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An Inland Voyage - Precy and the Marionnettes

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 made Precy about sundown. The plain is rich with tufts of
poplar. In a wide, luminous curve, the Oise lay under the
hillside. A faint mist began to rise and confound the different
distances together. There was not a sound audible but that of the
sheep-bells in some meadows by the river, and the creaking of a
cart down the long road that descends the hill. The villas in
their gardens, the shops along the street, all seemed to have been
deserted the day before; and I felt inclined to walk discreetly as
one feels in a silent forest. All of a sudden, we came round a
corner, and there, in a little green round the church, was a bevy
of girls in Parisian costumes playing croquet. Their laughter, and
the hollow sound of ball and mallet, made a cheery stir in the
neighbourhood; and the look of these slim figures, all corseted and
ribboned, produced an answerable disturbance in our hearts. We
were within sniff of Paris, it seemed. And here were females of
our own species playing croquet, just as if Precy had been a place
in 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 woman
at all, and after having passed by such a succession of people in
petticoats digging and hoeing and making dinner, this company of
coquettes under arms made quite a surprising feature in the
landscape, and convinced us at once of being fallible males.

The inn at Precy is the worst inn in France. Not even in Scotland
have 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 we
ate. We found pieces of loo-warm pork among the salad, and pieces
of unknown yielding substance in the ragout. The butcher
entertained us with pictures of Parisian life, with which he
professed himself well acquainted; the brother sitting the while on
the edge of the billiard-table, toppling precariously, and sucking
the stump of a cigar. In the midst of these diversions, bang went
a drum past the house, and a hoarse voice began issuing a
proclamation. It was a man with marionnettes announcing a
performance for that evening.

He had set up his caravan and lighted his candles on another part
of the girls' croquet-green, under one of those open sheds which
are so common in France to shelter markets; and he and his wife, by
the time we strolled up there, were trying to keep order with the

It was the most absurd contention. The show-people had set out a
certain number of benches; and all who sat upon them were to pay a
couple of sous for the accommodation. They were always quite full-
-a bumper house--as long as nothing was going forward; but let the
show-woman appear with an eye to a collection, and at the first
rattle of her tambourine the audience slipped off the seats, and
stood round on the outside with their hands in their pockets. It
certainly would have tried an angel's temper. The showman roared
from the proscenium; he had been all over France, and nowhere,
nowhere, 'not even on the borders of Germany,' had he met with such
misconduct. Such thieves and rogues and rascals, as he called
them! And every now and again, the wife issued on another round,
and added her shrill quota to the tirade. I remarked here, as
elsewhere, how far more copious is the female mind in the material
of insult. The audience laughed in high good-humour over the man's
declamations; but they bridled and cried aloud under the woman's
pungent sallies. She picked out the sore points. She had the
honour of the village at her mercy. Voices answered her angrily
out of the crowd, and received a smarting retort for their trouble.
A couple of old ladies beside me, who had duly paid for their
seats, waxed very red and indignant, and discoursed to each other
audibly about the impudence of these mountebanks; but as soon as
the show-woman caught a whisper of this, she was down upon them
with a swoop: if mesdames could persuade their neighbours to act
with common honesty, the mountebanks, she assured them, would be
polite enough: mesdames had probably had their bowl of soup, and
perhaps a glass of wine that evening; the mountebanks also had a
taste for soup, and did not choose to have their little earnings
stolen from them before their eyes. Once, things came as far as a
brief personal encounter between the showman and some lads, in
which the former went down as readily as one of his own
marionnettes to a peal of jeering laughter.

I was a good deal astonished at this scene, because I am pretty
well acquainted with the ways of French strollers, more or less
artistic; and have always found them singularly pleasing. Any
stroller must be dear to the right-thinking heart; if it were only
as a living protest against offices and the mercantile spirit, and
as something to remind us that life is not by necessity the kind of
thing we generally make it. Even a German band, if you see it
leaving town in the early morning for a campaign in country places,
among trees and meadows, has a romantic flavour for the
imagination. There is nobody, under thirty, so dead but his heart
will stir a little at sight of a gypsies' camp. 'We are not
cotton-spinners all'; or, at least, not all through. There is some
life in humanity yet: and youth will now and again find a brave
word to say in dispraise of riches, and throw up a situation to go
strolling with a knapsack.

An Englishman has always special facilities for intercourse with
French gymnasts; for England is the natural home of gymnasts. This
or that fellow, in his tights and spangles, is sure to know a word
or two of English, to have drunk English aff-'n-aff, and perhaps
performed in an English music-hall. He is a countryman of mine by
profession. He leaps, like the Belgian boating men, to the notion
that I must be an athlete myself.

But the gymnast is not my favourite; he has little or no tincture
of the artist in his composition; his soul is small and pedestrian,
for the most part, since his profession makes no call upon it, and
does not accustom him to high ideas. But if a man is only so much
of an actor that he can stumble through a farce, he is made free of
a new order of thoughts. He has something else to think about
beside the money-box. He has a pride of his own, and, what is of
far more importance, he has an aim before him that he can never
quite attain. He has gone upon a pilgrimage that will last him his
life long, because there is no end to it short of perfection. He
will better upon himself a little day by day; or even if he has
given up the attempt, he will always remember that once upon a time
he had conceived this high ideal, that once upon a time he had
fallen in love with a star. ''Tis better to have loved and lost.'
Although the moon should have nothing to say to Endymion, although
he should settle down with Audrey and feed pigs, do you not think
he would move with a better grace, and cherish higher thoughts to
the end? The louts he meets at church never had a fancy above
Audrey's snood; but there is a reminiscence in Endymion's heart
that, like a spice, keeps it fresh and haughty.

To be even one of the outskirters of art, leaves a fine stamp on a
man's countenance. I remember once dining with a party in the inn
at Chateau Landon. Most of them were unmistakable bagmen; others
well-to-do peasantry; but there was one young fellow in a blouse,
whose face stood out from among the rest surprisingly. It looked
more finished; more of the spirit looked out through it; it had a
living, expressive air, and you could see that his eyes took things
in. 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 the
booths, we had our question answered; for there was our friend
busily fiddling for the peasants to caper to. He was a wandering

A troop of strollers once came to the inn where I was staying, in
the department of Seine et Marne. There was a father and mother;
two daughters, brazen, blowsy hussies, who sang and acted, without
an idea of how to set about either; and a dark young man, like a
tutor, a recalcitrant house-painter, who sang and acted not amiss.
The mother was the genius of the party, so far as genius can be
spoken of with regard to such a pack of incompetent humbugs; and
her husband could not find words to express his admiration for her
comic countryman. 'You should see my old woman,' said he, and
nodded his beery countenance. One night they performed in the
stable-yard, with flaring lamps--a wretched exhibition, coldly
looked upon by a village audience. Next night, as soon as the
lamps were lighted, there came a plump of rain, and they had to
sweep away their baggage as fast as possible, and make off to the
barn where they harboured, cold, wet, and supperless. In the
morning, a dear friend of mine, who has as warm a heart for
strollers as I have myself, made a little collection, and sent it
by my hands to comfort them for their disappointment. I gave it to
the father; he thanked me cordially, and we drank a cup together in
the kitchen, talking of roads, and audiences, and hard times.

When I was going, up got my old stroller, and off with his hat. 'I
am afraid,' said he, 'that Monsieur will think me altogether a
beggar; but I have another demand to make upon him.' I began to
hate him on the spot. 'We play again to-night,' he went on. 'Of
course, I shall refuse to accept any more money from Monsieur and
his friends, who have been already so liberal. But our programme
of to-night is something truly creditable; and I cling to the idea
that Monsieur will honour us with his presence.' And then, with a
shrug and a smile: 'Monsieur understands--the vanity of an
artist!' Save the mark! The vanity of an artist! That is the
kind of thing that reconciles me to life: a ragged, tippling,
incompetent old rogue, with the manners of a gentleman, and the
vanity of an artist, to keep up his self-respect!

But the man after my own heart is M. de Vauversin. It is nearly
two years since I saw him first, and indeed I hope I may see him
often again. Here is his first programme, as I found it on the
breakfast-table, and have kept it ever since as a relic of bright

'Mesdames et Messieurs,

'Mademoiselle Ferrario et M. de Vauversin auront l'honneur de
chanter 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 a
cheval--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 a
sight it was to see M. de Vauversin, with a cigarette in his mouth,
twanging a guitar, and following Mademoiselle Ferrario's eyes with
the obedient, kindly look of a dog! The entertainment wound up
with a tombola, or auction of lottery tickets: an admirable
amusement, with all the excitement of gambling, and no hope of gain
to make you ashamed of your eagerness; for there, all is loss; you
make haste to be out of pocket; it is a competition who shall lose
most money for the benefit of M. de Vauversin and Mademoiselle

M. de Vauversin is a small man, with a great head of black hair, a
vivacious and engaging air, and a smile that would be delightful if
he had better teeth. He was once an actor in the Chatelet; but he
contracted a nervous affection from the heat and glare of the
footlights, which unfitted him for the stage. At this crisis
Mademoiselle Ferrario, otherwise Mademoiselle Rita of the Alcazar,
agreed to share his wandering fortunes. 'I could never forget the
generosity of that lady,' said he. He wears trousers so tight that
it has long been a problem to all who knew him how he manages to
get in and out of them. He sketches a little in water-colours; he
writes verses; he is the most patient of fishermen, and spent long
days at the bottom of the inn-garden fruitlessly dabbling a line in
the clear river.

You should hear him recounting his experiences over a bottle of
wine; such a pleasant vein of talk as he has, with a ready smile at
his own mishaps, and every now and then a sudden gravity, like a
man who should hear the surf roar while he was telling the perils
of the deep. For it was no longer ago than last night, perhaps,
that the receipts only amounted to a franc and a half, to cover
three francs of railway fare and two of board and lodging. The
Maire, a man worth a million of money, sat in the front seat,
repeatedly applauding Mlle. Ferrario, and yet gave no more than
three sous the whole evening. Local authorities look with such an
evil eye upon the strolling artist. Alas! I know it well, who have
been myself taken for one, and pitilessly incarcerated on the
strength of the misapprehension. Once, M. de Vauversin visited a
commissary of police for permission to sing. The commissary, who
was smoking at his ease, politely doffed his hat upon the singer's
entrance. 'Mr. Commissary,' he began, 'I am an artist.' And on
went the commissary's hat again. No courtesy for the companions of
Apollo! 'They are as degraded as that,' said M. de Vauversin with
a sweep of his cigarette.

But what pleased me most was one outbreak of his, when we had been
talking all the evening of the rubs, indignities, and pinchings of
his wandering life. Some one said, it would be better to have a
million of money down, and Mlle. Ferrario admitted that she would
prefer that mightily. 'Eh bien, moi non;--not I,' cried De
Vauversin, striking the table with his hand. 'If any one is a
failure in the world, is it not I? I had an art, in which I have
done things well--as well as some--better perhaps than others; and
now it is closed against me. I must go about the country gathering
coppers and singing nonsense. Do you think I regret my life? Do
you think I would rather be a fat burgess, like a calf? Not I! I
have had moments when I have been applauded on the boards: I think
nothing of that; but I have known in my own mind sometimes, when I
had not a clap from the whole house, that I had found a true
intonation, 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 have
an interest for ever, such as no burgess can find in his petty
concerns. Tenez, messieurs, je vais vous le dire--it is like a

Such, making some allowance for the tricks of memory and the
inaccuracies of translation, was the profession of faith of M. de
Vauversin. I have given him his own name, lest any other wanderer
should come across him, with his guitar and cigarette, and
Mademoiselle Ferrario; for should not all the world delight to
honour this unfortunate and loyal follower of the Muses? May
Apollo send him rimes hitherto undreamed of; may the river be no
longer scanty of her silver fishes to his lure; may the cold not
pinch him on long winter rides, nor the village jack-in-office
affront him with unseemly manners; and may he never miss
Mademoiselle Ferrario from his side, to follow with his dutiful
eyes and accompany on the guitar!

The marionnettes made a very dismal entertainment. They performed
a piece, called Pyramus and Thisbe, in five mortal acts, and all
written in Alexandrines fully as long as the performers. One
marionnette was the king; another the wicked counsellor; a third,
credited with exceptional beauty, represented Thisbe; and then
there were guards, and obdurate fathers, and walking gentlemen.
Nothing particular took place during the two or three acts that I
sat out; but you will he pleased to learn that the unities were
properly respected, and the whole piece, with one exception, moved
in harmony with classical rules. That exception was the comic
countryman, a lean marionnette in wooden shoes, who spoke in prose
and in a broad patois much appreciated by the audience. He took
unconstitutional liberties with the person of his sovereign; kicked
his fellow-marionnettes in the mouth with his wooden shoes, and
whenever none of the versifying suitors were about, made love to
Thisbe on his own account in comic prose.

This fellow's evolutions, and the little prologue, in which the
showman made a humorous eulogium of his troop, praising their
indifference to applause and hisses, and their single devotion to
their art, were the only circumstances in the whole affair that you
could fancy would so much as raise a smile. But the villagers of
Precy seemed delighted. Indeed, so long as a thing is an
exhibition, 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 round
a drum before the hawthorns came in flower, what a work should we
not make about their beauty! But these things, like good
companions, stupid people early cease to observe: and the Abstract
Bagman tittups past in his spring gig, and is positively not aware
of the flowers along the lane, or the scenery of the weather

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