Complete Works of Wilkie Collins (2177 page)

“ Very true,” said I, “ but one may find it dull, if one stays too long at Rome, at Venice, at Alexandria, at Jericho — - why not even at Rouen, at last? “

“ Dull? Never ! — - Are we brave and gallant men? — - if we are, we are never dull,” pursued the
vieux sabreur
, tossing off a glass of his own brandy (he always got eloquent on brandy). “ I, on my part, you per- ceive, my dear sir, have never been dull ! — - was I dull in Spain, when your dragoons — -
Sacré bleu !
they can fight; they are braves, your dra- goons ! — - when your red cavalry laid me on my back, with a pistol-bullet in my leg, a sabre-cut on my side, and two more on my head; even then, am I dull, am I low spirited? No ! I swear a little to console myself; and I am contented ! — - they make me swallow drugs — - nom d’une pipe !
 
such potions ! — - in the hospital — - well ! I swear a little more, I console myself a little more, I am still contented ! They can’t get the bullet out of my leg — - I limp — - they report me unfit for service — - good ! — - per- haps, I swear at this again — - but, sacré mille tonnerres ! I console my- self that I keep my leg — - I never find myself dull — - and I live; live, worthy sir, to thank your red cavalry for knocking me over; for, but for them, I should have followed the emperor into Russia, and left my carcase in the snow — -
Mille bombes !
left it among Cossacks, who drink stinking lamp-oil, and eat their horse-flesh raw ! “

“ But to return to Rouen,” I resumed, anxious to bring the old soldier back to the subject from which he had slightly wandered. “ Is there nothing new still to be seen? — - if there were, for instance, a few excur- sions to be made in the neighbourhood.”

“ There are ! — -
Credié !
there are ! “ answered the veteran — - “ I ask myself; I ask all my comrades; I ask the whole world, where are there such excursions as at Rouen? Can anybody tell me? — - anybody ! “ con- tinued the
vieux sabreur
, looking out boldly into the empty air, by way of apostrophising the whole solar system.

“ There is St. George Bosherville,” said Mr. Scumble, joining in the conversation for the first time. “ Bosherville possesses an old church very interesting.”

“ Good ! “ interposed the
sabreur
, catching the name. “ Good ! he
 
speaks well, the friend of this worthy sir, at my side ! Now, listen: you rise at five hours and a half, to-morrow morning — - you take the boat — you ask to be disembarked down the river, at the road which leads to St. George Bosherville — - then, you walk half an hour — - three-quarters of an hour — - which shall I say?
Mille z’yeux !
which shall I say? — - well, you walk — - you breakfast at Bosherville — - you see all that is most mag- nificent, most sublime in landscape — - you come back in the evening; and thank me, a thousand times thank me, for sending you to St. George Bosherville ! “

Though this magic name, Bosherville, sounded to me excessively like the appellation of some sham settlement in an American swamp, I determined to follow the advice of the
vieux sabreur
, if only with the object of discovering a little novelty, and escaping from Rouen for one day at least. Excellent as a travelling companion, as well as an anti- quarian, Mr. Scumble avowed his intention of accompanying me — - partly for my sake; partly for the sake of the old church. Accordingly, we saluted the veteran, who shouted fresh directions after us as we left him; packed up
our
sketching materials; and, rain or sunshine, desired the people at the inn to call us punctually at five the next morning.

I said we packed up our sketching materials; and I emphatically repeat it. I was an amateur artist, as well as Mr. Scumble. Though, as a painter, of vastly inferior calibre to that accomplished gentleman, my preparations for sketching were of far greater importance than his. I had with me a painting box (which I shall have occasion to introduce again hereafter), made to strap on to my shoulders, like a knapsack; and stocked with a wonderfully complete assortment of colours, brushes, mill-boards, palette-knives, palettes, oil-bottles, gallipots, and rags. Being of the inferior, or embryo order of artists, I, of course, required a perfect paraphernalia of materials to work with — - gentlemen of amateur tendencies generally do. But, with Mr. Scumble, the case was different — to that skilful workman all tools were alike — - give that colossal artist a sketch-book and a halfpenny pencil; and, scorning any assistance from India rubber, he could safely defy all competition, ancient or modern. I only introduce these remarks parenthetically, for the sake of properly explaining the epithet which adorns the title of the present narrative: we went to St. George Bosherville fully determined to make masterly sketches of any desirable objects that came in our way; therefore, our tour was essentially a “ pictorial tour; “ and therefore it is, I think not unreasonably, so entitled here.

Well: we arose at five o’clock in the morning. A large number of highly-respectable persons who get up very early — - being, as I am in- clined to think, affected with a restlessness of the circulation and a fidgety nervous fibre, which deprives them of the power of lying in bed after sunrise — - are accustomed to elevate, or conceal, their infirmity by publishing it to the world as a sort of sanitary regulation. These are the people who prescribe early rising to others — - without stopping to inquire about their constitutions and temperaments — - as necessary to health and conducive to happiness. Renouncing all argument with persons so misguided, I merely beg to offer them a few facts for consi- deration. These facts are contained in the following true and carefully- digested statement of the effect of early rising upon the health and happiness of Mr. Scumble and myself, on the morning when we started for our memorable tour.

On being awakened, Nature, in the case of both the sufferers, imme- diately rebelled against being artificially startled from repose by a knock at the door. A painful disposition was observed in the eyelid to drop again the moment it was raised. The whole physical organisation sank under an uneasy sense of lethargy, and the breathing became slightly stertorous. On bringing the body, by a convulsive effort, into a sitting posture, a disagreeable tendency to immoderate and incessant yawning was immediately developed, which lasted throughout the greater part of the day, in spite of every effort to remedy it. (N.B. — - both sufferers had gone to bed early ). On stepping out of bed an unpleasant dryness in the mouth, accompanied by a taste of copper, brass, or other metallic substances, as well as by a slight headache, immediately supervened; and, like the tendency to yawning, continued, more or less, throughout the day. ( N.B — - neither sufferer had eaten any supper). Lastly, the serenity of temper which peculiarly distinguishes Mr. Scumble and his companion, on all other occasions, was considerably ruffled on this.

They began by differing upon every possible subject of conversation; and ended by relapsing into sulky silence. One of the enterprising tourists was so completely prostrated, that he cut himself while shaving; the other was so totally unnerved as to tumble over his own painting- box. Three gallipots were broken, one tube of Prussian blue was burst, in that tightly-packed receptacle, at the moment of the concussion. Such is the true history, diagnostically treated, of the effects of early rising on the health and happiness of Mr. Scumble and his friend.

And now, to return to the narrative. It was a sunny, cloudless morning as we walked to the quay, and found the boat — - a clumsy little steamer — - just ready to start. We hastened on board, and immediately began to descend the river. I hope the worthy reader will not expect me to give any description of the scenery of the Seine in this place. My time was too fully occupied in yawning, and vainly trying to sit, stand, or lie down (I was not particular which) in a comfortable position, to leave me any opportunity for exercising the faculties of observation. I have a vague impression of passing multitudes of little islands crowded with trees; of banks sometimes wooded and sometimes rocky; of a great heat already in the atmosphere overhead: and of a strong smell of half-digested garlic, proceeding from a very orderly dozen or so of peasantry, who were our fellow-passengers. Beyond this, I remember nothing. At the expiration of an hour the engines were stopped oppo- site a miserable village, numbering some three or four houses — - the best starting point, we were told, for St. George Bosherville. A boat, shaped like an exaggerated horse-trough, put off to the steamer; we landed in it, and started at once for our place of destination, guided only by that simple yet comprehensive direction, “ Go straight on ! “

By this time we had begun to feel rather more than an agreeably sharp appetite for breakfast. We had set forth in too great a hurry to provide ourselves with anything from the hotel; and no eatables of any kind — - not even a piece of bread — - could be obtained on board the steam-boat. We thought little of this, however, when we landed at the village by the river side. We were still innocent of suspicion — - we still believed implicitly in the
vieux sabreur
, and the half-hour’s walk before breakfasting at Bosherville. Mr. Scumble led the way along the road briskly, and I followed with my inestimable painting-box strapped over my shoulders. We overheard the villagers speculating about us, as we left them on the bank by the river. They decided that Mr. Scumble was a “ milord,” and that I was his valet, appointed to carry my noble master’s luggage after him in the box at my back.

For full half an hour we walked along shady lanes, thickly fringed on either side by walnut and pear-trees. Occasionally we passed a neat-looking cottage, surrounded by its own little plot of kitchen-garden, but no signs could we discern of a village or an old church. Even in
 
the shade we could feel how hot it must be in the sunshine. The buz- zing of insects sounded incessantly over our heads — - no breath of air came to us — - not a leaf moved on the trees around — - the patches of cloudless sky that we now and then discerned, looked blazing hot. We were beginning to feel intensely anxious about breakfast, when an old beggar met us, and from him we determined to seek information. “ Here’s a
sous
for you “, said I. “ Vive l’Angleterre ! “ answered the gratified and venerable mendicant. “ Are we near St. George Bosher- ville? “ asked Mr. Scumble. “ Never heard of such a place in my life,” replied the beggar. From this moment I date our first dread doubts of the veracity of the
vieux sabreur
.

Another half-hour’s walking brought us out, more hungry than ever, upon interminable ranges of corn-fields. Here the sun poured down upon us uninterruptedly — - I felt that my beloved painting-box was slowly broiling upon my back. No houses were to be seen, far or near — - nobody appeared to direct us. I looked round despairingly on Mr. Scumble, who now walked behind me. That cultivated artist and philosophic man appeared to be dividing his time between wiping the moisture from his brow, and breakfasting
gratis
on ears of corn. As my painting-box was not quite “ baked to a turn “ yet, I followed his example, and, in the absence of manufactured wheat, began to prey vigorously on the raw material. The experiment was a perfect failure. The ears of corn refused to go any lower than my throat — - one or two might accidentally descend a little further; but they were sure to be coughed up again immediately afterwards, all right and tight, into their old position. I gave it up, and resigned myself, thenceforth, an unre- sisting sacrifice to hunger and heat.

At last we met another living creature (I was about to call him a human being, but he was undeserving of the epithet), a dirty, hairy, sinister-looking wretch, mounted on a lean shambling horse — - a mis- creant of the melo-dramatic order, with a short pipe in his mouth, and pistols at his saddle-bow. In Italy we should have set him down for a bandit, taking a morning ride; but, being in France, we presumed him to be a horse-patrol. “ St. George Bosherville? “ we exclaimed inter- rogatively, as he passed. “ Go on ! “ growled the fellow, savagely, without taking his pipe out of his mouth, stopping his horse, or vouch- safing even to look at us. Oh, for one of our “ red cavalry,” spoken of by the
vieux sabreur
, to lay that patrol on his back !
Nom d’une pipe !
 
the sight would have been almost as agreeable to us at that moment as the sight of a good breakfast !

We had now been walking from the river-side more than two hours, when suddenly we caught sight of a village — - a very little one — - but still a village. Oh, joy ! oh, ecstacy ! oh, welcome fulfilment of the long- deferred hope of the hungry and the hot ! But no ! Not joy, not ecstacy, not fulfilment of hope — - but climax of despair ! Misery of miseries, there is no church visible !
Mille bombes
, it is not Bosherville even yet !

A woman comes by as we make the above discovery — - an old woman. She is riding on a mule, and (I blush while I write it) rides astride !
 
Modestly averting our eyes, we address our regular form of interroga- tory — - “ St. George Bosherville? “ — - to this aged Amazon. “ Straight on,” cries she, and kicks the mule on either side, and passes by, surly and unpitying as the horse-patrol himself.

There is no baker’s shop, no inn to be seen in this accursed village. We must still go on, furious and famishing. At this hottest and hungriest part of our tour, I consider it, in every respect, a most fortunate circum- stance that we met no children of fleshy appearance and tender years. If we had ! — - but I dare not pursue the subject; let Ghouls, cannibals, and shipwrecked sailors pause over this passage, and reflect. The mere mutton-eating part of the public had better for their own sakes, go on to the next paragraph.