内河航程 英文版 An Inland Voyage
罗伯特.路易斯.史蒂文森 Robert Louis Stevenson
ORIGNY SAINTE-BENOITE
A BY-DAY
The next day was Sunday, and the church bells had little rest;indeed, I do not think I remember anywhere else so great a choiceof services as were here offered to the devout. And while thebells made merry in the sunshine, all the world with his dog wasout shooting among the beets and colza.
In the morning a hawker and his wife went down the street at afoot-pace, singing to a very slow, lamentable music 'O France, mesamours.' It brought everybody to the door; and when our landladycalled in the man to buy the words, he had not a copy of them left.She was not the first nor the second who had been taken with thesong. There is something very pathetic in the love of the Frenchpeople, since the war, for dismal patriotic music-making. I havewatched a forester from Alsace while some one was singing 'Lesmalheurs de la France,' at a baptismal party in the neighbourhoodof Fontainebleau. He arose from the table and took his son aside,close by where I was standing. 'Listen, listen,' he said, bearingon the boy's shoulder, 'and remember this, my son.' A little afterhe went out into the garden suddenly, and I could hear him sobbingin the darkness.
The humiliation of their arms and the loss of Alsace and Lorrainemade a sore pull on the endurance of this sensitive people; andtheir hearts are still hot, not so much against Germany as againstthe Empire. In what other country will you find a patriotic dittybring all the world into the street? But affliction heightenslove; and we shall never know we are Englishmen until we have lostIndia. Independent America is still the cross of my existence; Icannot think of Farmer George without abhorrence; and I never feelmore warmly to my own land than when I see the Stars and Stripes,and remember what our empire might have been.
The hawker's little book, which I purchased, was a curious mixture.Side by side with the flippant, rowdy nonsense of the Paris music-halls, there were many pastoral pieces, not without a touch ofpoetry, I thought, and instinct with the brave independence of thepoorer class in France. There you might read how the wood-cuttergloried in his axe, and the gardener scorned to be ashamed of hisspade. It was not very well written, this poetry of labour, butthe pluck of the sentiment redeemed what was weak or wordy in theexpression. The martial and the patriotic pieces, on the otherhand, were tearful, womanish productions one and all. The poet hadpassed under the Caudine Forks; he sang for an army visiting thetomb of its old renown, with arms reversed; and sang not ofvictory, but of death. There was a number in the hawker'scollection called 'Conscrits Francais,' which may rank among themost dissuasive war-lyrics on record. It would not be possible tofight at all in such a spirit. The bravest conscript would turnpale if such a ditty were struck up beside him on the morning ofbattle; and whole regiments would pile their arms to its tune.
If Fletcher of Saltoun is in the right about the influence ofnational songs, you would say France was come to a poor pass. Butthe thing will work its own cure, and a sound-hearted andcourageous people weary at length of snivelling over theirdisasters. Already Paul Deroulede has written some manly militaryverses. There is not much of the trumpet note in them, perhaps, tostir a man's heart in his bosom; they lack the lyrical elation, andmove slowly; but they are written in a grave, honourable, stoicalspirit, which should carry soldiers far in a good cause. One feelsas if one would like to trust Deroulede with something. It will behappy if he can so far inoculate his fellow-countrymen that theymay be trusted with their own future. And in the meantime, here isan antidote to 'French Conscripts' and much other dolefulversification.
We had left the boats over-night in the custody of one whom weshall call Carnival. I did not properly catch his name, andperhaps that was not unfortunate for him, as I am not in a positionto hand him down with honour to posterity. To this person'spremises we strolled in the course of the day, and found quite alittle deputation inspecting the canoes. There was a stoutgentleman with a knowledge of the river, which he seemed eager toimpart. There was a very elegant young gentleman in a black coat,with a smattering of English, who led the talk at once to theOxford and Cambridge Boat Race. And then there were three handsomegirls from fifteen to twenty; and an old gentleman in a blouse,with no teeth to speak of, and a strong country accent. Quite thepick of Origny, I should suppose.
The Cigarette had some mysteries to perform with his rigging in thecoach-house; so I was left to do the parade single-handed. I foundmyself very much of a hero whether I would or not. The girls werefull of little shudderings over the dangers of our journey. And Ithought it would be ungallant not to take my cue from the ladies.My mishap of yesterday, told in an off-hand way, produced a deepsensation. It was Othello over again, with no less than threeDesdemonas and a sprinkling of sympathetic senators in thebackground. Never were the canoes more flattered, or flatteredmore adroitly.
'It is like a violin,' cried one of the girls in an ecstasy.
'I thank you for the word, mademoiselle,' said I. 'All the moresince there are people who call out to me that it is like acoffin.'
'Oh! but it is really like a violin. It is finished like aviolin,' she went on.
'And polished like a violin,' added a senator.
opportunity of going further into thequestion; for when we rose very early to avoid a.
'One has only to stretch the cords,' concluded another, 'and thentum-tumty-tum'--he imitated the result with spirit.
Was not this a graceful little ovation? Where this people findsthe secret of its pretty speeches, I cannot imagine; unless thesecret should be no other than a sincere desire to please? But thenno disgrace is attached in France to saying a thing neatly; whereasin England, to talk like a book is to give in one's resignation tosociety.
The old gentleman in the blouse stole into the coach-house, andsomewhat irrelevantly informed the Cigarette that he was the fatherof the three girls and four more: quite an exploit for aFrenchman.
'You are very fortunate,' answered the Cigarette politely.
And the old gentleman, having apparently gained his point, stoleaway again.
We all got very friendly together. The girls proposed to startwith us on the morrow, if you please! And, jesting apart, everyone was anxious to know the hour of our departure. Now, when youare going to crawl into your canoe from a bad launch, a crowd,however friendly, is undesirable; and so we told them not beforetwelve, and mentally determined to be off by ten at latest.
day's shooting. Whenall the sportsmen of a village shoot over the village territory .
Towards evening, we went abroad again to post some letters. It wascool and pleasant; the long village was quite empty, except for oneor two urchins who followed us as they might have followed amenagerie; the hills and the tree-tops looked in from all sidesthrough the clear air; and the bells were chiming for yet anotherservice.
Suddenly we sighted the three girls standing, with a fourth sister,in front of a shop on the wide selvage of the roadway. We had beenvery merry with them a little while ago, to be sure. But what wasthe etiquette of Origny? Had it been a country road, of course weshould have spoken to them; but here, under the eyes of all thegossips, ought we to do even as much as bow? I consulted theCigarette.
'Look,' said he.
I looked. There were the four girls on the same spot; but now fourbacks were turned to us, very upright and conscious. CorporalModesty had given the word of command, and the well-disciplinedpicket had gone right-about-face like a single person. Theymaintained this formation all the while we were in sight; but weheard them tittering among themselves, and the girl whom we had notmet laughed with open mouth, and even looked over her shoulder atthe enemy. I wonder was it altogether modesty after all? or inpart a sort of country provocation?
As we were returning to the inn, we beheld something floating inthe ample field of golden evening sky, above the chalk cliffs andthe trees that grow along their summit. It was too high up, toolarge, and too steady for a kite; and as it was dark, it could notbe a star. For although a star were as black as ink and as ruggedas a walnut, so amply does the sun bathe heaven with radiance, thatit would sparkle like a point of light for us. The village wasdotted with people with their heads in air; and the children werein a bustle all along the street and far up the straight road thatclimbs the hill, where we could still see them running in looseknots. It was a balloon, we learned, which had left Saint Quentinat half-past five that evening. Mighty composedly the majority ofthe grown people took it. But we were English, and were soonrunning up the hill with the best. Being travellers ourselves in asmall way, we would fain have seen these other travellers alight.
The spectacle was over by the time we gained the top of the hill.All the gold had withered out of the sky, and the balloon haddisappeared. Whither? I ask myself; caught up into the seventhheaven? or come safely to land somewhere in that blue unevendistance, into which the roadway dipped and melted before our eyes?Probably the aeronauts were already warming themselves at a farmchimney, for they say it is cold in these unhomely regions of theair. The night fell swiftly. Roadside trees and disappointedsightseers, returning through the meadows, stood out in blackagainst a margin of low red sunset. It was cheerfuller to face theother way, and so down the hill we went, with a full moon, thecolour of a melon, swinging high above the wooded valley, and thewhite cliffs behind us faintly reddened by the fire of the chalkkilns.
The lamps were lighted, and the salads were being made in OrignySainte-Benoite by the river.
ORIGNY SAINTE-BENOITE
THE COMPANY AT TABLE
Although we came late for dinner, the company at table treated usto sparkling wine. 'That is how we are in France,' said one.'Those who sit down with us are our friends.' And the restapplauded.
They were three altogether, and an odd trio to pass the Sundaywith.
Two of them were guests like ourselves, both men of the north. Oneruddy, and of a full habit of body, with copious black hair andbeard, the intrepid hunter of France, who thought nothing so small,not even a lark or a minnow, but he might vindicate his prowess byits capture. For such a great, healthy man, his hair flourishinglike Samson's, his arteries running buckets of red blood, to boastof these infinitesimal exploits, produced a feeling ofdisproportion in the world, as when a steam-hammer is set tocracking nuts. The other was a quiet, subdued person, blond andlymphatic and sad, with something the look of a Dane: 'Tristestetes de Danois!' as Gaston Lafenestre used to say.
I must not let that name go by without a word for the best of allgood fellows now gone down into the dust. We shall never again seeGaston in his forest costume--he was Gaston with all the world, inaffection, not in disrespect--nor hear him wake the echoes ofFontainebleau with the woodland horn. Never again shall his kindsmile put peace among all races of artistic men, and make theEnglishman at home in France. Never more shall the sheep, who werenot more innocent at heart than he, sit all unconsciously for hisindustrious pencil. He died too early, at the very moment when hewas beginning to put forth fresh sprouts, and blossom intosomething worthy of himself; and yet none who knew him will thinkhe lived in vain. I never knew a man so little, for whom yet I hadso much affection; and I find it a good test of others, how muchthey had learned to understand and value him. His was indeed agood influence in life while he was still among us; he had a freshlaugh, it did you good to see him; and however sad he may have beenat heart, he always bore a bold and cheerful countenance, and tookfortune's worst as it were the showers of spring. But now hismother sits alone by the side of Fontainebleau woods, where hegathered mushrooms in his hardy and penurious youth.
here, under the eyes of all thegossips, ought we to do even as much as bow? I consulted!
Many of his pictures found their way across the Channel: besidesthose which were stolen, when a dastardly Yankee left him alone inLondon with two English pence, and perhaps twice as many words ofEnglish. If any one who reads these lines should have a scene ofsheep, in the manner of Jacques, with this fine creature'ssignature, let him tell himself that one of the kindest and bravestof men has lent a hand to decorate his lodging. There may bebetter pictures in the National Gallery; but not a painter amongthe generations had a better heart. Precious in the sight of theLord of humanity, the Psalms tell us, is the death of his saints.It had need to be precious; for it is very costly, when by thestroke, a mother is left desolate, and the peace-maker, and peace-looker, of a whole society is laid in the ground with Caesar andthe Twelve Apostles.
There is something lacking among the oaks of Fontainebleau; andwhen the dessert comes in at Barbizon, people look to the door fora figure that is gone.
The third of our companions at Origny was no less a person than thelandlady's husband: not properly the landlord, since he workedhimself in a factory during the day, and came to his own house atevening as a guest: a man worn to skin and bone by perpetualexcitement, with baldish head, sharp features, and swift, shiningeyes. On Saturday, describing some paltry adventure at a duck-hunt, he broke a plate into a score of fragments. Whenever he madea remark, he would look all round the table with his chin raised,and a spark of green light in either eye, seeking approval. Hiswife appeared now and again in the doorway of the room, where shewas superintending dinner, with a 'Henri, you forget yourself,' ora 'Henri, you can surely talk without making such a noise.'Indeed, that was what the honest fellow could not do. On the mosttrifling matter his eyes kindled, his fist visited the table, andhis voice rolled abroad in changeful thunder. I never saw such apetard of a man; I think the devil was in him. He had twofavourite expressions: 'it is logical,' or illogical, as the casemight be: and this other, thrown out with a certain bravado, as aman might unfurl a banner, at the beginning of many a long andsonorous story: 'I am a proletarian, you see.' Indeed, we saw itvery well. God forbid that ever I should find him handling a gunin Paris streets! That will not be a good moment for the generalpublic.
I thought his two phrases very much represented the good and evilof his class, and to some extent of his country. It is a strongthing to say what one is, and not be ashamed of it; even althoughit be in doubtful taste to repeat the statement too often in oneevening. I should not admire it in a duke, of course; but as timesgo, the trait is honourable in a workman. On the other hand, it isnot at all a strong thing to put one's reliance upon logic; and ourown logic particularly, for it is generally wrong. We never knowwhere we are to end, if once we begin following words or doctors.There is an upright stock in a man's own heart, that is trustierthan any syllogism; and the eyes, and the sympathies and appetites,know a thing or two that have never yet been stated in controversy.Reasons are as plentiful as blackberries; and, like fisticuffs,they serve impartially with all sides. Doctrines do not stand orfall by their proofs, and are only logical in so far as they arecleverly put. An able controversialist no more than an ablegeneral demonstrates the justice of his cause. But France is allgone wandering after one or two big words; it will take some timebefore they can be satisfied that they are no more than words,however big; and when once that is done, they will perhaps findlogic less diverting.
The conversation opened with details of the day's shooting. Whenall the sportsmen of a village shoot over the village territory proindiviso, it is plain that many questions of etiquette and prioritymust arise.
'Here now,' cried the landlord, brandishing a plate, 'here is afield of beet-root. Well. Here am I then. I advance, do I not?Eh bien! sacristi,' and the statement, waxing louder, rolls offinto a reverberation of oaths, the speaker glaring about forsympathy, and everybody nodding his head to him in the name ofpeace.
The ruddy Northman told some tales of his own prowess in keepingorder: notably one of a Marquis.
'Marquis,' I said, 'if you take another step I fire upon you. Youhave committed a dirtiness, Marquis.'
it did you good to see him; and however sad?
Whereupon, it appeared, the Marquis touched his cap and withdrew.
The landlord applauded noisily. 'It was well done,' he said. 'Hedid all that he could. He admitted he was wrong.' And then oathupon oath. He was no marquis-lover either, but he had a sense ofjustice in him, this proletarian host of ours.
From the matter of hunting, the talk veered into a generalcomparison of Paris and the country. The proletarian beat thetable like a drum in praise of Paris. 'What is Paris? Paris isthe cream of France. There are no Parisians: it is you and I andeverybody who are Parisians. A man has eighty chances per cent. toget on in the world in Paris.' And he drew a vivid sketch of theworkman in a den no bigger than a dog-hutch, making articles thatwere to go all over the world. 'Eh bien, quoi, c'est magnifique,ca!' cried he.
The sad Northman interfered in praise of a peasant's life; hethought Paris bad for men and women; 'centralisation,' said he -
But the landlord was at his throat in a moment. It was alllogical, he showed him; and all magnificent. 'What a spectacle!What a glance for an eye!' And the dishes reeled upon the tableunder a cannonade of blows.
Seeking to make peace, I threw in a word in praise of the libertyof opinion in France. I could hardly have shot more amiss. Therewas an instant silence, and a great wagging of significant heads.They did not fancy the subject, it was plain; but they gave me tounderstand that the sad Northman was a martyr on account of hisviews. 'Ask him a bit,' said they. 'Just ask him.'
'Yes, sir,' said he in his quiet way, answering me, although I hadnot spoken, 'I am afraid there is less liberty of opinion in Francethan you may imagine.' And with that he dropped his eyes, andseemed to consider the subject at an end.
Our curiosity was mightily excited at this. How, or why, or when,was this lymphatic bagman martyred? We concluded at once it was onsome religious question, and brushed up our memories of theInquisition, which were principally drawn from Poe's horrid story,and the sermon in Tristram Shandy, I believe.
On the morrow we had an opportunity of going further into thequestion; for when we rose very early to avoid a sympathisingdeputation at our departure, we found the hero up before us. Hewas breaking his fast on white wine and raw onions, in order tokeep up the character of martyr, I conclude. We had a longconversation, and made out what we wanted in spite of his reserve.But here was a truly curious circumstance. It seems possible fortwo Scotsmen and a Frenchman to discuss during a long half-hour,and each nationality have a different idea in view throughout. Itwas not till the very end that we discovered his heresy had beenpolitical, or that he suspected our mistake. The terms and spiritin which he spoke of his political beliefs were, in our eyes,suited to religious beliefs. And vice versa.
Nothing could be more characteristic of the two countries.Politics are the religion of France; as Nanty Ewart would havesaid, 'A d-d bad religion'; while we, at home, keep most of ourbitterness for little differences about a hymn-book, or a Hebrewword which perhaps neither of the parties can translate. Andperhaps the misconception is typical of many others that may neverbe cleared up: not only between people of different race, butbetween those of different sex.
As for our friend's martyrdom, he was a Communist, or perhaps onlya Communard, which is a very different thing; and had lost one ormore situations in consequence. I think he had also been rejectedin marriage; but perhaps he had a sentimental way of consideringbusiness which deceived me. He was a mild, gentle creature,anyway; and I hope he has got a better situation, and married amore suitable wife since then.