"Will ces dames1 join me in a marauding expedition? Like the poet Villon, I am about to turn marauder, house breaker, thief. I shall hope to end the excursion by one act, at least, of highway robbery. I shall lose courage without the enlivening presence of ces dames. We will start when the day is at its best, we will return when the moon smiles. In case of finding none to rob, the coach of the desperadoes will be garrisoned2 with provisions; Henri will accompany us as counsellor, purveyor3, and bearer of arms and costumes. The carriage for ces dames will stop the way at the hour of eleven.
"I have the honor to sign myself their humble4 servant and co-conspirator.
"John Renard."
"This, in plain English," was Charm's laconic5 translation of this note, "means that he wishes us to be ready at eleven for the excursion to P——, to spend the day, you may remember, at that old manor6. He wants to paint in a background, he said yesterday, while we stroll about and look at the old place. What shall I wear?"
In an hour we were on the road.
A jaunty7 yellow cart, laden8 with a girl on the front seat; with a man, tawny9 of mustache, broad of shoulder, and dark of eye, with face shining to match the spring in the air and that fair face beside him; laden also with another lady on the back seat, beside whom, upright and stiff, with folded arms, sat Henri, costumer, valet, cook, and groom10. It was in the latter capacity that Henri was now posing. The role of groom was uppermost in his orderly mind, although at intervals11, when his foot chanced to touch a huge luncheon12-basket with which the cart was also laden, there were betraying signs of anxiety; it was then that the chef crept back to life. This spring in the air was all very well, but how would it affect the sauces? This great question was written on Henri's brow in a network of anxious wrinkles.
"Henri," I remarked, as we were wheeling down the roadway, "I am quite certain you have put up enough luncheon for a regiment13."
"Madame has said it, for a regiment; Monsieur Renard, when he works, eats with the hunger of a wolf."
"Henri, did you get in all the rags?" This came from Renard on the front seat, as he plied14 his steed with the whip.
"The costume of Monsieur le Marquis, and also of Madame la Marquise de Pompadour, are beneath my feet in the valise, Monsieur Renard. I have the sword between my legs," replied Henri, the costumer coming to the surface long enough to readjust the sword.
"Capital fellow, Henri, never forgets anything," said Renard, in
English.
"Couldn't we offer a libation or something, on such a morning—"
"On such a morning," interrupted the painter, "one should be seated next to a charming young lady who has the genius to wear Nile green and white; even a painter with an Honorable Mention behind him and fame still ahead, in spite of the Mention, is satisfied. You know a Greek deity15 was nothing to a painter, modern, and of the French school, in point of fastidiousness."
"Nonsense! it's the American woman who is fastidious, when it comes to clothes."
Meanwhile, there was one of the party who was looking at the road; that also was arrayed in Nile green and white; the tall trees also held umbrellas above us, but these coverings were woven of leaves and sky. This bit of roadway appeared to have slipped down from the upper country, and to have carried much of the upper country with it. It was highway posing as pure rustic16. It had brought all its pastoral paraphernalia17 along. Nothing had been forgotten: neither the hawthorn18 and the osier hedges, nor the tree-trunks, suddenly grown modest at sight of the sea, burying their nudity in nests of vines, nor the trick which elms and beeches19 have, of growing arches in the sky. Timbered farm-houses were here, also thatched huts, to make the next villa-gate gain in stateliness; apple orchards20 were dotted about with such a knowing air of wearing the long line of the Atlantic girdled about their gnarled trunks, that one could not believe pure accident had carried them to the edge of the sea. There were several miles of this driving along beneath these green aisles21. Through the screen of the hedges and the crowded tree-trunks, picture succeeded picture; bits of the sea were caught between slits22 of cliff; farmhouses23, huts, and villas24 lay smothered25 in blossoms; above were heights whereon poplars seemed to shiver in the sun, as they wrapped about them their shroud-like foliage26; meadows slipped away from the heights, plunging27 seaward, as if wearying for the ocean; and through the whole this line of green roadway threaded its path with sinuous28 grace, serpentining29, coiling, braiding in land and sea in one harmonious30, inextricable blending of incomparable beauty. One could quite comprehend, after even a short acquaintance with this road, that two gentlemen of Paris, as difficult to please as Daubigny and Isabey, should have seen points of excellence31 in it.
There are all sorts of ways of being a painter. Perhaps as good as any, if one cares at all about a trifling32 matter like beauty, is to know a good thing when one sees it. That poet of the brush, Daubigny, not only was gifted with this very unusual talent in a painter, but a good thing could actually be entrusted33 in his hands after its discovery. And herein, it appears to me, lies all the difference between good and bad painting; not only is an artist—any artist—to be judged by what he sees, but also by what he does with a fact after he's acquired it—whether he turns it into poetry or prose.
I might incautiously have sprung these views on the artist on the front seat, had he not wisely forestalled34 my outburst by one of his own.
"By the way," he broke in; "by the way, I'm not doing my duty as cicerone. There's a church near here—we're coming to it in a moment—famous—eleventh or twelfth century, Romanesque style—yes—that's right, although I'm somewhat shaky when it comes to architecture—and an old manoir, museum now, with lots of old furniture in it—in the manoir, I mean."
"There's the church now. Oh, let us stop!"
In point of fact there were two churches before us. There was one of ivy35: nave36, roof, aisles, walls, and conic-shaped top, as perfectly37 defined in green as if the beautiful mantle38 had been cut and fitted to the hidden stone structure. Every few moments the mantle would be lifted by the light breeze, as might a priest's vestment; it would move and waver, as if the building were a human frame, changing its posture39 to ease its long standing40. Between this church of stone and this church of vines there were signs of the fight that had gone on for ages between them. The stones were obviously fighting decay, fighting ruin, fighting annihilation; the vines were also struggling, but both time and the sun were on their side. The stone edifice41 was now, it is true, as Renard told us, protected by the Government—it was classed as a "monument historique"—but the church of greens was protected by the god of nature, and seemed to laugh aloud, as if with conscious gleeful strength. This gay, triumphant42 laugh was reflected, as if to emphasize its mockery of man's work, in the tranquil43 waters of a little pond, lily-leaved, garlanded in bushes, that lay hidden beyond the roadway. Through the interstices of the vines one solitary44 window from the tower, like a sombre eye, looked down into the pond; it saw there, reflected as in a mirror, the old, the eternal picture of a dead ruin clasped by the arms of living beauty.
This Criqueboeuf church presents the ideal picturesque45 accessories. It stands at the corner of two meeting roadways. It is set in an ideal pastoral frame—a frame of sleeping fields, of waving tree-tops, of an enchanting46, indescribable snarl47 of bushes, vines, and wild flowers. In the adjoining fields, beneath the tree-boughs, ran the long, low line of the ancient manoir—now turned into a museum.
We glanced for a few brief moments at the collection of antiquities48 assembled beneath the old roof—at the Henry II. chairs, at the Pompadour-wreathed cabinets, at the long rows of panels on which are presented the whole history of France—the latter an amazing record of the industry of a certain Dr. Le Goupils.
"Criqueboeuf doesn't exactly hide its light under a bushel, you know, although it doesn't crown a hill. No end of people know it; it sits for its portrait, I should say at least twice a week regularly, on an average, during the season. English water-colorists go mad over it—they cross over on purpose to `do' it, and they do it extremely badly, as a rule."
This was Renard's last comment of a biographical and critical nature, concerning the "historical monument," as we reseated ourselves to pursue our way to P——.
"Why don't you show them how it can be done?"
"Would," coolly returned Renard, "if it were worth while, but it isn't in my line. Henri, did you bring any ice?"
Henri, I had noticed, when we had reseated ourselves in the cart, had greeted us with an air of silent sadness; he clearly had not approved of ruins that interfered49 with the business of the day.
"Oui, monsieur, I did bring some ice, but as monsieur can imagine to himself—a two hours' sun—"
"Nonsense, this sun wouldn't melt a pat of butter; the ice is all right, and so is the wine."
Then he continued in English: "Now, ladies, as I should begin if I were a politician, or an auctioneer; now, ladies, the time for confession50 has arrived; I can no longer conceal51 from you my burglarious scheme. In the next turn that we shall make to the right, the park of the P—— manoir will disclose itself. But, between us and that Park, there is a gate. That gate is locked. Now, gates, from the time of the Garden of Eden, I take it, have been an invention of—of—the other fellow, to keep people out. I know a way—but it's not the way you can follow. Henri and I will break down a few bars, we'll cross a few fields over yonder, and will present ourselves, with all the virtues52 written on our faces, to you in the Park. Meanwhile you must enter, as queens should—through the great gates. Behold53, there is a curé yonder, a great friend of mine. You will step along the roadway; you will ring a door-bell; the curé will appear; you will ask him if it be true that the manoir of P—— is to rent, you have heard that he has the keys; he will present you the keys; you will open the big gate and find me."
"But—but, Mr. Renard, I really don't see how that scheme will work."
"Work! It will work to a charm. You will see. Henri, just help the ladies, will you?"
Henri, with decisive gravity, was helping54 the ladies to alight; in another instant he had regained55 his seat, and he and Renard were flying down the roadway, out of sight.
"Really—it's the coolest proceeding," Charm began. Then we looked through the bars of the park gate. The park was as green and as still as a convent garden; a pink brick mansion56, with closed window-blinds, was standing, surrounded by a terrace on one side, and by glittering parterres on the other.
"Where did he say the old curé was?" asked Charm, quite briskly, all at once. Everything had turned out precisely57 as Renard had predicted. Doubtless he had also counted on the efficacy of the old fable58 of the Peri at the Gate—one look had been sufficient to turn us into arrant59 conspirators60; to gain an entrance into that tranquil paradise any ruse61 would serve.
"Here's a church—he said nothing about a church, did he?"
Across the avenue, above the branches of a row of tall trees, rose the ivied facade62 of a rude hamlet church; a flight of steep weedy steps led up to its Norman doorway63. The door was wide open; through the arched aperture64 came the sounds of footfalls, of a heavy, vigorous tread; Charm ran lightly up a few of the lower steps, to peer into the open door.
"It's the curé dusting the altar—shall I go in?"
"No, we had best ring—this must be his house."
The clatter65 of the curé's sabots was the response that answered to the bell we pulled, a bell attached to a diminutive66 brick house lying at the foot of the churchyard. The tinkling67 of the cracked-voiced bell had hardly ceased when the door opened.
But the curé had already taken his first glance at us over the garden hedges.
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1
dames
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| n.（在英国）夫人（一种封号），夫人（爵士妻子的称号）( dame的名词复数 )；女人 | |
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2
garrisoned
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| 卫戍部队守备( garrison的过去式和过去分词 )； 派部队驻防 | |
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3
purveyor
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| n.承办商，伙食承办商 | |
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4
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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5
laconic
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| adj.简洁的；精练的 | |
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6
manor
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| n.庄园，领地 | |
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7
jaunty
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| adj．愉快的，满足的；adv.心满意足地，洋洋得意地；n.心满意足；洋洋得意 | |
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8
laden
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| adj.装满了的；充满了的；负了重担的；苦恼的 | |
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9
tawny
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| adj.茶色的，黄褐色的；n.黄褐色 | |
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10
groom
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| vt.给（马、狗等）梳毛，照料，使...整洁 | |
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11
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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12
luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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13
regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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14
plied
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| v.使用（工具）( ply的过去式和过去分词 )；经常供应（食物、饮料）；固定往来；经营生意 | |
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15
deity
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| n.神，神性；被奉若神明的人(或物) | |
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16
rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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17
paraphernalia
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| n.装备；随身用品 | |
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18
hawthorn
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| 山楂 | |
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19
beeches
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| n.山毛榉( beech的名词复数 )；山毛榉木材 | |
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20
orchards
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| （通常指围起来的）果园( orchard的名词复数 ) | |
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21
aisles
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| n. (席位间的)通道, 侧廊 | |
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22
slits
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| n.狭长的口子，裂缝( slit的名词复数 )v.切开，撕开( slit的第三人称单数 )；在…上开狭长口子 | |
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23
farmhouses
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| n.农舍，农场的主要住房( farmhouse的名词复数 ) | |
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24
villas
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| 别墅，公馆( villa的名词复数 )； （城郊）住宅 | |
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25
smothered
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的过去式和过去分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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26
foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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27
plunging
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| adj.跳进的，突进的v.颠簸( plunge的现在分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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28
sinuous
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| adj.蜿蜒的，迂回的 | |
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29
serpentining
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| v.像蛇般蜷曲的，蜿蜒的( serpentine的现在分词 ) | |
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30
harmonious
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| adj.和睦的，调和的，和谐的，协调的 | |
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31
excellence
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| n.优秀，杰出，(pl.)优点，美德 | |
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32
trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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33
entrusted
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| v.委托，托付( entrust的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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34
forestalled
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| v.先发制人，预先阻止( forestall的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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35
ivy
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| n.常青藤，常春藤 | |
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36
nave
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| n.教堂的中部；本堂 | |
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37
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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38
mantle
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| n.斗篷，覆罩之物，罩子；v.罩住，覆盖，脸红 | |
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39
posture
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| n.姿势，姿态，心态，态度；v.作出某种姿势 | |
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40
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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41
edifice
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| n.宏伟的建筑物(如宫殿，教室) | |
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42
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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43
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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44
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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45
picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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46
enchanting
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| a.讨人喜欢的 | |
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47
snarl
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| v.吼叫，怒骂，纠缠，混乱；n.混乱，缠结，咆哮 | |
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48
antiquities
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| n.古老( antiquity的名词复数 )；古迹；古人们；古代的风俗习惯 | |
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49
interfered
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| v.干预( interfere的过去式和过去分词 )；调停；妨碍；干涉 | |
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50
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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51
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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52
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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53
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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54
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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55
regained
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| 复得( regain的过去式和过去分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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56
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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57
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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58
fable
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| n.寓言；童话；神话 | |
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59
arrant
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| adj.极端的；最大的 | |
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60
conspirators
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| n.共谋者，阴谋家( conspirator的名词复数 ) | |
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61
ruse
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| n.诡计，计策；诡计 | |
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62
facade
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| n.(建筑物的)正面，临街正面；外表 | |
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63
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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64
aperture
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| n.孔，隙，窄的缺口 | |
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65
clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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66
diminutive
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| adj.小巧可爱的，小的 | |
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67
tinkling
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| n.丁当作响声 | |
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