内河航程 英文版 An Inland Voyage
罗伯特.路易斯.史蒂文森 Robert Louis Stevenson
PRECY AND THE MARIONNETTES
We made Precy about sundown. The plain is rich with tufts ofpoplar. In a wide, luminous curve, the Oise lay under thehillside. A faint mist began to rise and confound the differentdistances together. There was not a sound audible but that of thesheep-bells in some meadows by the river, and the creaking of acart down the long road that descends the hill. The villas intheir gardens, the shops along the street, all seemed to have beendeserted the day before; and I felt inclined to walk discreetly asone feels in a silent forest. All of a sudden, we came round acorner, and there, in a little green round the church, was a bevyof girls in Parisian costumes playing croquet. Their laughter, andthe hollow sound of ball and mallet, made a cheery stir in theneighbourhood; and the look of these slim figures, all corseted andribboned, produced an answerable disturbance in our hearts. Wewere within sniff of Paris, it seemed. And here were females ofour own species playing croquet, just as if Precy had been a placein real life, instead of a stage in the fairyland of travel. For,to be frank, the peasant woman is scarcely to be counted as a womanat all, and after having passed by such a succession of people inpetticoats digging and hoeing and making dinner, this company ofcoquettes under arms made quite a surprising feature in thelandscape, and convinced us at once of being fallible males.
The inn at Precy is the worst inn in France. Not even in Scotlandhave I found worse fare. It was kept by a brother and sister,neither of whom was out of their teens. The sister, so to speak,prepared a meal for us; and the brother, who had been tippling,came in and brought with him a tipsy butcher, to entertain us as weate. We found pieces of loo-warm pork among the salad, and piecesof unknown yielding substance in the ragout. The butcherentertained us with pictures of Parisian life, with which heprofessed himself well acquainted; the brother sitting the while onthe edge of the billiard-table, toppling precariously, and suckingthe stump of a cigar. In the midst of these diversions, bang wenta drum past the house, and a hoarse voice began issuing aproclamation. It was a man with marionnettes announcing aperformance for that evening.
He had set up his caravan and lighted his candles on another partof the girls' croquet-green, under one of those open sheds whichare so common in France to shelter markets; and he and his wife, bythe time we strolled up there, were trying to keep order with theaudience.
It was the most absurd contention. The show-people had set out acertain number of benches; and all who sat upon them were to pay acouple of sous for the accommodation. They were always quite full--a bumper house--as long as nothing was going forward; but let theshow-woman appear with an eye to a collection, and at the firstrattle of her tambourine the audience slipped off the seats, andstood round on the outside with their hands in their pockets. Itcertainly would have tried an angel's temper. The showman roaredfrom the proscenium; he had been all over France, and nowhere,nowhere, 'not even on the borders of Germany,' had he met with suchmisconduct. Such thieves and rogues and rascals, as he calledthem! And every now and again, the wife issued on another round,and added her shrill quota to the tirade. I remarked here, aselsewhere, how far more copious is the female mind in the materialof insult. The audience laughed in high good-humour over the man'sdeclamations; but they bridled and cried aloud under the woman'spungent sallies. She picked out the sore points. She had thehonour of the village at her mercy. Voices answered her angrilyout of the crowd, and received a smarting retort for their trouble.A couple of old ladies beside me, who had duly paid for theirseats, waxed very red and indignant, and discoursed to each otheraudibly about the impudence of these mountebanks; but as soon asthe show-woman caught a whisper of this, she was down upon themwith a swoop: if mesdames could persuade their neighbours to actwith common honesty, the mountebanks, she assured them, would bepolite enough: mesdames had probably had their bowl of soup, andperhaps a glass of wine that evening; the mountebanks also had ataste for soup, and did not choose to have their little earningsstolen from them before their eyes. Once, things came as far as abrief personal encounter between the showman and some lads, inwhich the former went down as readily as one of his ownmarionnettes to a peal of jeering laughter.
I was a good deal astonished at this scene, because I am prettywell acquainted with the ways of French strollers, more or lessartistic; and have always found them singularly pleasing. Anystroller must be dear to the right-thinking heart; if it were onlyas a living protest against offices and the mercantile spirit, andas something to remind us that life is not by necessity the kind ofthing we generally make it. Even a German band, if you see itleaving town in the early morning for a campaign in country places,among trees and meadows, has a romantic flavour for theimagination. There is nobody, under thirty, so dead but his heartwill stir a little at sight of a gypsies' camp. 'We are notcotton-spinners all'; or, at least, not all through. There is somelife in humanity yet: and youth will now and again find a braveword to say in dispraise of riches, and throw up a situation to gostrolling with a knapsack.
An Englishman has always special facilities for intercourse withFrench gymnasts; for England is the natural home of gymnasts. Thisor that fellow, in his tights and spangles, is sure to know a wordor two of English, to have drunk English aff-'n-aff, and perhapsperformed in an English music-hall. He is a countryman of mine byprofession. He leaps, like the Belgian boating men, to the notionthat I must be an athlete myself.
But the gymnast is not my favourite; he has little or no tinctureof the artist in his composition; his soul is small and pedestrian,for the most part, since his profession makes no call upon it, anddoes not accustom him to high ideas. But if a man is only so muchof an actor that he can stumble through a farce, he is made free ofa new order of thoughts. He has something else to think aboutbeside the money-box. He has a pride of his own, and, what is offar more importance, he has an aim before him that he can neverquite attain. He has gone upon a pilgrimage that will last him hislife long, because there is no end to it short of perfection. Hewill better upon himself a little day by day; or even if he hasgiven up the attempt, he will always remember that once upon a timehe had conceived this high ideal, that once upon a time he hadfallen in love with a star. ''Tis better to have loved and lost.'Although the moon should have nothing to say to Endymion, althoughhe should settle down with Audrey and feed pigs, do you not thinkhe would move with a better grace, and cherish higher thoughts tothe end? The louts he meets at church never had a fancy aboveAudrey's snood; but there is a reminiscence in Endymion's heartthat, like a spice, keeps it fresh and haughty.
To be even one of the outskirters of art, leaves a fine stamp on aman's countenance. I remember once dining with a party in the innat Chateau Landon. Most of them were unmistakable bagmen; otherswell-to-do peasantry; but there was one young fellow in a blouse,whose face stood out from among the rest surprisingly. It lookedmore finished; more of the spirit looked out through it; it had aliving, expressive air, and you could see that his eyes took thingsin. My companion and I wondered greatly who and what he could be.It was fair-time in Chateau Landon, and when we went along to thebooths, we had our question answered; for there was our friendbusily fiddling for the peasants to caper to. He was a wanderingviolinist.
A troop of strollers once came to the inn where I was staying, inthe department of Seine et Marne. There was a father and mother;two daughters, brazen, blowsy hussies, who sang and acted, withoutan idea of how to set about either; and a dark young man, like atutor, a recalcitrant house-painter, who sang and acted not amiss.The mother was the genius of the party, so far as genius can bespoken of with regard to such a pack of incompetent humbugs; andher husband could not find words to express his admiration for hercomic countryman. 'You should see my old woman,' said he, andnodded his beery countenance. One night they performed in thestable-yard, with flaring lamps--a wretched exhibition, coldlylooked upon by a village audience. Next night, as soon as thelamps were lighted, there came a plump of rain, and they had tosweep away their baggage as fast as possible, and make off to thebarn where they harboured, cold, wet, and supperless. In themorning, a dear friend of mine, who has as warm a heart forstrollers as I have myself, made a little collection, and sent itby my hands to comfort them for their disappointment. I gave it tothe father; he thanked me cordially, and we drank a cup together inthe kitchen, talking of roads, and audiences, and hard times.
When I was going, up got my old stroller, and off with his hat. 'Iam afraid,' said he, 'that Monsieur will think me altogether abeggar; but I have another demand to make upon him.' I began tohate him on the spot. 'We play again to-night,' he went on. 'Ofcourse, I shall refuse to accept any more money from Monsieur andhis friends, who have been already so liberal. But our programmeof to-night is something truly creditable; and I cling to the ideathat Monsieur will honour us with his presence.' And then, with ashrug and a smile: 'Monsieur understands--the vanity of anartist!' Save the mark! The vanity of an artist! That is thekind of thing that reconciles me to life: a ragged, tippling,incompetent old rogue, with the manners of a gentleman, and thevanity of an artist, to keep up his self-respect!
But the man after my own heart is M. de Vauversin. It is nearlytwo years since I saw him first, and indeed I hope I may see himoften again. Here is his first programme, as I found it on thebreakfast-table, and have kept it ever since as a relic of brightdays:
'Mesdames et Messieurs,
'Mademoiselle Ferrario et M. de Vauversin auront l'honneur dechanter ce soir les morceaux suivants.
'Madermoiselle Ferrario chantera--Mignon--Oiseaux Legers--France--Des Francais dorment la--Le chateau bleu--Ou voulez-vous aller?
'M. de Vauversin--Madame Fontaine et M. Robinet--Les plongeurs acheval--Le Mari mecontent--Tais-toi, gamin--Mon voisin l'original--Heureux comme ca--Comme on est trompe.'
They made a stage at one end of the salle-a-manger. And what asight it was to see M. de Vauversin, with a cigarette in his mouth,twanging a guitar, and following Mademoiselle Ferrario's eyes withthe obedient, kindly look of a dog! The entertainment wound upwith a tombola, or auction of lottery tickets: an admirableamusement, with all the excitement of gambling, and no hope of gainto make you ashamed of your eagerness; for there, all is loss; youmake haste to be out of pocket; it is a competition who shall losemost money for the benefit of M. de Vauversin and MademoiselleFerrario.
M. de Vauversin is a small man, with a great head of black hair, avivacious and engaging air, and a smile that would be delightful ifhe had better teeth. He was once an actor in the Chatelet; but hecontracted a nervous affection from the heat and glare of thefootlights, which unfitted him for the stage. At this crisisMademoiselle Ferrario, otherwise Mademoiselle Rita of the Alcazar,agreed to share his wandering fortunes. 'I could never forget thegenerosity of that lady,' said he. He wears trousers so tight thatit has long been a problem to all who knew him how he manages toget in and out of them. He sketches a little in water-colours; hewrites verses; he is the most patient of fishermen, and spent longdays at the bottom of the inn-garden fruitlessly dabbling a line inthe clear river.
You should hear him recounting his experiences over a bottle ofwine; such a pleasant vein of talk as he has, with a ready smile athis own mishaps, and every now and then a sudden gravity, like aman who should hear the surf roar while he was telling the perilsof the deep. For it was no longer ago than last night, perhaps,that the receipts only amounted to a franc and a half, to coverthree francs of railway fare and two of board and lodging. TheMaire, a man worth a million of money, sat in the front seat,repeatedly applauding Mlle. Ferrario, and yet gave no more thanthree sous the whole evening. Local authorities look with such anevil eye upon the strolling artist. Alas! I know it well, who havebeen myself taken for one, and pitilessly incarcerated on thestrength of the misapprehension. Once, M. de Vauversin visited acommissary of police for permission to sing. The commissary, whowas smoking at his ease, politely doffed his hat upon the singer'sentrance. 'Mr. Commissary,' he began, 'I am an artist.' And onwent the commissary's hat again. No courtesy for the companions ofApollo! 'They are as degraded as that,' said M. de Vauversin witha sweep of his cigarette.
But what pleased me most was one outbreak of his, when we had beentalking all the evening of the rubs, indignities, and pinchings ofhis wandering life. Some one said, it would be better to have amillion of money down, and Mlle. Ferrario admitted that she wouldprefer that mightily. 'Eh bien, moi non;--not I,' cried DeVauversin, striking the table with his hand. 'If any one is afailure in the world, is it not I? I had an art, in which I havedone things well--as well as some--better perhaps than others; andnow it is closed against me. I must go about the country gatheringcoppers and singing nonsense. Do you think I regret my life? Doyou think I would rather be a fat burgess, like a calf? Not I! Ihave had moments when I have been applauded on the boards: I thinknothing of that; but I have known in my own mind sometimes, when Ihad not a clap from the whole house, that I had found a trueintonation, or an exact and speaking gesture; and then, messieurs,I have known what pleasure was, what it was to do a thing well,what it was to be an artist. And to know what art is, is to havean interest for ever, such as no burgess can find in his pettyconcerns. Tenez, messieurs, je vais vous le dire--it is like areligion.'
Such, making some allowance for the tricks of memory and theinaccuracies of translation, was the profession of faith of M. deVauversin. I have given him his own name, lest any other wanderershould come across him, with his guitar and cigarette, andMademoiselle Ferrario; for should not all the world delight tohonour this unfortunate and loyal follower of the Muses? MayApollo send him rimes hitherto undreamed of; may the river be nolonger scanty of her silver fishes to his lure; may the cold notpinch him on long winter rides, nor the village jack-in-officeaffront him with unseemly manners; and may he never missMademoiselle Ferrario from his side, to follow with his dutifuleyes and accompany on the guitar!
The marionnettes made a very dismal entertainment. They performeda piece, called Pyramus and Thisbe, in five mortal acts, and allwritten in Alexandrines fully as long as the performers. Onemarionnette was the king; another the wicked counsellor; a third,credited with exceptional beauty, represented Thisbe; and thenthere were guards, and obdurate fathers, and walking gentlemen.Nothing particular took place during the two or three acts that Isat out; but you will he pleased to learn that the unities wereproperly respected, and the whole piece, with one exception, movedin harmony with classical rules. That exception was the comiccountryman, a lean marionnette in wooden shoes, who spoke in proseand in a broad patois much appreciated by the audience. He tookunconstitutional liberties with the person of his sovereign; kickedhis fellow-marionnettes in the mouth with his wooden shoes, andwhenever none of the versifying suitors were about, made love toThisbe on his own account in comic prose.
This fellow's evolutions, and the little prologue, in which theshowman made a humorous eulogium of his troop, praising theirindifference to applause and hisses, and their single devotion totheir art, were the only circumstances in the whole affair that youcould fancy would so much as raise a smile. But the villagers ofPrecy seemed delighted. Indeed, so long as a thing is anexhibition, and you pay to see it, it is nearly certain to amuse.If we were charged so much a head for sunsets, or if God sent rounda drum before the hawthorns came in flower, what a work should wenot make about their beauty! But these things, like goodcompanions, stupid people early cease to observe: and the AbstractBagman tittups past in his spring gig, and is positively not awareof the flowers along the lane, or the scenery of the weatheroverhead.