’s shins and ankles. These “distraints” I bore well and equably, and it was only a summary demand to surrender a little sofa on which I lay that at length roused me from my apathy, and I positively demurred, asking, I suppose, querulously enough, who it was that required the whole accommodation of the inn, and could spare nothing for another traveller? An “English Prince” was the answer; at which I could not help laughing, well knowing that the title is tolerably indiscriminate in its application. Indeed, I once heard Colonel Sibthorp called such.
It is all very well to affect indifference and apathy, to pretend that you care nothing who or what your neighbour in an inn may be. This is very practicable where his identity takes no more corporeal shape than No. 42 or 53 in some great overgrown hôtel. But imagine yourself in some small secluded spot, some little nook, of which you had half fancied you were the first discoverer—conceiving yourself a kind of new Pérouse; fancy, then, when in the very ecstasy of your adventure, the arrival of a travelling carriage and four, with a belted Courier and a bearded Valet; not only are your visions routed, but your own identity begins to dissolve away with them. You are neither a hero to yourself nor to “mine host.” His best smiles, his deepest reverence, are now for the last comer, for whose accommodation a general tribute is levied. Do what you will, say what you will, there is no remaining deaf to the incessant turmoil that bespeaks the great man’s wants. There is a perpetual hurry-scurry to seek this and fetch that; soda-water—tea—champagne—a fire—hot water—are continually echoing along the corridor, and “the Prince” seems like some vast “Maelstrom” that all the larder and the cellar contain can never satiate. Such, certainly, the least exacting of men appear when under the auspices of a Courier and the host of a small inn.
The poverty of the establishment makes the commonest requirements seem the demand of a Sybarite indulgence, and every-day wants are luxuries where cleanliness is the highest of virtues.
I was—I own it—worried and vexed by the clamour and movement, that not even coming night calmed down. The repose and quiet I had been so fully enjoying were gone, and, in their place, the vulgar noises and tumult of a little inn. All these interruptions, intimately associated in my mind with the traveller, invested him, to me, with a character perfectly detestable, so that there was somewhat of open defiance in my refusal to yield up my sofa.
A pause followed. What was to come next? I listened and waited in half anxiety, wondering what new aggression might ensue; but all was still: nay, there was a clattering of knives and forks, and then went the pop of a cork—“the Prince” was eating. “Well,” thought I, “there is some vengeance here, for the cuisine is detestable.” “His Highness” thought so too, for more than one plat was dismissed, accompanied by a running commentary of abuse on the part of the Courier.
At last came a really tranquil moment. The cheese had been sent away as uneatable, and the Courier had followed it, cursing manfully, if I might pronounce from the odour wafted to my own chamber, not unreasonably. “Mi Lor le Prince” was probably composing himself to a siesta; there was a stealthy quietude in the step of his servant along the corridor that said so much. I had scarcely made the reflection when a tap came to my door. “The Prince” wished for an English newspaper, and the host had seen two on my table. The “Post” and the “Chronicle” were both before me, and I sent them, half wondering which best might suit his Highness’s politics.
Another tap at the door! Really this is intolerable. Has he not had my table, my arm-chair, my newspapers—what will he ask for next? “Come in,” said I, now trying English, after in vain shouting “Entrez” and “Herein” three times over.
An English servant entered, and in that peculiarly low, demure tone, so distinctive of his caste, said,—
“Sir Robert Chawuth presents his compliments, and begs to know if he may pay his respects to Mr. Templeton?”
“Is Sir Robert here? is that his carriage?” said I, hastily.