A Sentimental Journey Through France and Italy

  We have no jester at court, Monsieur le Count, said I; the last we hadwas in the licentious reign of Charles II.;—since which time our mannershave been so gradually refining, that our court at present is so full ofpatriots, who wish for _nothing_ but the honours and wealth of theircountry;—and our ladies are all so chaste, so spotless, so good, sodevout,—there is nothing for a jester to make a jest of.—

  _Voila un persiflage_! cried the Count.

  THE PASSPORT.VERSAILLES.

  AS the passport was directed to all lieutenant-governors, governors, andcommandants of cities, generals of armies, justiciaries, and all officersof justice, to let Mr. Yorick the king’s jester, and his baggage, travelquietly along, I own the triumph of obtaining the passport was not alittle tarnish’d by the figure I cut in it.—But there is nothing unmix’din this world; and some of the gravest of our divines have carried it sofar as to affirm, that enjoyment itself was attended even with asigh,—and that the greatest _they knew of_ terminated, _in a generalway_, in little better than a convulsion.

  I remember the grave and learned Bevoriskius, in his Commentary upon theGenerations from Adam, very naturally breaks off in the middle of a noteto give an account to the world of a couple of sparrows upon the out-edgeof his window, which had incommoded him all the time he wrote, and atlast had entirely taken him off from his genealogy.

  —’Tis strange! writes Bevoriskius; but the facts are certain, for I havehad the curiosity to mark them down one by one with my pen;—but the cocksparrow, during the little time that I could have finished the other halfof this note, has actually interrupted me with the reiteration of hiscaresses three-and-twenty times and a half.

  How merciful, adds Bevoriskius, is heaven to his creatures!

  Ill fated Yorick! that the gravest of thy brethren should be able towrite that to the world, which stains thy face with crimson to copy, evenin thy study.

  But this is nothing to my travels.—So I twice,—twice beg pardon for it.

  CHARACTER.VERSAILLES.

  AND how do you find the French? said the Count de B—, after he had givenme the passport.

  The reader may suppose, that after so obliging a proof of courtesy, Icould not be at a loss to say something handsome to the enquiry.

  —_Mais passe_, _pour cela_.—Speak frankly, said he: do you find all theurbanity in the French which the world give us the honour of?—I had foundevery thing, I said, which confirmed it.—_Vraiment_, said the Count, _lesFrançois sont polis_.—To an excess, replied I.

  The Count took notice of the word _excès_; and would have it I meant morethan I said. I defended myself a long time as well as I could againstit.—He insisted I had a reserve, and that I would speak my opinionfrankly.

  I believe, Monsieur le Count, said I, that man has a certain compass, aswell as an instrument; and that the social and other calls have occasionby turns for every key in him; so that if you begin a note too high ortoo low, there must be a want either in the upper or under part, to fillup the system of harmony.—The Count de B— did not understand music, sodesired me to explain it some other way. A polish’d nation, my dearCount, said I, makes every one its debtor: and besides, Urbanity itself,like the fair sex, has so many charms, it goes against the heart to sayit can do ill; and yet, I believe, there is but a certain line ofperfection, that man, take him altogether, is empower’d to arrive at:—ifhe gets beyond, he rather exchanges qualities than gets them. I must notpresume to say how far this has affected the French in the subject we arespeaking of;—but, should it ever be the case of the English, in theprogress of their refinements, to arrive at the same polish whichdistinguishes the French, if we did not lose the _politesse du cœur_,which inclines men more to humane actions than courteous ones,—we shouldat least lose that distinct variety and originality of character, whichdistinguishes them, not only from each other, but from all the worldbesides.

  I had a few of King William’s shillings, as smooth as glass, in mypocket; and foreseeing they would be of use in the illustration of myhypothesis, I had got them into my hand when I had proceeded so far:—

  See, Monsieur le Count, said I, rising up, and laying them before himupon the table,—by jingling and rubbing one against another for seventyyears together in one body’s pocket or another’s, they are become so muchalike, you can scarce distinguish one shilling from another.

  The English, like ancient medals, kept more apart, and passing but fewpeople’s hands, preserve the first sharpnesses which the fine hand ofNature has given them;—they are not so pleasant to feel,—but in returnthe legend is so visible, that at the first look you see whose image andsuperscription they bear.—But the French, Monsieur le Count, added I(wishing to soften what I had said), have so many excellences, they canthe better spare this;—they are a loyal, a gallant, a generous, aningenious, and good temper’d people as is under heaven;—if they have afault—they are too _serious_.

  _Mon Dieu_! cried the Count, rising out of his chair.

  _Mais vous plaisantez_, said he, correcting his exclamation.—I laid myhand upon my breast, and with earnest gravity assured him it was my mostsettled opinion.

  The Count said he was mortified he could not stay to hear my reasons,being engaged to go that moment to dine with the Duc de C—.

  But if it is not too far to come to Versailles to eat your soup with me,I beg, before you leave France, I may have the pleasure of knowing youretract your opinion,—or, in what manner you support it.—But, if you dosupport it, Monsieur Anglois, said he, you must do it with all yourpowers, because you have the whole world against you.—I promised theCount I would do myself the honour of dining with him before I set outfor Italy;—so took my leave.

  THE TEMPTATION.PARIS.

  WHEN I alighted at the hotel, the porter told me a young woman with abandbox had been that moment enquiring for me.—I do not know, said theporter, whether she is gone away or not. I took the key of my chamber ofhim, and went upstairs; and when I had got within ten steps of the top ofthe landing before my door, I met her coming easily down.

  It was the fair _fille de chambre_ I had walked along the Quai de Contiwith; Madame de R— had sent her upon some commission to a _marchande desmodes_ within a step or two of the Hôtel de Modene; and as I had fail’din waiting upon her, had bid her enquire if I had left Paris; and if so,whether I had not left a letter addressed to her.

  As the fair _fille de chambre_ was so near my door, she returned back,and went into the room with me for a moment or two whilst I wrote a card.

  It was a fine still evening in the latter end of the month of May,—thecrimson window curtains (which were of the same colour as those of thebed) were drawn close:—the sun was setting, and reflected through them sowarm a tint into the fair _fille de chambre’s_ face,—I thought sheblush’d;—the idea of it made me blush myself:—we were quite alone; andthat superinduced a second blush before the first could get off.

  There is a sort of a pleasing half guilty blush, where the blood is morein fault than the man:—’tis sent impetuous from the heart, and virtueflies after it,—not to call it back, but to make the sensation of it moredelicious to the nerves:—’tis associated.—

  But I’ll not describe it;—I felt something at first within me which wasnot in strict unison with the lesson of virtue I had given her the nightbefore.—I sought five minutes for a card;—I knew I had not one.—I took upa pen.—I laid it down again;—my hand trembled:—the devil was in me.

  I know as well as any one he is an adversary, whom, if we resist, he willfly from us;—but I seldom resist him at all; from a terror, though I mayconquer, I may still get a hurt in the combat;—so I give up the triumphfor security; and, instead of thinking to make him fly, I generally flymyself.

  The fair _fille de chambre_ came close up to the bureau where I waslooking for a card—took up first the pen I cast down, then offer’d tohold me the ink; she offer’d it so sweetly, I was going to accept it;—butI durst not;—I have nothing, my dear, said I, to write upon.—W
rite it,said she, simply, upon anything.—

  I was just going to cry out, Then I will write it, fair girl! upon thylips.—

  If I do, said I, I shall perish;—so I took her by the hand, and led herto the door, and begg’d she would not forget the lesson I had givenher.—She said, indeed she would not;—and, as she uttered it with someearnestness, she turn’d about, and gave me both her hands, closedtogether, into mine;—it was impossible not to compress them in thatsituation;—I wish’d to let them go; and all the time I held them, I keptarguing within myself against it,—and still I held them on.—In twominutes I found I had all the battle to fight over again;—and I felt mylegs and every limb about me tremble at the idea.

  The foot of the bed was within a yard and a half of the place where wewere standing.—I had still hold of her hands—and how it happened I cangive no account; but I neither ask’d her—nor drew her—nor did I think ofthe bed;—but so it did happen, we both sat down.

  I’ll just show you, said the fair _fille de chambre_, the little purse Ihave been making to-day to hold your crown. So she put her hand into herright pocket, which was next me, and felt for it some time—then into theleft.—“She had lost it.”—I never bore expectation more quietly;—it was inher right pocket at last;—she pull’d it out; it was of green taffeta,lined with a little bit of white quilted satin, and just big enough tohold the crown: she put it into my hand;—it was pretty; and I held it tenminutes with the back of my hand resting upon her lap—looking sometimesat the purse, sometimes on one side of it.

  A stitch or two had broke out in the gathers of my stock; the fair _fillede chambre_, without saying a word, took out her little housewife,threaded a small needle, and sew’d it up.—I foresaw it would hazard theglory of the day; and, as she pass’d her hand in silence across andacross my neck in the manœuvre, I felt the laurels shake which fancy hadwreath’d about my head.

  A strap had given way in her walk, and the buckle of her shoe was justfalling off.—See, said the _fille de chambre_, holding up her foot.—Icould not, for my soul but fasten the buckle in return, and putting inthe strap,—and lifting up the other foot with it, when I had done, to seeboth were right,—in doing it too suddenly, it unavoidably threw the fair_fille de chambre_ off her centre,—and then—

  THE CONQUEST.

  YES,—and then—. Ye whose clay-cold heads and luke-warm hearts can arguedown or mask your passions, tell me, what trespass is it that man shouldhave them? or how his spirit stands answerable to the Father of spiritsbut for his conduct under them?

  If Nature has so wove her web of kindness, that some threads of love anddesire are entangled with the piece,—must the whole web be rent indrawing them out?—Whip me such stoics, great Governor of Nature! said Ito myself:—wherever thy providence shall place me for the trials of myvirtue;—whatever is my danger,—whatever is my situation,—let me feel themovements which rise out of it, and which belong to me as a man,—and, ifI govern them as a good one, I will trust the issues to thy justice; forthou hast made us, and not we ourselves.

  As I finished my address, I raised the fair _fille de chambre_ up by thehand, and led her out of the room:—she stood by me till I locked the doorand put the key in my pocket,—and then,—the victory being quitedecisive—and not till then, I press’d my lips to her cheek, and takingher by the hand again, led her safe to the gate of the hotel.

  THE MYSTERY.PARIS.

  If a man knows the heart, he will know it was impossible to go backinstantly to my chamber;—it was touching a cold key with a flat third toit upon the close of a piece of music, which had call’d forth myaffections:—therefore, when I let go the hand of the _fille de chambre_,I remained at the gate of the hotel for some time, looking at every onewho pass’d by,—and forming conjectures upon them, till my attention gotfix’d upon a single object which confounded all kind of reasoning uponhim.

  It was a tall figure of a philosophic, serious, adust look, which passedand repass’d sedately along the street, making a turn of about sixtypaces on each side of the gate of the hotel;—the man was aboutfifty-two—had a small cane under his arm—was dress’d in a darkdrab-colour’d coat, waistcoat, and breeches, which seem’d to have seensome years service:—they were still clean, and there was a little air offrugal _propreté_ throughout him. By his pulling off his hat, and hisattitude of accosting a good many in his way, I saw he was askingcharity: so I got a sous or two out of my pocket ready to give him, as hetook me in his turn.—He pass’d by me without asking anything—and yet didnot go five steps further before he ask’d charity of a little woman.—Iwas much more likely to have given of the two.—He had scarce done withthe woman, when he pull’d off his hat to another who was coming the sameway.—An ancient gentleman came slowly—and, after him, a young smartone.—He let them both pass, and ask’d nothing. I stood observing himhalf an hour, in which time he had made a dozen turns backwards andforwards, and found that he invariably pursued the same plan.

  There were two things very singular in this, which set my brain to work,and to no purpose:—the first was, why the man should _only_ tell hisstory to the sex;—and, secondly,—what kind of story it was, and whatspecies of eloquence it could be, which soften’d the hearts of the women,which he knew ’twas to no purpose to practise upon the men.

  There were two other circumstances, which entangled this mystery;—the onewas, he told every woman what he had to say in her ear, and in a waywhich had much more the air of a secret than a petition;—the other was,it was always successful.—He never stopp’d a woman, but she pull’d outher purse, and immediately gave him something.

  I could form no system to explain the phenomenon.

  I had got a riddle to amuse me for the rest of the evening; so I walk’dupstairs to my chamber.

  THE CASE OF CONSCIENCE.PARIS.

  I WAS immediately followed up by the master of the hotel, who came intomy room to tell me I must provide lodgings elsewhere.—How so, friend?said I.—He answered, I had had a young woman lock’d up with me two hoursthat evening in my bedchamber, and ’twas against the rules of hishouse.—Very well, said I, we’ll all part friends then,—for the girl is noworse,—and I am no worse,—and you will be just as I found you.—It wasenough, he said, to overthrow the credit of his hotel.—_Voyez vous_,Monsieur, said he, pointing to the foot of the bed we had been sittingupon.—I own it had something of the appearance of an evidence; but mypride not suffering me to enter into any detail of the case, I exhortedhim to let his soul sleep in peace, as I resolved to let mine do thatnight, and that I would discharge what I owed him at breakfast.

  I should not have minded, Monsieur, said he, if you had had twentygirls—’Tis a score more, replied I, interrupting him, than I everreckon’d upon—Provided, added he, it had been but in a morning.—And doesthe difference of the time of the day at Paris make a difference in thesin?—It made a difference, he said, in the scandal.—I like a gooddistinction in my heart; and cannot say I was intolerably out of temperwith the man.—I own it is necessary, resumed the master of the hotel,that a stranger at Paris should have the opportunities presented to himof buying lace and silk stockings and ruffles, _et tout cela_;—and ’tisnothing if a woman comes with a band-box.—O, my conscience! said I, shehad one but I never look’d into it.—Then Monsieur, said he, has boughtnothing?—Not one earthly thing, replied I.—Because, said he, I couldrecommend one to you who would use you _en conscience_.—But I must seeher this night, said I.—He made me a low bow, and walk’d down.

  Now shall I triumph over this _maître d’hôtel_, cried I,—and what then?Then I shall let him see I know he is a dirty fellow.—And what then?What then?—I was too near myself to say it was for the sake of others.—Ihad no good answer left;—there was more of spleen than principle in myproject, and I was sick of it before the execution.

  In a few minutes the grisette came in with her box of lace.—I’ll buynothing, however, said I, within myself.

  The grisette would show me everything.—I was
hard to please: she wouldnot seem to see it; she opened her little magazine, and laid all herlaces one after another before me;—unfolded and folded them up again oneby one with the most patient sweetness.—I might buy,—or not;—she wouldlet me have everything at my own price:—the poor creature seem’d anxiousto get a penny; and laid herself out to win me, and not so much in amanner which seem’d artful, as in one I felt simple and caressing.

  If there is not a fund of honest gullibility in man, so much theworse;—my heart relented, and I gave up my second resolution as quietlyas the first.—Why should I chastise one for the trespass of another? Ifthou art tributary to this tyrant of an host, thought I, looking up inher face, so much harder is thy bread.

  If I had not had more than four louis d’ors in my purse, there was nosuch thing as rising up and showing her the door, till I had first laidthree of them out in a pair of ruffles.

  —The master of the hotel will share the profit with her;—no matter,—thenI have only paid as many a poor soul has _paid_ before me, for an act he_could_ not do, or think of.

  THE RIDDLE.PARIS.

  WHEN La Fleur came up to wait upon me at supper, he told me how sorry themaster of the hotel was for his affront to me in bidding me change mylodgings.

  A man who values a good night’s rest will not lie down with enmity in hisheart, if he can help it.—So I bid La Fleur tell the master of the hotel,that I was sorry on my side for the occasion I had given him;—and you maytell him, if you will, La Fleur, added I, that if the young woman shouldcall again, I shall not see her.