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An Inland Voyage - Origny Sainte-Benoite The Company at Table

1. Preface

2. Antwerp to Boom

3. On the Willebroek Canal

4. The Royal Sport Nautique

5. At Maubeuge

6. On the Sambre Canalised

7. Pont-Sur-Sambre We are Pedlars

8. Pont-Sur-Sambre The Travelling Merchant

9. On the Sambre Canalised

10. At Landrecies

11. Sambre and Oise Canal

12. The Oise in Flood

13. Origny Sainte-Benoite A By-Day

14. Origny Sainte-Benoite The Company at Table

15. Down the Oise

16. La Fere of Cursed Memory

17. Down the Oise

18. Noyon Cathedral

19. Down the Oise To Compiegne

20. At Compiegne

21. Changed Times

22. Down the Oise: Church Interiors

23. Precy and the Marionnettes

24. Back to the World



Although we came late for dinner, the company at table treated us
to sparkling wine. 'That is how we are in France,' said one.
'Those who sit down with us are our friends.' And the rest

They were three altogether, and an odd trio to pass the Sunday

Two of them were guests like ourselves, both men of the north. One
ruddy, and of a full habit of body, with copious black hair and
beard, the intrepid hunter of France, who thought nothing so small,
not even a lark or a minnow, but he might vindicate his prowess by
its capture. For such a great, healthy man, his hair flourishing
like Samson's, his arteries running buckets of red blood, to boast
of these infinitesimal exploits, produced a feeling of
disproportion in the world, as when a steam-hammer is set to
cracking nuts. The other was a quiet, subdued person, blond and
lymphatic and sad, with something the look of a Dane: 'Tristes
tetes de Danois!' as Gaston Lafenestre used to say.

I must not let that name go by without a word for the best of all
good fellows now gone down into the dust. We shall never again see
Gaston in his forest costume--he was Gaston with all the world, in
affection, not in disrespect--nor hear him wake the echoes of
Fontainebleau with the woodland horn. Never again shall his kind
smile put peace among all races of artistic men, and make the
Englishman at home in France. Never more shall the sheep, who were
not more innocent at heart than he, sit all unconsciously for his
industrious pencil. He died too early, at the very moment when he
was beginning to put forth fresh sprouts, and blossom into
something worthy of himself; and yet none who knew him will think
he lived in vain. I never knew a man so little, for whom yet I had
so much affection; and I find it a good test of others, how much
they had learned to understand and value him. His was indeed a
good influence in life while he was still among us; he had a fresh
laugh, it did you good to see him; and however sad he may have been
at heart, he always bore a bold and cheerful countenance, and took
fortune's worst as it were the showers of spring. But now his
mother sits alone by the side of Fontainebleau woods, where he
gathered mushrooms in his hardy and penurious youth.

Many of his pictures found their way across the Channel: besides
those which were stolen, when a dastardly Yankee left him alone in
London with two English pence, and perhaps twice as many words of
English. If any one who reads these lines should have a scene of
sheep, in the manner of Jacques, with this fine creature's
signature, let him tell himself that one of the kindest and bravest
of men has lent a hand to decorate his lodging. There may be
better pictures in the National Gallery; but not a painter among
the generations had a better heart. Precious in the sight of the
Lord 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 the
stroke, a mother is left desolate, and the peace-maker, and peace-
looker, of a whole society is laid in the ground with Caesar and
the Twelve Apostles.

There is something lacking among the oaks of Fontainebleau; and
when the dessert comes in at Barbizon, people look to the door for
a figure that is gone.

The third of our companions at Origny was no less a person than the
landlady's husband: not properly the landlord, since he worked
himself in a factory during the day, and came to his own house at
evening as a guest: a man worn to skin and bone by perpetual
excitement, with baldish head, sharp features, and swift, shining
eyes. On Saturday, describing some paltry adventure at a duck-
hunt, he broke a plate into a score of fragments. Whenever he made
a remark, he would look all round the table with his chin raised,
and a spark of green light in either eye, seeking approval. His
wife appeared now and again in the doorway of the room, where she
was superintending dinner, with a 'Henri, you forget yourself,' or
a 'Henri, you can surely talk without making such a noise.'
Indeed, that was what the honest fellow could not do. On the most
trifling matter his eyes kindled, his fist visited the table, and
his voice rolled abroad in changeful thunder. I never saw such a
petard of a man; I think the devil was in him. He had two
favourite expressions: 'it is logical,' or illogical, as the case
might be: and this other, thrown out with a certain bravado, as a
man might unfurl a banner, at the beginning of many a long and
sonorous story: 'I am a proletarian, you see.' Indeed, we saw it
very well. God forbid that ever I should find him handling a gun
in Paris streets! That will not be a good moment for the general

I thought his two phrases very much represented the good and evil
of his class, and to some extent of his country. It is a strong
thing to say what one is, and not be ashamed of it; even although
it be in doubtful taste to repeat the statement too often in one
evening. I should not admire it in a duke, of course; but as times
go, the trait is honourable in a workman. On the other hand, it is
not at all a strong thing to put one's reliance upon logic; and our
own logic particularly, for it is generally wrong. We never know
where 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 trustier
than 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 or
fall by their proofs, and are only logical in so far as they are
cleverly put. An able controversialist no more than an able
general demonstrates the justice of his cause. But France is all
gone wandering after one or two big words; it will take some time
before they can be satisfied that they are no more than words,
however big; and when once that is done, they will perhaps find
logic less diverting.

The conversation opened with details of the day's shooting. When
all the sportsmen of a village shoot over the village territory pro
indiviso, it is plain that many questions of etiquette and priority
must arise.

'Here now,' cried the landlord, brandishing a plate, 'here is a
field of beet-root. Well. Here am I then. I advance, do I not?
Eh bien! sacristi,' and the statement, waxing louder, rolls off
into a reverberation of oaths, the speaker glaring about for
sympathy, and everybody nodding his head to him in the name of

The ruddy Northman told some tales of his own prowess in keeping
order: notably one of a Marquis.

'Marquis,' I said, 'if you take another step I fire upon you. You
have committed a dirtiness, Marquis.'

Whereupon, it appeared, the Marquis touched his cap and withdrew.

The landlord applauded noisily. 'It was well done,' he said. 'He
did all that he could. He admitted he was wrong.' And then oath
upon oath. He was no marquis-lover either, but he had a sense of
justice in him, this proletarian host of ours.

From the matter of hunting, the talk veered into a general
comparison of Paris and the country. The proletarian beat the
table like a drum in praise of Paris. 'What is Paris? Paris is
the cream of France. There are no Parisians: it is you and I and
everybody who are Parisians. A man has eighty chances per cent. to
get on in the world in Paris.' And he drew a vivid sketch of the
workman in a den no bigger than a dog-hutch, making articles that
were 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; he
thought Paris bad for men and women; 'centralisation,' said he -

But the landlord was at his throat in a moment. It was all
logical, he showed him; and all magnificent. 'What a spectacle!
What a glance for an eye!' And the dishes reeled upon the table
under a cannonade of blows.

Seeking to make peace, I threw in a word in praise of the liberty
of opinion in France. I could hardly have shot more amiss. There
was an instant silence, and a great wagging of significant heads.
They did not fancy the subject, it was plain; but they gave me to
understand that the sad Northman was a martyr on account of his
views. 'Ask him a bit,' said they. 'Just ask him.'

'Yes, sir,' said he in his quiet way, answering me, although I had
not spoken, 'I am afraid there is less liberty of opinion in France
than you may imagine.' And with that he dropped his eyes, and
seemed 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 on
some religious question, and brushed up our memories of the
Inquisition, 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 the
question; for when we rose very early to avoid a sympathising
deputation at our departure, we found the hero up before us. He
was breaking his fast on white wine and raw onions, in order to
keep up the character of martyr, I conclude. We had a long
conversation, and made out what we wanted in spite of his reserve.
But here was a truly curious circumstance. It seems possible for
two Scotsmen and a Frenchman to discuss during a long half-hour,
and each nationality have a different idea in view throughout. It
was not till the very end that we discovered his heresy had been
political, or that he suspected our mistake. The terms and spirit
in 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 have
said, 'A d-d bad religion'; while we, at home, keep most of our
bitterness for little differences about a hymn-book, or a Hebrew
word which perhaps neither of the parties can translate. And
perhaps the misconception is typical of many others that may never
be cleared up: not only between people of different race, but
between those of different sex.

As for our friend's martyrdom, he was a Communist, or perhaps only
a Communard, which is a very different thing; and had lost one or
more situations in consequence. I think he had also been rejected
in marriage; but perhaps he had a sentimental way of considering
business which deceived me. He was a mild, gentle creature,
anyway; and I hope he has got a better situation, and married a
more suitable wife since then.

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