Complete Works of Wilkie Collins (2178 page)

Another half-hour of walking, and we begin to stagger: we can feel ourselves growing thinner — - collapsing altogether, as it were. But look ! What appears now, at the very crisis of our sufferings? What building is that, down there, where the ground dips? A church !

Gracious powers, the church ! There is such a place as Bosherville, after all ! The
vieux sabreur
is a veteran ignorant of distances, a superannuated military humbug; but he has not sent us in search of an utter myth. Breakfast, breakfast ! Never mind stopping to look at the church; never mind the old Normans; never mind historical asso- ciations; never mind the beauties of nature. Breakfast ! breakfast !
 
breakfast !

We pass between two rows of miserable cottages — - these must of course be only the suburbs of Bosherville. We meet a second old woman — - a decent old woman, evidently incapable of getting astride upon a mule like the first. “ Pray, madam, where is the hotel? “ “ Hotel ! “ she exclaims, bewildered; “ we have got nothing but a public-house.” “ No matter; where is the public-house? “ “ Here, close by; ‘The Piebald Horse,’ kept by the Veuve Duval.” And here it is, indeed. Come in, come in. Excellent Veuve Duval; glorious sign, “ The Piebald Horse.” Something to eat at last; a bit of the piebald horse, himself, if you like; anything will do; oh, Veuve Duval, anything will do.

The hostess of “ The Piebald Horse “ was a corpulent woman; she had evidently never gone without her breakfast as long as we had, in the whole course of her life. She showed us into a long, low-roofed room, containing many chairs and tables ranged in regular rows. Oh, how cool the place looked ! how cool it really was, after the scorching road. A ray of sunlight shone in at one window, as if to remind us of the contrast between the atmosphere within doors and the atmosphere without; it touched brightly some dishes ranged against the wall, and a part of the cool brick floor. Quite an interior of De Hooge’s, cried Mr Scumble. Even at this supreme moment, the fiercest pangs of hunger failed to dim that poetic painter’s eye for the picturesque.

“ Breakfast ! “ cried I, reckless of art and De Hooge. “ Cold veal, piqué? “ suggested that dear Veuve Duval. “ Yes.” “ Omelette? “ “ Yes.” “ Poached eggs? “ “ Yes.” “ Cheese? “ “ Yes.” “ Bread? coffee? radishes? butter? wine? brandy? “ “ Yes.” “ And, of course, you have got your own pocket-knives with you, like other people who come here? “ concluded the Veuve Duval. This last question was rather puzzling; Mr. Scumble had a penknife in his waistcoat pocket; but could he cut an immense circular loaf of bread, the size, shape and colour of the wooden cover of a “ wash-house copper “, with a penknife? Certainly not. I possessed two palette knives in my painting-box; but could I prostitute art by using a palette knife to eat my breakfast with? Never !

Ultimately, the Veuve Duval benevolently lent us her late husband’s own particular case-knife, and two immense steel forks from the kitchen. Furnished with these weapons, we began the attack. The cold veal was as solid and heavy a wedge of flesh as I ever remember to have encountered; but it was triumphantly demolished in a few minutes. As for the eggs, the omelette, and the cheese, they were the mere light infantry of the gastronomic forces mustered on the table; and they dis- appeared yet faster than the veal. Two bottles of wine, two cups of coffee, four glasses of brandy appeared one after another, as auxiliaries on the field, and, one after another, were utterly annihilated on the spot. Finally, when the assault was over, when everything was destroyed, the generous victors freely consented to pay tribute for the devastation they had committed. The fine politely proposed to them, and as politely accepted, was two
francs
, or one shilling and eightpence each. Thus ended the memorable victory of British teeth over Gallic food, at the sign of “ The Piebald Horse,” St. George Bosherville.

After the breakfast was over, if I felt an inclination for anything in the world, it was, I think, for an hour or so of profound meditation, in a horizontal position, on one of the unoccupied tables around me. But I was not destined to enjoy any such luxury. No sooner was the animal part of Mr. Scumble duly refreshed, than the intellectual part resumed all its accustomed sway and activity. Again the enthusiasm of anti- quarian research, the fire of pictorial ambition, burned within that capacious bosom, as my friend arose, and declared that it was now full time to examine the old church, and to sketch the beauties of Nature in all directions, wherever we could find them. Vainly did I plead for a half hour of delay. Mr. Scumble talked me down instantly with the old Normans and Gothic architecture, and exultingly ended his oration by pointing to my painting-box, and asking me whether I had carried it all the way to Bosherville for nothing? — - And if not, then what had I brought it for? What, indeed ! For my sins, I believe ! — - for my penance; for my inveterate incubus wherever I go. Why, ah ! why, could not I be content with a sketch-book and a pencil? Why must I needs drag about with me this load of mahogany wood, this burden of strong-smelling paint, this absurd posse of materials complete enough to serve for a full-length portrait, or a life-size picture of the highest possible Art? I have committed one of those deplorable errors which may be most acutely felt as perfectly irremediable, on a hot day and after a heavy breakfast. Truly, and from my heart, can I now say it: — - In an evil hour, oh, box, did I bring thee from London to the land of the Gaul !

But there was no resisting the reasoning of my friend. There lay the sun-baked box to confirm it, mutely eloquent, and not quite cold yet. Once more, therefore, did I strap on my burden, and sleepily follow at Mr. Scumble’s heels.

When we got to the church — - I believe it was a very old one; but I really know nothing about it — - the door was locked. I sat down on the steps, and quietly went to sleep, while Mr. Scumble knocked, peeped through the key-hole, and walked round and round the building with a remarkable perseverance, which produced no effect whatever. I was aroused from my slumbers by hearing one of the villagers inform my friend that the beadle, who kept the keys, had carried them off in his pocket, and gone to work in the fields. To what particular point in the compass we ought to direct our steps in order to find this agricultural official of the church, the villager did not know. All he could say was, that the beadle sometimes came home to dinner at two o’clock; and that we had better apply to him, at that hour, in a little cottage situated just opposite to us. If we wanted to see the church, this was the only conceivable chance we had of getting inside of it.

Under these circumstances, I proposed to Mr. Scumble — - as the best means of ensuring a meeting with the beadle — - to leave me asleep on the church steps. I should thus be certain of attracting his attention officially, whenever he passed me, whether early or late, on his way home to dinner. Having some small change ready in my pocket, I was perfectly willing to risk being apprehended as a sacrilegious foreign vagrant, for the sake of the facility which my plan offered for seeing the beadle, come home whenever he might; and informing him that Monsieur Scumble,
artiste et antiquaire Anglais
, &c.&c., wanted the keys of the church. My friend, however, generously refused to allow me to sacrifice myself; and, saying that we could easily return to the beadle’s cottage at two o’clock, proposed that we should ascend to a pine wood cresting a hill that rose behind the church — - a shady place, where we might sketch trees and digest our breakfast in perfect contentment and tranquillity.

Away we went, up a road that led over some fields to the hill. Perhaps it was the breakfast; perhaps it was the exposed situation of the ground on which we were walking; perhaps the sun happened to be exactly vertical at that precise moment — - but, whatever it was, we felt hotter than ever. By the time we had got half way to the wood, we were fain to take shelter under the mere atom of ragged shade supplied by a small and solitary apple-tree, standing in the middle of a parched, naked field. We tried the fruit — - it was bitter as gall, dry as captains’ biscuits. — - We looked around us — - where was the sublime landscape so much vaunted by the deceitful
vieux sabreur?
The old church was below us, white, bare, and insufferably glaring in the fierce sunlight; it looked little better than an old barn, with a steeple attached. The country around was nicely cultivated; and the distant view was com- fortably closed in by trees and meadows. It was just that sort of scene which you pronounce “ pretty,” as you drive through it; and which has no claims to your remembrance five minutes afterwards. Such was the place that we had starved and wearied ourselves to come and see ! Day of disasters ! what worse calamities and disappointments can you yet have in store for us? Bosherville, aptly-named Bosherville ! have you nothing to offer to your deluded tourists but this?

We made but a short halt of it under the apple-tree. About ten minutes of the most uncomfortable repose possible, in that exposed situation, sufficed to re-animate us in our resolution to reach the pine wood on the top of the hill. Considering the intenseness of the heat, and the season of the year, our topic of conversation as we once more traced our way over the bare, scorched ground, was an alarmingly appro- priate one — - it was hydrophobia ! Mr. Scumble was disastrously elo- quent upon this subject; he quoted various “ cases,” one more fearful than another; he harangued upon them in all their bearings, with a grim, solemn enjoyment of his own horrors, which it was truly edifying to behold — - he was just launching into a furious diatribe against the whole canine species, when the words were suspended on his lips by a growl; a captious, dissenting, ferocious growl, close at his heels ! He looked round; and there was a dog behind him — - a dog that had supernaturally stolen upon his security, avengingly marked out the calves of his legs for immediate sacrifice, exactly at the moment when he was advocating the annihilation of the whole dog species ! To this day, I cannot believe that animal; that hideous, mangy, overgrown, blear-eyed cur, to have been mortal ! His master — - if he had a master — - never appeared in sight; where he had come from; how he had managed to get close up to us, on a perfectly open road, without betraying his whereabouts, it was impossible to tell. There he still stood, as we now faced him, coolly waiting his opportunity for a “ bite,” the living realisation of the subject of our talk — - hydrophobia in his moist, fiery eyes; hydrophobia in his bared teeth and yawning jaws ! hydro- phobia in his stealthy, noiseless, cat-like tread ! We went on, keep- ing a sharp look-out upon him; and he followed, keeping as sharp a look-out upon us — - when we stopped, he stopped — - when we spoke, he growled immediately, as if he longed to get hold of our very voices in some tangible shape, and worry them. He followed us in this way — -
 
just as the spectre-poodle followed Faust — - to the very edge of the wood; watched us intently while we broke off for his especial benefit two of the thickest sticks we could find; uttered a long, low, dreary howl of mortification as we got them free to use; and then walked softly and slowly back again, along the road by which he had come. Of all the “ running commentaries on a text “ that I ever heard of, that portentous animal — - as the running commentary on Mr. Scumble’s dissertation upon hydrophobia — - was the most remarkable and the most complete !

Our supernatural adventure with the dog thus brought to a happy termination, we had leisure to look around us in the wood. Part of it was overgrown with thick brambles and bushes; part, was delight- fully covered with the softest and thickest moss, from which the stalwart young pines sprang up together in crowds. In this latter direction we turned our steps, and soon came to a halt. How grateful was the shade in these dim, quiet recesses of the wood ! — - how soft the natural bed which the mossy ground offered everywhere to our limbs !
 
We thought on “ As You Like It,” and the Forest of Arden — - on the complainings of the melancholy Jacques; on the philosophy of the exiled Duke; on all that gives to scenery and figures their endless and bewitching charm, in that loveliest pastoral picture which Shakspeare ever drew !

For some time we lay thus musing quietly in our comfortable retreat. If we had not been pursued by a fatality on that disastrous day, we should have wisely remained idling in the wood until the cool of the evening; and then have found our way back to Rouen as pleasantly as we could. But it was not thus written ! My eye suddenly fell upon the unlucky painting-box, as it lay at my side. I felt that I must make a sketch, or cover myself with ignominy as an artist and a man ! I had, more or less, sweated under that box since five o’clock in the morn- ing — - to take it back again without once having made use of it, was too ridiculous ! Rousing myself, accordingly, from my sylvan day-dreams, I unpacked my materials, prepared my palette, seized my brushes and my bit of mill-board, and began to work resolutely and in a mighty hurry. A peep of distant country was just visible through the rows of pine stems — - I was not particular — - I had vowed to make a sketch, no matter what — - so I sketched the pine stems and the distant country.

While I pursued my occupation, not one audible word dropped from the generally eloquent lips of Mr. Scumble, who now happened to be placed immediately behind me. At first, I attributed this to the practical check administered to that distinguished man, by our enemy the dog, during the discussion on hydrophobia; but, on turning round to assure myself of the truth, I discovered my friend extended flat on his back, and fast asleep already — - with his drawing-book and pencil lying idle by his side. Easy style of sketching from Nature that, Mr Scumble ! Quite a new and improved method for young beginners ! Nice example, sir, of industry and enterprise to set to the humble individual whom you upbraided for inactivity in the parlour of the “ Piebald Horse ! “ Oh, weak and faltering human nature, who shall number thy inconsistencies ! Oh, genius, heaven-born genius, where is the moral apothecary who shall purge thee of all thy frailties !