Cross Channel (9 page)

My dearest cousin—

A week before Mr Hawkins & I departed, you rallied me with pretty mockery concerning the vanity of my expedition—that the company I should seek out would be that which most resembled my own, & the resultant experiences no more than the mutual licking of bear cubs—& you told me that I should come home refined & polished like a Dutch skipper from a whale-fishing. It is for this reason that I lately ordered changes to our itinerary—& if I should die from the attack of brigands, the negligence of a rural physician, or the venom of a viper, you shall be the cause, Mademoiselle Evelina—since it was your doing that we left our course for Italy and have come to Montpelier. Mr Hawkins proffered some remarks upon our altered destination—that he would never have known you such an authority on the French geography having not ventured closer to Gaul than the library at Nesfield.

My observations about brigands & vipers were not of a serious nature, Evelina—you are not to imagine that they are, or that you would be responsible were anything to befal Mr Hawkins & myself—besides he is armed with a musquetoon as I have told you which must discourage both brigands & vipers. Montpelier is in any case a handsome
city—it is bien percée use the French expression, & indeed such a Galloman have I become that I scarcely remember the English equivalences of the French expressions I employ. It is, as we would express the matter, a finely laid out city—we are lodged at the Cheval Blanc which is accounted the finest auberge in the town, yet Mr Hawkins condemns it for a squalid hovel where the traveller is plucked like a bird of passage, with every hand reaching out to pull a feather. Mr Hawkins has a low view of the French hostelries, which he maintains have not improved in quality since last he was in France at the time of Charlemagne while you were still in the nursery, dear cousin—but I have a more generous or tolerant disposition in the matter—& besides all this, it is anyway part of Hawkins’ employment to argue prices & deal with knaves. You did not demand letters from me in order to be told this, I am certain. Montpelier is a handsome city & a place of pilgrimage to those in ill health which will no doubt please Mama—the butter is peculiar but in my view rather fine, being pure white and resembling hair pomade in appearance—we could not find hot water to make our tea in several consecutive establishments, which displeased my scowling tutor as you will imagine, & he did not respond to my suggestion that the heat of the day did service for the missing heat of the water. He is inclined to behave toward me as if he were a physician & I some feeble-minded boy, which I find most vexing. He claims to find my renewed cheerfulness excessive for the circumstances, as I do his impertinence. On our route to Montpelier not far short eight leagues or so we passed through Nismes and were able to view the Roman antiquities on whose subject Mr Hawkins
had a good deal to say—the Pont Du Garde is indeed a worthy edifice which I have sketched for your pleasure.

After Lyons we travelled through Burgundy which afforded us the instruction of observing the vandange. The very hills and mountains of this region seem laid out by God so that the vines which cover every slope from the northern to southern extremity receive the fullest generosity of Phaeton. The bunches of grapes lie like pearls on the branches & even entwined with the thorns & thickets of the hedgerow—Mr Hawkins & I felt enjoined to essay the consequence of their crushing—in truth the burgundy wine we found there was watery & lacking in strength compared to any one might purchase in London & my fancy for obtaining a hogshead of the new vintage on our return was discarded by the road’s side—it is probable therefore that the best wine of burgundy is exported & sold abroad—for when we reached the Dauphiné we drank wine called ermitage which contained such strength we could not find in burgundy—it sold for three livres the bottle—we also discovered an iron-wheeled engine known as an
alembic
which trundles from village to village for the purpose of distilling the local wine into liquor—this will not be of the greatest interest to you, I fear.

I blush at the memory of my first letters—& would have them back if there were a manner for effecting this—they were the letters of a young cub, & a spoiled one who missed his cousin & judged difference mere peculiarity—yet I still believe that the stinking macquerel & the sallad made of stinking oil & the omelet made of stinking eggs that we were obliged by hunger to devour in Saint Omer were all truthfully described. But I had not then shrugged off my melancholy and I regret that on occasions suspicion
and hostility overcame me. That the postilions wear pigtail queues and vault into boots the size of milkchurns while still encumbered by their shoes—that the gentlemen of Paris carry umbrellas over the heads on fine days against the sun—that the same gentlemen employ the service of barbers for their dogs—that the horses are ratty in aspect—that lemonade is sold in the streets—I have come to a warmer understanding of such things than I had at the time—& a warmer understanding than the frequently perspiring & foul-tempered Mr Hawkins will perhaps ever do.

It is true however that some of the inns are indeed squalid & that we have more than once witnessed—no, my dear, you do not need to be informed of such things, especially in a letter which your sister might take from your grasp. There are two aspects to this country which Frenchified as I am I yet accustom myself to with much difficulty—the infernal division of the calendar into jours maigres & jours gras—we incessantly hear the cry of jour maigre whenever the stomach craves a good beefsteak—the French would rather commit foul murder than devour the wrong part of God’s creation on the wrong day—it is all most vexing & God bless England for the land of reason. Nor can I accustom myself to the lack of a pretty girl to gaze upon—in truth they are a swarthy race & from Boulogne to Paris & from Paris to Lyons we saw naught but women who might as well be muleteers—in a hostelry southward of Lyons as we were about our dinner at last a pretty girl entered & the whole company French & travellers gave her the tribute of applause to which she was evidently accustomed—you must not mind any of this—I cast my eyes upon the locket each night before I say my prayers.

The common people are much dirtier than the common people in England—they are meagre & half-starved—yet their starvation is not such as to prevent them from ill humour, indecency & crime—they are an impulsive race of course—in Montpelier I witnessed a coachman whip a horse which had fallen to its knees on the street & could not get up—it was a savage sight—Hawkins forbade me to intervene as I would have done at Nesfield—& when he was through whipping the beast his master emerged from the house & gave the coachman a whipping in his turn until the fellow was on his knees like the horse beside him—then the master retired into the house & the coachman flung his arms around the neck of the horse—I draw no lesson from this but if I were to begin the narrative of the cruelties I have seen you would enjoin me to return without ever setting my eyes upon Italy.

The people of quality are in my judgment more attentive to their own persons than in England—while our common people are less dirty & less slovenly than their French equivalences—the people of quality here would not neglect their external dress as the English might happily do—the Frenchman must have his laced coat & powdered hair & must appear clean & well-dressed—nevertheless his house will often be filled with litter & dirt such as an Englishman would not abide—it is almost a riddle from the nursery would you have an orderly man in a disorderly house or a disorderly man in an orderly house?—ask that of your tutor when next he entertains you with moral philosophy. We have witnessed the filth & disarray of their houses because of their natural hospitality & warmth which they extend even to a bear cub and his ill-humoured tutor—they are indeed the friendliest & most welcoming race I
have met although you will say that my evidence is less than it could be but I have been in Edinburgh do not forget.

I have enquired most particularly of many persons of quality concerning the sports they practise and have received little information—there is racing of course—there is hunting—there is gaming which subject I have not mentioned to you in this letter, dear cousin—the common people have their separate entertainments as you may expect—I cannot however find that there is sport such as is practised in England—this is a weakness in a nation as I believe. This is all dull for you.

Last night we were served small birds called grives which not having the dictionary about us we were unable to identify—they were presented wrapped in vine leaves & were roasted but still the blood ran from them when cut—Mr Hawkins could not abide this as being raw meat—it was explained that if the roasting is protracted the juice is lost—you must run to the dictionary and discover what manner of creature we ate—there are also red partridges twice the size of our British ones—you will now be as sleepy reading as I am writing—goodnight my cousin.

Post scriptum
. Mr Hawkins surmises that I might have neglected to inform you of all the intricacies of all the antiquities of Nismes & of the Pont Du Garde—how many tiers how many arches how many feet of height what order of architecture does it belong to? Tuscan Mr Hawkins—it is like being still in the schoolroom—whether or not the ancients did exceed us in beauty as we exceed them in convenience—Evelina, you exceed all the ancients in beauty—I have assured Mr Hawkins that you have been informed of all the matter he poured into my ears while I was sketching—I would count upon him to catechise you
on our return—I am so fond of you my dear & you do miss me a little I trust—my melancholy is quite dispersed—I swore at myself for a fool on our coming to Montpelier for I cannot expect a letter from you until we reach Nice or even Genoa.

There is a great amount of religion in this country—priests and monks abound—we have seen many churches adorned with many statues in niches on their front end—Mr Hawkins will know the name for it—I have temporarily forgot—we do not enter many of them except for curiosity as to the antiquities—there is much silver & much coloured glass & the incense takes the nostrils like snuff so that my handkerchief is a constant requirement—there are large crucifixes at the cross roads & within the fields—there are many protestants in this city & they are well and kindly governed—however according to the laws of France a protestant minister may not perform his acts of worship—one such was hanged in the market place for doing so.

You cannot imagine the melons we have been devouring since we reached the southern extremity of the country—from the esplanade where we walk there is a prospect of the Mediterranean Sea to one quarter & the Sevennes Mountains to the opposite one—you would not think that the fruit so prized & pampered at Nesfield—so protected from the red spider—could be so easy & abundant in another place—it is like another species the flesh rich & golden & sweet & fragrant—it would turn me voluptuary or at least Frenchman—even Mr Hawkins by the testimony of reliable witnesses has been seen to smile as it is deposited before him. As you see, my mother’s apprehensions as to my disposition are quite misplaced.

My dear Evelina, your cousin is not greatly improved as a letter-writer by his travels—the truth is I suffer an awkwardness with the pen which I rarely feel when I am before you—so you shall continue to mock me for a Dutch whale fisher—present my honourable respects to your Father and Mother—I dream of your delicate hand awaiting me at Nice.

 Your loving cousin

Hamilton Lindsay

Sir Hamilton Lindsay departed for Chertsey on Thursday, 6th August. Samuel Dobson travelled on top with the groom, Sir Hamilton inside with the cricket bats. This was, he knew without reflection, the correct priority: Dobson would only be toughened by rain and rough weather, whereas the bats were more sensitive to the displeasure of the elements and must be treated with care. In tedious moments of the journey, Sir Hamilton would take out a soft cloth and gently rub a little butter into the blade of his bat. Others preferred oil, but he felt a certain local pride in this particularity of his. The instrument itself was carved from a branch of willow hewn on his own estate; now it was being swabbed with butter made from the milk of cows which had grazed in the very water-meadow at whose edge the willows grew.

He finished soothing his bat and wound around it the yard of muslin within which it always travelled. Dobson’s bat was a cruder engine, and Dobson no doubt had his own secrets for making it as strong and supple as he required. Some men rubbed ale into their bats; others the fat of a ham; others again were said to warm their bats before the fire and
then make water upon them. No doubt the moon had to be in a certain quarter at the same time, thought Sir Hamilton with a sceptical jerk of the head. The only thing that counted was how you smote the ball; and Dobson could smite with the best of them. But it was the persistency and valour of the man’s right arm that had persuaded Sir Hamilton to bring him to Nesfield.

Dobson was the second under-gardener at the Hall. It was not, however, to Dobson that a man would readily turn for the implementation of a landscape by the late Mr Brown. The fellow could scarce tell a lupin from a turnip, and his duties were confined to the physical and the general rather than to the skilled and the particular. In short, he was not permitted to handle a spade without the presence of an overseer. But Sir Hamilton had not offered him employment - or played the poacher, to use the description of Dobson’s previous employer - with the intention of procuring a lady-fingered turf-trimmer. Dobson’s expertise was with another kind of turf. To witness the man’s unflinchingness when standing at bat’s end was sure compensation for his failure of wit in the kitchen garden.