On November 27, he abruptly left England, to find himself, two days following, “right snugly roomed in the fifth story of a lodging house No. 12 & 14 Rue de Bussy, Paris. It is the first night I have taken possession,” he says, “and the chambermaid has lighted a fire of wood, lit the candle and left me alone, at 11 o’clock P. M. On first gazing round, I was struck by the apparition of a bottle containing a dark fluid, a glass, a decanter of water, and a paper package of sugar (loaf) with a glass basin next to it. I protest all this was not in the bond. But tho if I use these things they will doubtless be charged to me, yet let us be charitable, so I ascribe all this to the benevolence of Madame Capelle, my most polite, pleasant and Frenchified landlady below. I shall try the brandy before writing more—and now to resume my Journal.” The account of Israel Potter’s first night in Paris, after Benjamin Franklin shows him into lodgings in the Latin Quarter, is certainly built upon Melville’s experience on this occasion. Israel finds in his room a heavy plate glass mirror; and among the articles genially reflected therein, he notes: “seventh, one paper of loaf sugar, nicely broken into sugar-bowl size; eighth, one silver teaspoon; ninth, one glass tumbler; tenth, one glass decanter of cool pure water; eleventh, one sealed bottle containing a richly hued liquid, and marked ‘Otard.’” Melville makes a chapter out of Israel’s adventures with this bottle of Otard,—a chapter in which Benjamin Franklin unburdens himself of much almanac moralising upon the almanac virtues.
Despite the Otard, and the snug quarters, and the diversions of Paris—diversions somewhat restricted by Melville’s complete inability to speak French—Melville was not happy every moment he was in France. “Fire made, and tried to be comfortable. But this is not home and—but no repinings.” Adler was in Paris at the time, however, and this somewhat cheered his solitude. Yet on December 2, when Melville left Adler after an evening of eau de vie and cigars, he “strolled out into a dark rainy night and made my melancholy way across the Pont (rather a biscuit’s toss of the Morgue) to my sixth story apartment.” And once safely in his room, he complained: “I don’t like that mystic door tapestry leading out of the closet.” On the following day he “looked in at the Morgue,” and “bought two pair of gloves and one pair of shoes for Lizzie.” That night, he dined with Adler, and “talked high German metaphysics till ten o’clock.”
He visited the Hotel de Cluny, and found “the house just the house I’d like to live in.” He made a half-hearted effort to see Rachel at the Theatre Française, but failed. He saw the obvious sights and on December 6 hurried away from Paris. He closes the record of his departure with a “Selah!” Even in Paris, he speaks of taking his “usual bath” upon getting up in the morning.
He touched at Brussels: and despite its architecture, “a more dull, humdrum place I never saw:” he hurried through Cologne, where he found “much to interest a pondering man like me.” From Cologne he was headed for Coblenz: but he looked forward to the voyage with little eagerness: “I feel homesick to be sure—being all alone with not a soul to talk to—but the Rhine is before me, and I must on.” Of Coblenz he wrote: “Most curious that the finest wine of all the Rhine is grown right under the guns of Ehrenbreitstein.” “Opposite is this frowning fortress—and some 4000 miles away is America and Lizzie. To-morrow I am homeward-bound! Hurrah and three cheers!” “In the horrible long dreary cold ride to Ostend on the coach, in a fit of the nightmare was going to stop at a way-place, taking it for the place of my destination.”
By December 13, he was back to his old chamber overlooking the Thames. Upon his arrival he was vaguely told “a gentleman from St. James called in his coach,” and “was handed, with a meaning flourish, a note sealed with a coronet.” The note was from the Duke of Rutland,—perversely called at times by Melville, Mr. Rutland—inviting Melville to visit Belvoir Castle “at any time after a certain day in January.” “Cannot go,” Melville writes—“I am homeward bound, and Malcolm is growing all the time.” He called at Bentley’s for letters. “Found one from Lizzie and Allan. Most welcome but gave me the blues most horribly. Felt like chartering a small boat and starting down the Thames embarked for New York.” So he drank some punch to cheer him, and walked down the Strand to buy a new coat, “so as to look decent—for I found my green coat plays the devil with my respectability here.” He haunted the bookshops, and “at last succeeded in getting the much desired copy of Rousseau’s Confessions,” as well as an 1686 folio of Sir Thomas Browne.
On December 15, Melville “rigged for Bentley, whom I expect to meet at 1 P. M. about White-Jacket. Called but had not arrived from Brighton. Walked about a little and bought a cigar case for Allan in Burlington Arcade. Saw some pretty things for presents—but could not afford to buy.” So back to his room he came, and filled up the time before four o’clock, when he was to call again at Bentley’s, by writing up his journal. “He does not know that I am in town,” Melville writes—“I earnestly hope that I shall be able to see him and I shall be able to do something about that ‘pesky’ book.”
At six o’clock, Melville was back again in his room. “Hurrah and three cheers! I have just returned from Mr. Bentley’s and have concluded an arrangement with him that gives me to-morrow his note for two hundred pounds (sterling). It is to be at 6 months and I am almost certain I shall be able to get it cashed at once. This takes a load off my heart. The two hundred pounds is in anticipiation, for the book is not to be published till the last of March next. Hence the long time of the note. The above mentioned sum is for the first 1000 copies, subsequent editions (if any) to be jointly divided between us. At eight to-night I am going to Mrs. Daniels’. What sort of an evening is it going to be? Mr. Bentley invited me to dinner for Wednesday at 6 P. M. This will do for a memorandum of the enjoyment. I have just read over the Duke of Rutland’s note, which I had not fully perused before. It seems very cordial. I wish the invitation was for next week, instead of being so long ahead, but this I believe is the mode here for these sort of invitations into the country. (Memo. At 1 P. M. on Monday am to call at Mr. Bentley’s.)”
Under Sunday, December 16, Melville wrote: “Last night went in a cab to Lincoln’s Inn Fields and found Mrs. Daniel and daughters. Very cordial. The elder ‘daught’ remarkably sprightly and the mother as nice an old body as any one could desire. Presently there came in several ‘young gents’ of various complexions. We had some coffee, music, dancing, and after an agreeable evening I came away at 11 o’clock, and walking to the Cock near Temple Bar, drank a glass of stout and home to bed after reading a few chapters in Tristram Shandy, which I have never yet read. This morning breakfasted at 10 at the Hotel De Sabloneue (very nice cheap little snuggery being closed on Sundays). Had a sweet omelette which was delicious. Thence walked to St. Thomas’s Church, Charter House, to hear my famed namesake (almost) ‘The Reverend H. Melvill.’ I had seen him placarded as to deliver a charity sermon. The church was crowded—the sermon admirable (granting the Rev. gentleman’s premises). Indeed he deserves his reputation. I do not think that I hardly ever heard so good a discourse before—that is for an ‘orthodox’ divine. It is now 3 P. M. I have had a fire made and am smoking a cigar. Would that one I knew were here. Would that the Little One too were here,—I am in a very painful state of uncertainty. I am all eagerness to get home—I ought to be home. My absence occasions uneasiness in a quarter where I most beseech heaven to grant repose. Yet here I have before me an open prospect to get some curious ideas of a style of life which in all probability I shall never have again. I should much like to know what the highest English aristocracy really and practically is. And the Duke of Rutland’s cordial invitation to visit him at the castle furnishes me with just the thing I want. If I do not go, I am confident that hereafter I shall reprimand myself for neglecting such an opportunity of procuring ‘material.’ And Allan and others will account me a ninny.—I would not debate the matter a moment were it not that at least three whole weeks must elapse ere I start for Belvoir Castle—three weeks! If I could but get over them! And if the two images would only down for that space of time. I must light a second cigar and resolve it over again. (½ past 6 P. M.) My mind is made, rather is irrevocably resolved upon my first determination. A visit into Leicester would be very agreeable—at least very valuable, and in one respect, to me—but the three weeks are intolerable. To-morrow I shall go down to London Dock and book myself a state-room on board the good ship Independence. I have just returned from a lonely dinner at the Adelphi, where I read the Sunday papers. An article upon the ‘Sunday School Union’ particularly struck me. Would that I could go home in a steamer—but it would take an extra $100 out of my pocket. Well, it’s only thirty days—one month—and I can weather it somehow.”
On Monday, Melville concluded his arrangements with Bentley, who gave him a note for two hundred pounds sterling at six months. Melville also walked down to the London Docks to inspect the Independence. “She looks small and smells ancient,” Melville writes. “Only two or three passengers engaged. I liked Captain Fletcher, however. He enquired whether I was a relative of Gansevoort Melville and of Herman Melville. I told him I was. I engaged my passage and paid ten pounds down.... Thence home; and out again, and took a letter for a Duke to the post office and a pair of pants to be altered to a tailor.”
On Tuesday, Melville made another of his many pilgrimages to the old book stores about Great Green Street and Lincoln’s Inn. “Looked over a lot of ancient books of London. Bought one (A. D. 1766) for 3 and 2 pence. I want to use it in case I serve up the Revolutionary narrative of the beggar.” What was the title of this “ancient book of London” is not known, and hence it is impossible to know what use he put it to, when in Israel Potter he did finally “serve up the Revolutionary narrative of the beggar.” The same day he “stopped at a silversmith’s (corner of Craven St. & Strand) and bought a solid spoon for the boy Malcolm—a fork, I mean. When he arrives to years of mastication I shall invest him with this fork—as in yore they did a young knight, with his good sword. Spent an hour or so looking over White-Jacket preparatory to sending it finally to Bentley—who, tho he has paid his money has not received his wares. At 6 I dine with him.”