A Sentimental Journey Through France and Italy
THE TRANSLATION.PARIS.
THERE was nobody in the box I was let into but a kindly old Frenchofficer. I love the character, not only because I honour the man whosemanners are softened by a profession which makes bad men worse; but thatI once knew one,—for he is no more,—and why should I not rescue one pagefrom violation by writing his name in it, and telling the world it wasCaptain Tobias Shandy, the dearest of my flock and friends, whosephilanthropy I never think of at this long distance from his death—but myeyes gush out with tears. For his sake I have a predilection for thewhole corps of veterans; and so I strode over the two back rows ofbenches and placed myself beside him.
The old officer was reading attentively a small pamphlet, it might be thebook of the opera, with a large pair of spectacles. As soon as I satdown, he took his spectacles off, and putting them into a shagreen case,return’d them and the book into his pocket together. I half rose up, andmade him a bow.
Translate this into any civilized language in the world—the sense isthis:
“Here’s a poor stranger come into the box—he seems as if he knew nobody;and is never likely, was he to be seven years in Paris, if every man hecomes near keeps his spectacles upon his nose:—’tis shutting the door ofconversation absolutely in his face—and using him worse than a German.”
The French officer might as well have said it all aloud: and if he had, Ishould in course have put the bow I made him into French too, and toldhim, “I was sensible of his attention, and return’d him a thousand thanksfor it.”
There is not a secret so aiding to the progress of sociality, as to getmaster of this _short hand_, and to be quick in rendering the severalturns of looks and limbs with all their inflections and delineations,into plain words. For my own part, by long habitude, I do it somechanically, that, when I walk the streets of London, I go translatingall the way; and have more than once stood behind in the circle, wherenot three words have been said, and have brought off twenty differentdialogues with me, which I could have fairly wrote down and sworn to.
I was going one evening to Martini’s concert at Milan, and, was justentering the door of the hall, when the Marquisina di F— was coming outin a sort of a hurry:—she was almost upon me before I saw her; so I gavea spring to once side to let her pass.—She had done the same, and on thesame side too; so we ran our heads together: she instantly got to theother side to get out: I was just as unfortunate as she had been, for Ihad sprung to that side, and opposed her passage again.—We both flewtogether to the other side, and then back,—and so on:—it was ridiculous:we both blush’d intolerably: so I did at last the thing I should havedone at first;—I stood stock-still, and the Marquisina had no moredifficulty. I had no power to go into the room, till I had made her somuch reparation as to wait and follow her with my eye to the end of thepassage. She look’d back twice, and walk’d along it rather sideways, asif she would make room for any one coming up stairs to pass her.—No, saidI—that’s a vile translation: the Marquisina has a right to the bestapology I can make her, and that opening is left for me to do it in;—so Iran and begg’d pardon for the embarrassment I had given her, saying itwas my intention to have made her way. She answered, she was guided bythe same intention towards me;—so we reciprocally thank’d each other.She was at the top of the stairs; and seeing no _cicisbeo_ near her, Ibegg’d to hand her to her coach;—so we went down the stairs, stopping atevery third step to talk of the concert and the adventure.—Upon my word,Madame, said I, when I had handed her in, I made six different efforts tolet you go out.—And I made six efforts, replied she, to let you enter.—Iwish to heaven you would make a seventh, said I.—With all my heart, saidshe, making room.—Life is too short to be long about the forms of it,—soI instantly stepp’d in, and she carried me home with her.—And what becameof the concert, St. Cecilia, who I suppose was at it, knows more than I.
I will only add, that the connexion which arose out of the translationgave me more pleasure than any one I had the honour to make in Italy.
THE DWARF.PARIS.
I HAD never heard the remark made by any one in my life, except by one;and who that was will probably come out in this chapter; so that beingpretty much unprepossessed, there must have been grounds for what struckme the moment I cast my eyes over the parterre,—and that was, theunaccountable sport of Nature in forming such numbers of dwarfs.—No doubtshe sports at certain times in almost every corner of the world; but inParis there is no end to her amusements.—The goddess seems almost asmerry as she is wise.
As I carried my idea out of the Opéra Comique with me, I measured everybody I saw walking in the streets by it.—Melancholy application!especially where the size was extremely little,—the face extremelydark,—the eyes quick,—the nose long,—the teeth white,—the jawprominent,—to see so many miserables, by force of accidents driven out oftheir own proper class into the very verge of another, which it gives mepain to write down:—every third man a pigmy!—some by rickety heads andhump backs;—others by bandy legs;—a third set arrested by the hand ofNature in the sixth and seventh years of their growth;—a fourth, in theirperfect and natural state like dwarf apple trees; from the firstrudiments and stamina of their existence, never meant to grow higher.
A Medical Traveller might say, ’tis owing to undue bandages;—a Spleneticone, to want of air;—and an Inquisitive Traveller, to fortify the system,may measure the height of their houses,—the narrowness of their streets,and in how few feet square in the sixth and seventh stories such numbersof the bourgeoisie eat and sleep together; but I remember Mr. Shandy theelder, who accounted for nothing like any body else, in speaking oneevening of these matters, averred that children, like other animals,might be increased almost to any size, provided they came right into theworld; but the misery was, the citizens of were Paris so coop’d up, thatthey had not actually room enough to get them.—I do not call it gettinganything, said he;—’tis getting nothing.—Nay, continued he, rising in hisargument, ’tis getting worse than nothing, when all you have got aftertwenty or five and twenty years of the tenderest care and most nutritiousaliment bestowed upon it, shall not at last be as high as my leg. Now,Mr. Shandy being very short, there could be nothing more said of it.
As this is not a work of reasoning, I leave the solution as I found it,and content myself with the truth only of the remark, which is verifiedin every lane and by-lane of Paris. I was walking down that which leadsfrom the Carousal to the Palais Royal, and observing a little boy in somedistress at the side of the gutter which ran down the middle of it, Itook hold of his hand and help’d him over. Upon turning up his face tolook at him after, I perceived he was about forty.—Never mind, said I,some good body will do as much for me when I am ninety.
I feel some little principles within me which incline me to be mercifultowards this poor blighted part of my species, who have neither size norstrength to get on in the world.—I cannot bear to see one of them trodupon; and had scarce got seated beside my old French officer, ere thedisgust was exercised, by seeing the very thing happen under the box wesat in.
At the end of the orchestra, and betwixt that and the first side box,there is a small esplanade left, where, when the house is full, numbersof all ranks take sanctuary. Though you stand, as in the parterre, youpay the same price as in the orchestra. A poor defenceless being of thisorder had got thrust somehow or other into this luckless place;—the nightwas hot, and he was surrounded by beings two feet and a half higher thanhimself. The dwarf suffered inexpressibly on all sides; but the thingwhich incommoded him most, was a tall corpulent German, near seven feethigh, who stood directly betwixt him and all possibility of his seeingeither the stage or the actors. The poor dwarf did all he could to get apeep at what was going forwards, by seeking for some little openingbetwixt the German’s arm and his body, trying first on one side, then theother; but the German stood square in the most unaccommodating posturethat can be imagined:—the dwarf might as well have been placed at thebottom of the deepest draw-well in Pari
s; so he civilly reached up hishand to the German’s sleeve, and told him his distress.—The German turn’dhis head back, looked down upon him as Goliah did upon David,—andunfeelingly resumed his posture.
I was just then taking a pinch of snuff out of my monk’s little hornbox.—And how would thy meek and courteous spirit, my dear monk! sotemper’d to _bear and forbear_!—how sweetly would it have lent an ear tothis poor soul’s complaint!
The old French officer, seeing me lift up my eyes with an emotion, as Imade the apostrophe, took the liberty to ask me what was the matter?—Itold him the story in three words; and added, how inhuman it was.
By this time the dwarf was driven to extremes, and in his firsttransports, which are generally unreasonable, had told the German hewould cut off his long queue with his knife.—The German look’d backcoolly, and told him he was welcome, if he could reach it.
An injury sharpen’d by an insult, be it to whom it will, makes every manof sentiment a party: I could have leap’d out of the box to haveredressed it.—The old French officer did it with much less confusion; forleaning a little over, and nodding to a sentinel, and pointing at thesame time with his finger at the distress,—the sentinel made his way toit.—There was no occasion to tell the grievance,—the thing told himself;so thrusting back the German instantly with his musket,—he took the poordwarf by the hand, and placed him before him.—This is noble! said I,clapping my hands together.—And yet you would not permit this, said theold officer, in England.
—In England, dear Sir, said I, _we sit all at our ease_.
The old French officer would have set me at unity with myself, in case Ihad been at variance,—by saying it was a _bon mot_;—and, as a _bon mot_is always worth something at Paris, he offered me a pinch of snuff.
THE ROSE.PARIS.
IT was now my turn to ask the old French officer “What was the matter?”for a cry of “_Haussez les mains_, _Monsieur l’Abbé_!” re-echoed from adozen different parts of the parterre, was as unintelligible to me, as myapostrophe to the monk had been to him.
He told me it was some poor Abbé in one of the upper loges, who, hesupposed, had got planted perdu behind a couple of grisettes in order tosee the opera, and that the parterre espying him, were insisting upon hisholding up both his hands during the representation.—And can it besupposed, said I, that an ecclesiastic would pick the grisettes’ pockets?The old French officer smiled, and whispering in my ear, opened a door ofknowledge which I had no idea of.
Good God! said I, turning pale with astonishment—is it possible, that apeople so smit with sentiment should at the same time be so unclean, andso unlike themselves,—_Quelle grossièrté_! added I.
The French officer told me, it was an illiberal sarcasm at the church,which had begun in the theatre about the time the Tartuffe was given init by Molière: but like other remains of Gothic manners, wasdeclining.—Every nation, continued he, have their refinements and_grossièrtés_, in which they take the lead, and lose it of one another byturns:—that he had been in most countries, but never in one where hefound not some delicacies, which others seemed to want. _Le_ POUR _etle_ CONTRE _se trouvent en chaque nation_; there is a balance, said he,of good and bad everywhere; and nothing but the knowing it is so, canemancipate one half of the world from the prepossession which it holdsagainst the other:—that the advantage of travel, as it regarded the_sçavoir vivre_, was by seeing a great deal both of men and manners; ittaught us mutual toleration; and mutual toleration, concluded he, makingme a bow, taught us mutual love.
The old French officer delivered this with an air of such candour andgood sense, as coincided with my first favourable impressions of hischaracter:—I thought I loved the man; but I fear I mistook theobject;—’twas my own way of thinking—the difference was, I could not haveexpressed it half so well.
It is alike troublesome to both the rider and his beast,—if the lattergoes pricking up his ears, and starting all the way at every object whichhe never saw before.—I have as little torment of this kind as anycreature alive; and yet I honestly confess, that many a thing gave mepain, and that I blush’d at many a word the first month,—which I foundinconsequent and perfectly innocent the second.
Madame do Rambouliet, after an acquaintance of about six weeks with her,had done me the honour to take me in her coach about two leagues out oftown.—Of all women, Madame de Rambouliet is the most correct; and I neverwish to see one of more virtues and purity of heart.—In our return back,Madame de Rambouliet desired me to pull the cord.—I asked her if shewanted anything—_Rien que pour pisser_, said Madame de Rambouliet.
Grieve not, gentle traveller, to let Madame de Rambouliet p—ss on.—And,ye fair mystic nymphs! go each one _pluck your rose_, and scatter them inyour path,—for Madame de Rambouliet did no more.—I handed Madame deRambouliet out of the coach; and had I been the priest of the chasteCastalia, I could not have served at her fountain with a more respectfuldecorum.
THE FILLE DE CHAMBRE.PARIS.
WHAT the old French officer had delivered upon travelling, bringingPolonius’s advice to his son upon the same subject into my head,—and thatbringing in Hamlet, and Hamlet the rest of Shakespeare’s works, I stopp’dat the Quai de Conti in my return home, to purchase the whole set.
The bookseller said he had not a set in the world. _Comment_! said I,taking one up out of a set which lay upon the counter betwixt us.—He saidthey were sent him only to be got bound, and were to be sent back toVersailles in the morning to the Count de B—.
—And does the Count de B—, said I, read Shakespeare? _C’est un espritfort_, replied the bookseller.—He loves English books! and what is moreto his honour, Monsieur, he loves the English too. You speak this socivilly, said I, that it is enough to oblige an Englishman to lay out alouis d’or or two at your shop.—The bookseller made a bow, and was goingto say something, when a young decent girl about twenty, who by her airand dress seemed to be _fille de chambre_ to some devout woman offashion, come into the shop and asked for _Les Egarements du Cœur et del’Esprit_: the bookseller gave her the book directly; she pulled out alittle green satin purse run round with a riband of the same colour, andputting her finger and thumb into it, she took out the money and paid forit. As I had nothing more to stay me in the shop, we both walk’d out atthe door together.
—And what have you to do, my dear, said I, with _The Wanderings of theHeart_, who scarce know yet you have one? nor, till love has first toldyou it, or some faithless shepherd has made it ache, canst thou ever besure it is so.—_Le Dieu m’en garde_! said the girl.—With reason, said I,for if it is a good one, ’tis pity it should be stolen; ’tis a littletreasure to thee, and gives a better air to your face, than if it wasdress’d out with pearls.
The young girl listened with a submissive attention, holding her satinpurse by its riband in her hand all the time.—’Tis a very small one, saidI, taking hold of the bottom of it—she held it towards me—and there isvery little in it, my dear, said I; but be but as good as thou arthandsome, and heaven will fill it. I had a parcel of crowns in my handto pay for Shakespeare; and, as she had let go the purse entirely, I puta single one in; and, tying up the riband in a bow-knot, returned it toher.
The young girl made me more a humble courtesy than a low one:—’twas oneof those quiet, thankful sinkings, where the spirit bows itself down,—thebody does no more than tell it. I never gave a girl a crown in my lifewhich gave me half the pleasure.
My advice, my dear, would not have been worth a pin to you, said I, if Ihad not given this along with it: but now, when you see the crown, you’llremember it;—so don’t, my dear, lay it out in ribands.
Upon my word, Sir, said the girl, earnestly, I am incapable;—in sayingwhich, as is usual in little bargains of honour, she gave me herhand:—_En vérité_, _Monsieur_, _je mettrai cet argent àpart_, said she.
When a virtuous convention is made betwixt man and woman, it sanctifiestheir most private walks: so, notwithstanding it was dusky, yet as bothour roads lay t
he same way, we made no scruple of walking along the Quaide Conti together.
She made me a second courtesy in setting off, and before we got twentyyards from the door, as if she had not done enough before, she made asort of a little stop to tell me again—she thank’d me.
It was a small tribute, I told her, which I could not avoid paying tovirtue, and would not be mistaken in the person I had been rendering itto for the world;—but I see innocence, my dear, in your face,—and foulbefall the man who ever lays a snare in its way!
The girl seem’d affected some way or other with what I said;—she gave alow sigh:—I found I was not empowered to enquire at all after it,—so saidnothing more till I got to the corner of the Rue de Nevers, where, wewere to part.
—But is this the way, my dear, said I, to the Hotel de Modene? She toldme it was;—or that I might go by the Rue de Gueneguault, which was thenext turn.—Then I’ll go, my dear, by the Rue de Gueneguault, said I, fortwo reasons; first, I shall please myself, and next, I shall give you theprotection of my company as far on your way as I can. The girl wassensible I was civil—and said, she wished the Hotel de Modene was in theRue de St. Pierre.—You live there? said I.—She told me she was _fille dechambre_ to Madame R—.—Good God! said I, ’tis the very lady for whom Ihave brought a letter from Amiens.—The girl told me that Madame R—, shebelieved, expected a stranger with a letter, and was impatient to seehim:—so I desired the girl to present my compliments to Madame R—, andsay, I would certainly wait upon her in the morning.