Our Friends the English
A small leather-bound on the upholstered seat of the railway carriage. I took it up and opened it. It was a traveller’s diary, dropped by its owner.
Here are the last three pages of it copied out.
February 1st. Mentone, capital of the Consumptives, noted for its pulmonary tubercles. Quite different from the potato tubercle, which lives and grows in the earth for the purpose of nourishing and fattening men, this variety lives and grows in man for the purpose of nourishing and fattening the earth.
I got this scientific definition from a friendly doctor here, a very learned man.
Am looking for an hotel. Am directed to the Grrrrand Hotel of Russia, England, Germany, and the Netherlands. Pay homage to the landlord’s cosmopolitan intellect and book a room in this caravanserai, which looks empty, it is so big.
Walk round the town, which is pretty and admirably situated at the foot of an imposing mountain peak (see guidebook). Meet various people who look ill, being taken for a walk by others who look bored. Have observed several people wearing comforters (note this, all naturalists who may be becoming anxious at the disappearance of these garments!).
Six p.m. Return for dinner. The tables are laid in an enormous room which could shelter three hundred guests; as a matter of fact, it holds just twenty-two. They come in one after another. The first is a tall thin clean-shaven Englishman. He is wearing a frock-coat with a long skirt, fitting closely at the waist. His thin arms are enveloped in its sleeves like an umbrella sheathed in its cover. This garment reminds me at the same time of an ecclesiastical cassock and the civilian uniforms worn by ex-army captains and army pensioners. Down the front elevation runs a row of buttons clad in black serge like their master, and sewn very close to one another; they look like an army of woodlice. The buttonholes stand in a row opposite and have the air of making unseemly advances to the modest little buttons.
The waistcoat fastens on the same system. The owner of the garment does not look precisely a sporty boy.
He bows to me; I return the compliment.
Next item—three ladies, all English, a mother and two daughters. Each wears a helping of whipped white of egg on the top of her head; rather remarkable. The daughters are old, like the mother. The mother is old, like the daughters. All three are thin, flat-chested, tall, stiff, and tired-looking; their front teeth are designed to intimidate plates and men.
Other residents arrive, all English. A solitary one is fat and red-faced, with white whiskers. Every woman (there are fourteen) has a helping of white of egg on her head. I observe that this crowning delicacy is made of white lace (or is it tulle? I don’t know). It appears to be unsweetened. All the ladies look as though they were pickled in vinegar, although there are several young girls, not bad-looking, but with no figures and with no apparent promise of them. I am reminded of Bouilhet’s lines:
Qu’importe ton sein maigre, ô mon objet aimé!
On est plus près du coeur quand la poitrine est plate;
Et je vois comme un merle en sa cage enfermé,
L’amour entre les os, rêvant sur une patte.22Two young men, younger than the first, are likewise imprisoned in sacerdotal frock-coats. They are lay priests, with wives and children; they are called parsons. They look more serious, less unbending, less kindly than our own priests. I would not take a hogshead of them for a pint of ours. But that’s a matter of taste.
As soon as all the residents are present, the head-parson begins to speak, and recites, in English, a sort of long benedicite; the whole table listens to it with that pickled look in their faces.
My dinner being thus dedicated, despite me, to the God of Israel and Albion, all started their soup.
Solemn silence reigned in the huge room—a silence which was surely not normal. I suppose the chaste sheep were annoyed at the invasion of a goat.
The women especially retain a stiff, starched look, as though they were afraid of dropping their headdress of whipped cream into the soup.
The head-parson, however, addresses a few words to his neighbour, the under-parson. As I have the misfortune to understand English, I observe with amazement that they are continuing a conversation, interrupted before dinner, on the texts of the prophets. Everyone listens attentively.
I am fed, always against my will, upon unbelievable quotations.
“I will provide water for him that thirsteth,” said Isaiah.
I did not know it. I knew none of the truths uttered by Jeremiah, Malachi, Ezekiel, Elijah, and Gagachias. These simple truths crawled down my ears and buzzed in my head like flies.
“Let him that is hungry ask for food!”
“The air belongeth to the birds, as the sea belongeth to the fish.”
“The fig-tree produceth figs, and the date-palm dates.”
“He who will not hear, to him knowledge is denied.”
How much greater and more profound is our great Henry Monnier, who through the lips of one man, the immortal Prud’homme, has uttered more thrilling truths than have been compiled by all the goodly fellowship of the prophets.
Confronted by the sea, he exclaims: “How beautiful is the ocean, but what a lot of good land spoilt!”
He formulates the everlasting policy of the world: “This sword is the light of my life. I can use it to defend the Power that gave it to me, and, if need be, to attack It also.”
Had I had the honour to be introduced to the English people surrounding me, I would certainly have edified them with quotations from our French prophet.
Dinner over, we went into the lounge.
I sat alone, in a corner. The British nation appeared to be hatching a plot on the other side of the room.
Suddenly a lady went to the piano.
“Ah,” thought I, “a little mee-usic. So much the better.”
She opened the instrument and sat down; the entire colony ranked itself round her like an army, the women in front, the men in the rear rank.
Were they going to sing an opera?
The head-parson, now turned choirmaster, raised his hand, then lowered it; a frightful din rose up from every throat. They were singing a hymn.
The women squalled, the men barked, the windows shook. The hotel dog howled in the yard. Another answered him from a room.
I went off in a furious temper. I went for a walk round the town. No theatre. No casino. No place of amusement. I had to go back to the hotel.
The English were still singing.
I went to bed. They went on singing. Till midnight they sang the praises of the Lord in the harshest, most hateful, most out-of-tune voices I ever heard. Maddened by the horrible spirit of imitation which drives a whole nation to such orgies, I buried my head beneath the sheets and sang:
“Je plains le Seigneur, le Seigneur dieu d’Albion,
Dont on chante la gloire au salon.
Si le Seigneur a plus d’oreille
Que son peuple fidèle,
S’il aime le talent, la beauté,
La grâce, l’esprit, la gaieté,
L’excellente mimique
Et la bonne musique,
Je plains le Seigneur
De tout mon coeur.”23When I finally dropped off to sleep, I had fearful nightmares. I saw prophets riding upon parsons, eating white of egg off the heads of corpses.
Horrible! Horrible!
February 2nd. As soon as I was up, I asked the landlord if these barbarian invaders of his hotel made a daily practice of this frightful diversion.
“Oh, no, sir,” he answered with a smile. “Yesterday was Sunday, and Sunday is a holy day to them, you know.”
I answered:
“Rien n’est sacré pour un pasteur,
Ni le sommeil du voyageur,
Ni son dîner, ni son oreille;
Mais veillez que chose pareille
Ne recommence pas, ou bien
Sans hésiter, je prends le train.”24Somewhat surprised, the landlord promised to look into the matter.
During the day I made a delightful excursion in the hills. At night, the same benedicite. Then the drawing room. What will they do? Nothing, for an hour.
Suddenly the same lady who accompanied the hymns the day before, goes to the piano and opens it. I shiver with fright.
She plays … a waltz.
The girls begin to dance.
The head-parson beats time on his knee from force of habit. The Englishmen one after another invite the ladies; the white of egg whirls round and round and round; will it turn into sauce?
This is much better. After the waltz comes a quadrille, then a polka.
Not having been introduced, I remain alone in a corner.
February 3rd. Another charming walk to the old castle, a picturesque ruin in the hills, on every peak of which remain the remnants of ancient buildings. Nothing could be more beautiful than the ruined castles among the chaos of rocks dominated by Alpine snow-peaks (see guidebook). Wonderful country.
During dinner I introduce myself, after the French fashion, to the lady next to me. She does not answer—English politeness.
In the evening, another English ball.
February 4th. Excursion to Monaco (see guidebooks).
In the evening, English ball. I am present, in the role of plague-spot.
February 5th. Excursion to San Remo (see guidebooks).
In the evening, English ball. Still in quarantine.
February 6th. Excursion to Nice (see guidebooks).
In the evening, English ball. Bed.
February 7th. Excursion to Cannes (see guidebooks).
In the evening, English ball. Have tea in my corner.
February 8th. Sunday; my revenge. Am waiting for them.
They have resumed their pickled Sunday faces, and are preparing their throats for hymns.
So before dinner I slip into the drawing room, pocket the key of the piano, and say to the porter: “If the parsons want the key, tell them I have it, and ask them to see me.”
During dinner various doubtful points in the Scriptures are discussed, texts elucidated, genealogies of biblical personages evolved.
Then they go to the drawing room. The piano is approached. Sensation.—Discussion; they seem thunderstruck. The white of egg nearly flies off. The head-parson goes out, then returns. More discussion. Angry eyes are turned on me; here are the three parsons, bearing down on me in line. They are ambassadorial, really rather impressive. They bow. I get up. The eldest speaks:
“Mosieu, on me avé dit que vô avé pris la clef de la piano. Les dames vôdraient le avoir, pour chanté le cantique.”
I answer: “Sir, I can perfectly well understand the request these ladies make, but I cannot concede to it. You are a religious man, sir; so am I, and my principles, stricter, no doubt, than yours, have determined me to oppose this profanation of the divine in which you are accustomed to indulge.
“I cannot, gentlemen, permit you to employ in the service of God an instrument used on weekdays for girls to dance to. We do not give public balls in our churches, sir, nor do we play quadrilles upon the organ. The use you make of this piano offends and disgusts me. You may take back my answer to the ladies.”
The three parsons retired abashed. The ladies appeared bewildered. They sing their hymns without the piano.
February 9th. Noon. The landlord has just given me notice; I am being expelled at the general request of the English people.
I meet the three parsons, who seem to be supervising my departure. I go straight up to them and bow.
“Gentlemen,” I say, “you seem to have a deep knowledge of the Scriptures. I myself have more than a little scholarship. I even know a little Hebrew. Well, I should like to submit to you a case which profoundly troubles my Catholic conscience.
“You consider incest an abominable crime, do you not? Very well, the Bible gives us an instance of it which is very disturbing. Lot, fleeing from Sodom, was seduced, as you know, by his two daughters, and yielded to their desires, being deprived of his wife, who had been turned into a pillar of salt. Of this appalling and doubly incestuous connection were born Ammon and Moab, from whom sprang two great peoples, the Ammonites and the Moabites. Well, Ruth, the reaper who disturbed the sleep of Boaz in order to make him a father, was a Moabite.
“Do you not know Victor Hugo’s lines?
“… Ruth, une moabite,
S’était couchée aux pieds de Booz, le sein nu,
Espérant on ne sait quel rayon inconnu,
Quand viendrait du réveil la lumière subite.25“The ‘hidden ray’ produced Obed, who was David’s ancestor.
“Now then, was not Our Lord Jesus Christ descended from David?”
The three parsons looked at one another in consternation, and did not answer.
“You will say,” I went on, “that I speak of the genealogy of Joseph, the lawful but ineffectual husband of Mary, mother of Christ. Joseph, as we all know, had nothing to do with his son’s birth. So it was Joseph who was descended from a case of incest, and not the Divine Man. Granted. But I will add two further observations. The first is that Joseph and Mary, being cousins, must have had the same ancestry; the second, that it is a disgrace that we should have to read ten pages of genealogical tree for nothing.
“We ruin our eyes learning that A begat B, who begat C, who begat D, who begat E, who begat F, and when we are almost driven off our heads by this interminable rigmarole, we come to the last one, who begat nothing. That, gentlemen, may well be called the kernel of the mystery.”
The three parsons, as one man, abruptly turned their backs on me, and fled.
Two p.m. I catch the train for Nice.
There the diary ended. Although these remarks reveal the author’s very bad taste, uninspired wit, and uncommon coarseness, yet I think they might put certain travellers on their guard against the peril of the Englishman abroad.
I should add that there are undoubtedly charming Englishmen; I have often met them. But they are rarely our fellow-guests at hotels.