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The Paris Sketch Book by William Makepeace Thackeray

W >> William Makepeace Thackeray >> The Paris Sketch Book




The invisible joke was brought to an end by Poinsinet's too great
reliance on it; for being, as we have said, of a very tender and
sanguine disposition, he one day fell in love with a lady in whose
company he dined, and whom he actually proposed to embrace; but the
fair lady, in the hurry of the moment, forgot to act up to the
joke; and instead of receiving Poinsinet's salute with calmness,
grew indignant, called him an impudent little scoundrel, and lent
him a sound box on the ear. With this slap the invisibility of
Poinsinet disappeared, the gnomes and genii left him, and he
settled down into common life again, and was hoaxed only by vulgar
means.

A vast number of pages might be filled with narratives of the
tricks that were played upon him; but they resemble each other a
good deal, as may be imagined, and the chief point remarkable about
them is the wondrous faith of Poinsinet. After being introduced to
the Prussian ambassador at the Tuileries, he was presented to the
Turkish envoy at the Place Vendome, who received him in state,
surrounded by the officers of his establishment, all dressed in the
smartest dresses that the wardrobe of the Opera Comique could
furnish.

As the greatest honor that could be done to him, Poinsinet was
invited to eat, and a tray was produced, on which was a delicate
dish prepared in the Turkish manner. This consisted of a
reasonable quantity of mustard, salt, cinnamon and ginger, nutmegs
and cloves, with a couple of tablespoonfuls of cayenne pepper, to
give the whole a flavor; and Poinsinet's countenance may be
imagined when he introduced into his mouth a quantity of this
exquisite compound.

"The best of the joke was," says the author who records so many of
the pitiless tricks practised upon poor Poinsinet, "that the little
man used to laugh at them afterwards himself with perfect good
humor; and lived in the daily hope that, from being the sufferer,
he should become the agent in these hoaxes, and do to others as he
had been done by." Passing, therefore, one day, on the Pont Neuf,
with a friend, who had been one of the greatest performers, the
latter said to him, "Poinsinet, my good fellow, thou hast suffered
enough, and thy sufferings have made thee so wise and cunning, that
thou art worthy of entering among the initiated, and hoaxing in thy
turn." Poinsinet was charmed; he asked when he should be
initiated, and how? It was told him that a moment would suffice,
and that the ceremony might be performed on the spot. At this
news, and according to order, Poinsinet flung himself straightway
on his knees in the kennel; and the other, drawing his sword,
solemnly initiated him into the sacred order of jokers. From that
day the little man believed himself received into the society; and
to this having brought him, let us bid him a respectful adieu.




THE DEVIL'S WAGER.


It was the hour of the night when there be none stirring save
churchyard ghosts--when all doors are closed except the gates of
graves, and all eyes shut but the eyes of wicked men.

When there is no sound on the earth except the ticking of the
grasshopper, or the croaking of obscene frogs in the poole.

And no light except that of the blinking starres, and the wicked
and devilish wills-o'-the-wisp, as they gambol among the marshes,
and lead good men astraye.

When there is nothing moving in heaven except the owle, as he
flappeth along lazily; or the magician, as he rides on his infernal
broomsticke, whistling through the aire like the arrowes of a
Yorkshire archere.

It was at this hour (namely, at twelve o'clock of the night,) that
two beings went winging through the black clouds, and holding
converse with each other.

Now the first was Mercurius, the messenger, not of gods (as the
heathens feigned), but of daemons; and the second, with whom he held
company, was the soul of Sir Roger de Rollo, the brave knight. Sir
Roger was Count of Chauchigny, in Champagne; Seigneur of Santerre,
Villacerf and aultre lieux. But the great die as well as the
humble; and nothing remained of brave Rodger now, but his coffin
and his deathless soul.

And Mercurius, in order to keep fast the soul, his companion, had
bound him round the neck with his tail; which, when the soul was
stubborn, he would draw so tight as to strangle him wellnigh,
sticking into him the barbed point thereof; whereat the poor soul,
Sir Rollo, would groan and roar lustily.

Now they two had come together from the gates of purgatorie, being
bound to those regions of fire and flame where poor sinners fry and
roast in saecula saeculorum.

"It is hard," said the poor Sir Rollo, as they went gliding through
the clouds, "that I should thus be condemned for ever, and all for
want of a single ave."

"How, Sir Soul?" said the daemon. "You were on earth so wicked,
that not one, or a million of aves, could suffice to keep from
hell-flame a creature like thee; but cheer up and be merry; thou
wilt be but a subject of our lord the Devil, as am I; and, perhaps,
thou wilt be advanced to posts of honor, as am I also:" and to show
his authoritie, he lashed with his tail the ribbes of the wretched
Rollo.

"Nevertheless, sinner as I am, one more ave would have saved me;
for my sister, who was Abbess of St. Mary of Chauchigny, did so
prevail, by her prayer and good works, for my lost and wretched
soul, that every day I felt the pains of purgatory decrease; the
pitchforks which, on my first entry, had never ceased to vex and
torment my poor carcass, were now not applied above once a week;
the roasting had ceased, the boiling had discontinued; only a
certain warmth was kept up, to remind me of my situation."

"A gentle stewe," said the daemon.

"Yea, truly, I was but in a stew, and all from the effects of the
prayers of my blessed sister. But yesterday, he who watched me in
purgatory told me, that yet another prayer from my sister, and my
bonds should be unloosed, and I, who am now a devil, should have
been a blessed angel."

"And the other ave?" said the daemon.

"She died, sir--my sister died--death choked her in the middle of
the prayer." And hereat the wretched spirit began to weepe and
whine piteously; his salt tears falling over his beard, and
scalding the tail of Mercurius the devil.

"It is, in truth, a hard case," said the daemon; "but I know of no
remedy save patience, and for that you will have an excellent
opportunity in your lodgings below."

"But I have relations," said the Earl; "my kinsman Randal, who has
inherited my lands, will he not say a prayer for his uncle?"

"Thou didst hate and oppress him when living."

"It is true; but an ave is not much; his sister, my niece, Matilda--"

"You shut her in a convent, and hanged her lover."

"Had I not reason? besides, has she not others?"

"A dozen, without doubt."

"And my brother, the prior?"

"A liege subject of my lord the Devil: he never opens his mouth,
except to utter an oath, or to swallow a cup of wine."

"And yet, if but one of these would but say an ave for me, I should
be saved."

"Aves with them are rarae aves," replied Mercurius, wagging his tail
right waggishly; "and, what is more, I will lay thee any wager that
not one of these will say a prayer to save thee."

"I would wager willingly," responded he of Chauchigny; "but what
has a poor soul like me to stake?"

"Every evening, after the day's roasting, my lord Satan giveth a
cup of cold water to his servants; I will bet thee thy water for a
year, that none of the three will pray for thee."

"Done!" said Rollo.

"Done!" said the daemon; "and here, if I mistake not, is thy castle
of Chauchigny."

Indeed, it was true. The soul, on looking down, perceived the tall
towers, the courts, the stables, and the fair gardens of the
castle. Although it was past midnight, there was a blaze of light
in the banqueting-hall, and a lamp burning in the open window of
the Lady Matilda.

"With whom shall we begin?" said the daemon: "with the baron or the
lady?"

"With the lady, if you will."

"Be it so; her window is open, let us enter."

So they descended, and entered silently into Matilda's chamber.


The young lady's eyes were fixed so intently on a little clock,
that it was no wonder that she did not perceive the entrance of her
two visitors. Her fair cheek rested on her white arm, and her
white arm on the cushion of a great chair in which she sat,
pleasantly supported by sweet thoughts and swan's down; a lute was
at her side, and a book of prayers lay under the table (for piety
is always modest). Like the amorous Alexander, she sighed and
looked (at the clock)--and sighed for ten minutes or more, when she
softly breathed the word "Edward!"

At this the soul of the Baron was wroth. "The jade is at her old
pranks," said he to the devil; and then addressing Matilda: "I pray
thee, sweet niece, turn thy thoughts for a moment from that
villanous page, Edward, and give them to thine affectionate uncle."

When she heard the voice, and saw the awful apparition of her uncle
(for a year's sojourn in purgatory had not increased the comeliness
of his appearance), she started, screamed, and of course fainted.

But the devil Mercurius soon restored her to herself. "What's
o'clock?" said she, as soon as she had recovered from her fit: "is
he come?"

"Not thy lover, Maude, but thine uncle--that is, his soul. For the
love of heaven, listen to me: I have been frying in purgatory for a
year past, and should have been in heaven but for the want of a
single ave."

"I will say it for thee to-morrow, uncle."

"To-night, or never."

"Well, to-night be it:" and she requested the devil Mercurius to
give her the prayer-book from under the table; but he had no sooner
touched the holy book than he dropped it with a shriek and a yell.
"It was hotter," he said, "than his master Sir Lucifer's own
particular pitchfork." And the lady was forced to begin her ave
without the aid of her missal.

At the commencement of her devotions the daemon retired, and carried
with him the anxious soul of poor Sir Roger de Rollo.

The lady knelt down--she sighed deeply; she looked again at the
clock, and began--

"Ave Maria."

When a lute was heard under the window, and a sweet voice singing--

"Hark!" said Matilda.


"Now the toils of day are over,
And the sun hath sunk to rest,
Seeking, like a fiery lover,
The bosom of the blushing west--

"The faithful night keeps watch and ward,
Raising the moon, her silver shield,
And summoning the stars to guard
The slumbers of my fair Mathilde!"


"For mercy's sake!" said Sir Rollo, "the ave first, and next the
song."

So Matilda again dutifully betook her to her devotions, and began--

"Ave Maria gratia plena!" but the music began again, and the prayer
ceased of course.


"The faithful night! Now all things lie
Hid by her mantle dark and dim,
In pious hope I hither hie,
And humbly chant mine ev'ning hymn.

"Thou art my prayer, my saint, my shrine!
(For never holy pilgrim kneel'd,
Or wept at feet more pure than thine),
My virgin love, my sweet Mathilde!"


"Virgin love!" said the Baron. "Upon my soul, this is too bad!"
and he thought of the lady's lover whom he had caused to be hanged.

But SHE only thought of him who stood singing at her window.

"Niece Matilda!" cried Sir Roger, agonizedly, "wilt thou listen to
the lies of an impudent page, whilst thine uncle is waiting but a
dozen words to make him happy?"

At this Matilda grew angry: "Edward is neither impudent nor a liar,
Sir Uncle, and I will listen to the end of the song."

"Come away," said Mercurius; "he hath yet got wield, field, sealed,
congealed, and a dozen other rhymes beside; and after the song will
come the supper."

So the poor soul was obliged to go; while the lady listened, and
the page sung away till morning.


"My virtues have been my ruin," said poor Sir Rollo, as he and
Mercurius slunk silently out of the window. "Had I hanged that
knave Edward, as I did the page his predecessor, my niece would
have sung mine ave, and I should have been by this time an angel in
heaven."

"He is reserved for wiser purposes," responded the devil: "he will
assassinate your successor, the lady Mathilde's brother; and, in
consequence, will be hanged. In the love of the lady he will be
succeeded by a gardener, who will be replaced by a monk, who will
give way to an ostler, who will be deposed by a Jew pedler, who
shall, finally, yield to a noble earl, the future husband of the
fair Mathilde. So that, you see, instead of having one poor soul
a-frying, we may now look forward to a goodly harvest for our lord
the Devil."

The soul of the Baron began to think that his companion knew too
much for one who would make fair bets; but there was no help for
it; he would not, and he could not, cry off: and he prayed inwardly
that the brother might be found more pious than the sister.

But there seemed little chance of this. As they crossed the court,
lackeys, with smoking dishes and, full jugs, passed and repassed
continually, although it was long past midnight. On entering the
hall, they found Sir Randal at the head of a vast table, surrounded
by a fiercer and more motley collection of individuals than had
congregated there even in the time of Sir Rollo. The lord of the
castle had signified that "it was his royal pleasure to be drunk,"
and the gentlemen of his train had obsequiously followed their
master. Mercurius was delighted with the scene, and relaxed his
usually rigid countenance into a bland and benevolent smile, which
became him wonderfully.

The entrance of Sir Roger, who had been dead about a year, and a
person with hoofs, horns, and a tail, rather disturbed the hilarity
of the company. Sir Randal dropped his cup of wine; and Father
Peter, the confessor, incontinently paused in the midst of a
profane song, with which he was amusing the society.

"Holy Mother!" cried he, "it is Sir Roger."

"Alive!" screamed Sir Randal.

"No, my lord," Mercurius said; "Sir Roger is dead, but cometh on a
matter of business; and I have the honor to act as his counsellor
and attendant."

"Nephew," said Sir Roger, "the daemon saith justly; I am come on a
trifling affair, in which thy service is essential."

"I will do anything, uncle, in my power."

"Thou canst give me life, if thou wilt?" But Sir Randal looked
very blank at this proposition. "I mean life spiritual, Randal,"
said Sir Roger; and thereupon he explained to him the nature of the
wager.

Whilst he was telling his story, his companion Mercurius was
playing all sorts of antics in the hall; and, by his wit and fun,
became so popular with this godless crew, that they lost all the
fear which his first appearance had given them. The friar was
wonderfully taken with him, and used his utmost eloquence and
endeavors to convert the devil; the knights stopped drinking to
listen to the argument; the men-at-arms forbore brawling; and the
wicked little pages crowded round the two strange disputants, to
hear their edifying discourse. The ghostly man, however, had
little chance in the controversy, and certainly little learning to
carry it on. Sir Randal interrupted him. "Father Peter," said he,
"our kinsman is condemned for ever, for want of a single ave: wilt
thou say it for him?" "Willingly, my lord," said the monk, "with
my book;" and accordingly he produced his missal to read, without
which aid it appeared that the holy father could not manage the
desired prayer. But the crafty Mercurius had, by his devilish art,
inserted a song in the place of the ave, so that Father Peter,
instead of chanting an hymn, sang the following irreverent ditty--


"Some love the matin-chimes, which toll
The hour of prayer to sinner:
But better far's the mid-day bell,
Which speaks the hour of dinner;
For when I see a smoking fish,
Or capon drown'd in gravy,
Or noble haunch on silver dish,
Full glad I sing mine ave.

"My pulpit is an ale-house bench,
Whereon I sit so jolly;
A smiling rosy country wench
My saint and patron holy.
I kiss her cheek so red and sleek,
I press her ringlets wavy;
And in her willing ear I speak
A most religious ave.

"And if I'm blind, yet heaven is kind,
And holy saints forgiving;
For sure he leads a right good life
Who thus admires good living.
Above, they say, our flesh is air,
Our blood celestial ichor:
Oh, grant! mid all the changes there,
They may not change our liquor!"


And with this pious wish the holy confessor tumbled under the table
in an agony of devout drunkenness; whilst the knights, the men-at-
arms, and the wicked little pages, rang out the last verse with a
most melodious and emphatic glee. "I am sorry, fair uncle,"
hiccupped Sir Randal, "that, in the matter of the ave, we could not
oblige thee in a more orthodox manner; but the holy father has
failed, and there is not another man in the hall who hath an idea
of a prayer."

"It is my own fault," said Sir Rollo; "for I hanged the last
confessor." And he wished his nephew a surly good-night, as he
prepared to quit the room.

"Au revoir, gentlemen," said the devil Mercurius; and once more
fixed his tail round the neck of his disappointed companion.

The spirit of poor Rollo was sadly cast down; the devil, on the
contrary, was in high good humor. He wagged his tail with the most
satisfied air in the world, and cut a hundred jokes at the expense
of his poor associate. On they sped, cleaving swiftly through the
cold night winds, frightening the birds that were roosting in the
woods, and the owls that were watching in the towers.

In the twinkling of an eye, as it is known, devils can fly hundreds
of miles: so that almost the same beat of the clock which left
these two in Champagne, found them hovering over Paris. They
dropped into the court of the Lazarist Convent, and winded their
way, through passage and cloister, until they reached the door of
the prior's cell.

Now the prior, Rollo's brother, was a wicked and malignant
sorcerer; his time was spent in conjuring devils and doing wicked
deeds, instead of fasting, scourging, and singing holy psalms: this
Mercurius knew; and he, therefore, was fully at ease as to the
final result of his wager with poor Sir Roger.

"You seem to be well acquainted with the road," said the knight.

"I have reason," answered Mercurius, "having, for a long period,
had the acquaintance of his reverence, your brother; but you have
little chance with him."

"And why?" said Sir Rollo.

"He is under a bond to my master, never to say a prayer, or else
his soul and his body are forfeited at once."

"Why, thou false and traitorous devil!" said the enraged knight;
"and thou knewest this when we made our wager?"

"Undoubtedly: do you suppose I would have done so had there been
any chance of losing?"

And with this they arrived at Father Ignatius's door.

"Thy cursed presence threw a spell on my niece, and stopped the
tongue of my nephew's chaplain; I do believe that had I seen either
of them alone, my wager had been won."

"Certainly; therefore, I took good care to go with thee: however,
thou mayest see the prior alone, if thou wilt; and lo! his door is
open. I will stand without for five minutes, when it will be time
to commence our journey."

It was the poor Baron's last chance: and he entered his brother's
room more for the five minutes' respite than from any hope of
success.

Father Ignatius, the prior, was absorbed in magic calculations: he
stood in the middle of a circle of skulls, with no garment except
his long white beard, which reached to his knees; he was waving a
silver rod, and muttering imprecations in some horrible tongue.

But Sir Rollo came forward and interrupted his incantation. "I
am," said he, "the shade of thy brother Roger de Rollo; and have
come, from pure brotherly love, to warn thee of thy fate."

"Whence camest thou?"

"From the abode of the blessed in Paradise," replied Sir Roger, who
was inspired with a sudden thought; "it was but five minutes ago
that the Patron Saint of thy church told me of thy danger, and of
thy wicked compact with the fiend. 'Go,' said he, 'to thy
miserable brother, and tell him there is but one way by which he
may escape from paying the awful forfeit of his bond.'"

"And how may that be?" said the prior; "the false fiend hath
deceived me; I have given him my soul, but have received no worldly
benefit in return. Brother! dear brother! how may I escape?"

"I will tell thee. As soon as I heard the voice of blessed St.
Mary Lazarus" (the worthy Earl had, at a pinch, coined the name of
a saint), "I left the clouds, where, with other angels, I was
seated, and sped hither to save thee. 'Thy brother,' said the
Saint, 'hath but one day more to live, when he will become for all
eternity the subject of Satan; if he would escape, he must boldly
break his bond, by saying an ave.'"

"It is the express condition of the agreement," said the unhappy
monk, "I must say no prayer, or that instant I become Satan's, body
and soul."

"It is the express condition of the Saint," answered Roger,
fiercely; "pray, brother, pray, or thou art lost for ever."

So the foolish monk knelt down, and devoutly sung out an ave.
"Amen!" said Sir Roger, devoutly.

"Amen!" said Mercurius, as, suddenly, coming behind, he seized
Ignatius by his long beard, and flew up with him to the top of the
church-steeple.

The monk roared, and screamed, and swore against his brother; but
it was of no avail: Sir Roger smiled kindly on him, and said, "Do
not fret, brother; it must have come to this in a year or two."

And he flew alongside of Mercurius to the steeple-top: BUT THIS
TIME THE DEVIL HAD NOT HIS TAIL ROUND HIS NECK. "I will let thee
off thy bet," said he to the daemon; for he could afford, now, to be
generous.

"I believe, my lord," said the daemon, politely, "that our ways
separate here." Sir Roger sailed gayly upwards: while Mercurius
having bound the miserable monk faster than ever, he sunk downwards
to earth, and perhaps lower. Ignatius was heard roaring and
screaming as the devil dashed him against the iron spikes and
buttresses of the church.


The moral of this story will be given in the second edition.




MADAME SAND AND THE NEW APOCALYPSE.


I don't know an impression more curious than that which is formed
in a foreigner's mind, who has been absent from this place for two
or three years, returns to it, and beholds the change which has
taken place, in the meantime, in French fashions and ways of
thinking. Two years ago, for instance, when I left the capital, I
left the young gentlemen of France with their hair brushed en
toupet in front, and the toes of their boots round; now the boot-
toes are pointed, and the hair combed flat, and, parted in the
middle, falls in ringlets on the fashionable shoulders; and, in
like manner, with books as with boots, the fashion has changed
considerably, and it is not a little curious to contrast the old
modes with the new. Absurd as was the literary dandyism of those
days, it is not a whit less absurd now: only the manner is changed,
and our versatile Frenchmen have passed from one caricature to
another.

The revolution may be called a caricature of freedom, as the empire
was of glory; and what they borrow from foreigners undergoes the
same process. They take top-boots and mackintoshes from across the
water, and caricature our fashions; they read a little, very
little, Shakespeare, and caricature our poetry: and while in
David's time art and religion were only a caricature of Heathenism,
now, on the contrary, these two commodities are imported from
Germany; and distorted caricatures originally, are still farther
distorted on passing the frontier.

I trust in heaven that German art and religion will take no hold in
our country (where there is a fund of roast-beef that will expel
any such humbug in the end); but these sprightly Frenchmen have
relished the mystical doctrines mightily; and having watched the
Germans, with their sanctified looks, and quaint imitations of the
old times, and mysterious transcendental talk, are aping many of
their fashions; as well and solemnly as they can: not very
solemnly, God wot; for I think one should always prepare to grin
when a Frenchman looks particularly grave, being sure that there
is something false and ridiculous lurking under the owl-like
solemnity.

When last in Paris, we were in the midst of what was called a
Catholic reaction. Artists talked of faith in poems and pictures;
churches were built here and there; old missals were copied and
purchased; and numberless portraits of saints, with as much gilding
about them as ever was used in the fifteenth century, appeared in
churches, ladies' boudoirs, and picture-shops. One or two
fashionable preachers rose, and were eagerly followed; the very
youth of the schools gave up their pipes and billiards for some
time, and flocked in crowds to Notre Dame, to sit under the feet of
Lacordaire. I went to visit the Church of Notre Dame de Lorette
yesterday, which was finished in the heat of this Catholic rage,
and was not a little struck by the similarity of the place to the
worship celebrated in it, and the admirable manner in which the
architect has caused his work to express the public feeling of the
moment. It is a pretty little bijou of a church: it is supported
by sham marble pillars; it has a gaudy ceiling of blue and gold,
which will look very well for some time; and is filled with gaudy
pictures and carvings, in the very pink of the mode. The
congregation did not offer a bad illustration of the present state
of Catholic reaction. Two or three stray people were at prayers;
there was no service; a few countrymen and idlers were staring
about at the pictures; and the Swiss, the paid guardian of the
place, was comfortably and appropriately asleep on his bench at the
door. I am inclined to think the famous reaction is over: the
students have taken to their Sunday pipes and billiards again; and
one or two cafes have been established, within the last year, that
are ten times handsomer than Notre Dame de Lorette.

John Crace digests A Question of Upbringing by Anthony Powell

My English teacher is wearing a barrister's wig. He turns and points towards me as I sit trembling in the dock. "Members of the jury, I put it to you that this man, Tom Robinson, is innocent," he says, rather lugubriously. I want to protest. I want to shout that no, I am not Tom Robinson, but yes, I am innocent! But the words won't come out.

Then I wake up. It's another literary dream – one that's troubled me ever since I studied Harper Lee's To Kill a Mockingbird for GCSE.

Most of the time I'm disappointed to leave my literary dreams, waking to realise that I'm not really ensconced with with the boozing Welsh pensioners from Kingsley Amis's The Old Devils or haven't really been thrashing Harry Potter's Quidditch team. I remember with fondness a skiing trip with William Shakespeare and the delightful discovery that Don DeLillo was serving drinks behind the bar in my local pub.

It's not all sunshine, though. Tom Wolfe once ruined a trip to New York, shouting at me across Fifth Avenue: "You're not even familiar with my work – get outta town, asshole!" But that's nothing on Howard Jacobson. I spent a summer discovering his novels during my waking hours and bumping into him in my sleep. I'd see him in a local restaurant and tell him how much I was enjoying his novels. "Oh right," he'd snap, "that old chestnut, huh?" When I met him for real last year he was, in fact, charm personified. I didn't tell him about the dreams.

But enough about my subconscious, what about yours? It's Friday: forget about work and tell me all about your literary dreams. Don't hold back – it's not like we'll read anything into it.

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