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An Inland Voyage - La Fere of Cursed Memory

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


We lingered in Moy a good part of the day, for we were fond of
being philosophical, and scorned long journeys and early starts on
principle. The place, moreover, invited to repose. People in
elaborate shooting costumes sallied from the chateau with guns and
game-bags; and this was a pleasure in itself, to remain behind
while these elegant pleasure-seekers took the first of the morning.
In this way, all the world may be an aristocrat, and play the duke
among marquises, and the reigning monarch among dukes, if he will
only outvie them in tranquillity. An imperturbable demeanour comes
from perfect patience. Quiet minds cannot be perplexed or
frightened, but go on in fortune or misfortune at their own private
pace, like a clock during a thunderstorm.

We made a very short day of it to La Fere; but the dusk was
falling, and a small rain had begun before we stowed the boats. La
Fere is a fortified town in a plain, and has two belts of rampart.
Between the first and the second extends a region of waste land and
cultivated patches. Here and there along the wayside were posters
forbidding trespass in the name of military engineering. At last,
a second gateway admitted us to the town itself. Lighted windows
looked gladsome, whiffs of comfortable cookery came abroad upon the
air. The town was full of the military reserve, out for the French
Autumn Manoeuvres, and the reservists walked speedily and wore
their formidable great-coats. It was a fine night to be within
doors over dinner, and hear the rain upon the windows.

The Cigarette and I could not sufficiently congratulate each other
on the prospect, for we had been told there was a capital inn at La
Fere. Such a dinner as we were going to eat! such beds as we were
to sleep in!--and all the while the rain raining on houseless folk
over all the poplared countryside! It made our mouths water. The
inn bore the name of some woodland animal, stag, or hart, or hind,
I forget which. But I shall never forget how spacious and how
eminently habitable it looked as we drew near. The carriage entry
was lighted up, not by intention, but from the mere superfluity of
fire and candle in the house. A rattle of many dishes came to our
ears; we sighted a great field of table-cloth; the kitchen glowed
like a forge and smelt like a garden of things to eat.

Into this, the inmost shrine and physiological heart of a hostelry,
with all its furnaces in action, and all its dressers charged with
viands, you are now to suppose us making our triumphal entry, a
pair of damp rag-and-bone men, each with a limp india-rubber bag
upon his arm. I do not believe I have a sound view of that
kitchen; I saw it through a sort of glory: but it seemed to me
crowded with the snowy caps of cookmen, who all turned round from
their saucepans and looked at us with surprise. There was no doubt
about the landlady, however: there she was, heading her army, a
flushed, angry woman, full of affairs. Her I asked politely--too
politely, thinks the Cigarette--if we could have beds: she
surveying us coldly from head to foot.

'You will find beds in the suburb,' she remarked. 'We are too busy
for the like of you.'

If we could make an entrance, change our clothes, and order a
bottle of wine, I felt sure we could put things right; so said I:
'If we cannot sleep, we may at least dine,'--and was for depositing
my bag.

What a terrible convulsion of nature was that which followed in the
landlady's face! She made a run at us, and stamped her foot.

'Out with you--out of the door!' she screeched. 'Sortez! sortez!
sortez par la porte!'

I do not know how it happened, but next moment we were out in the
rain and darkness, and I was cursing before the carriage entry like
a disappointed mendicant. Where were the boating men of Belgium?
where the Judge and his good wines? and where the graces of Origny?
Black, black was the night after the firelit kitchen; but what was
that to the blackness in our heart? This was not the first time
that I have been refused a lodging. Often and often have I planned
what I should do if such a misadventure happened to me again. And
nothing is easier to plan. But to put in execution, with the heart
boiling at the indignity? Try it; try it only once; and tell me
what you did.

It is all very fine to talk about tramps and morality. Six hours
of police surveillance (such as I have had), or one brutal
rejection from an inn-door, change your views upon the subject like
a course of lectures. As long as you keep in the upper regions,
with all the world bowing to you as you go, social arrangements
have a very handsome air; but once get under the wheels, and you
wish society were at the devil. I will give most respectable men a
fortnight of such a life, and then I will offer them twopence for
what remains of their morality.

For my part, when I was turned out of the Stag, or the Hind, or
whatever it was, I would have set the temple of Diana on fire, if
it had been handy. There was no crime complete enough to express
my disapproval of human institutions. As for the Cigarette, I
never knew a man so altered. 'We have been taken for pedlars
again,' said he. 'Good God, what it must be to be a pedlar in
reality!' He particularised a complaint for every joint in the
landlady's body. Timon was a philanthropist alongside of him. And
then, when he was at the top of his maledictory bent, he would
suddenly break away and begin whimperingly to commiserate the poor.
'I hope to God,' he said,--and I trust the prayer was answered,--
'that I shall never be uncivil to a pedlar.' Was this the
imperturbable Cigarette? This, this was he. O change beyond
report, thought, or belief!

Meantime the heaven wept upon our heads; and the windows grew
brighter as the night increased in darkness. We trudged in and out
of La Fere streets; we saw shops, and private houses where people
were copiously dining; we saw stables where carters' nags had
plenty of fodder and clean straw; we saw no end of reservists, who
were very sorry for themselves this wet night, I doubt not, and
yearned for their country homes; but had they not each man his
place in La Fere barracks? And we, what had we?

There seemed to be no other inn in the whole town. People gave us
directions, which we followed as best we could, generally with the
effect of bringing us out again upon the scene of our disgrace. We
were very sad people indeed by the time we had gone all over La
Fere; and the Cigarette had already made up his mind to lie under a
poplar and sup off a loaf of bread. But right at the other end,
the house next the town-gate was full of light and bustle. 'Bazin,
aubergiste, loge a pied,' was the sign. 'A la Croix de Malte.'
There were we received.

The room was full of noisy reservists drinking and smoking; and we
were very glad indeed when the drums and bugles began to go about
the streets, and one and all had to snatch shakoes and be off for
the barracks.

Bazin was a tall man, running to fat: soft-spoken, with a
delicate, gentle face. We asked him to share our wine; but he
excused himself, having pledged reservists all day long. This was
a very different type of the workman-innkeeper from the bawling
disputatious fellow at Origny. He also loved Paris, where he had
worked as a decorative painter in his youth. There were such
opportunities for self-instruction there, he said. And if any one
has read Zola's description of the workman's marriage-party
visiting the Louvre, they would do well to have heard Bazin by way
of antidote. He had delighted in the museums in his youth. 'One
sees there little miracles of work,' he said; 'that is what makes a
good workman; it kindles a spark.' We asked him how he managed in
La Fere. 'I am married,' he said, 'and I have my pretty children.
But frankly, it is no life at all. From morning to night I pledge
a pack of good enough fellows who know nothing.'

It faired as the night went on, and the moon came out of the
clouds. We sat in front of the door, talking softly with Bazin.
At the guard-house opposite, the guard was being for ever turned
out, as trains of field artillery kept clanking in out of the
night, or patrols of horsemen trotted by in their cloaks. Madame
Bazin came out after a while; she was tired with her day's work, I
suppose; and she nestled up to her husband and laid her head upon
his breast. He had his arm about her, and kept gently patting her
on the shoulder. I think Bazin was right, and he was really
married. Of how few people can the same be said!

Little did the Bazins know how much they served us. We were
charged for candles, for food and drink, and for the beds we slept
in. But there was nothing in the bill for the husband's pleasant
talk; nor for the pretty spectacle of their married life. And
there was yet another item unchanged. For these people's
politeness really set us up again in our own esteem. We had a
thirst for consideration; the sense of insult was still hot in our
spirits; and civil usage seemed to restore us to our position in
the world.

How little we pay our way in life! Although we have our purses
continually in our hand, the better part of service goes still
unrewarded. But I like to fancy that a grateful spirit gives as
good as it gets. Perhaps the Bazins knew how much I liked them?
perhaps they also were healed of some slights by the thanks that I
gave them in my manner?

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