“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.”24
Somewhat 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
