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.22
Two 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.”23
When 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
