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CHAPTER II - ROUSSILLON WINE
My mother's family was Scotch, and it was judged fitting I
should pay a visit on my way Paris-ward, to my Uncle Adam
Loudon, a wealthy retired grocer of Edinburgh. He was very
stiff and very ironical; he fed me well, lodged me sumptuously,
and seemed to take it out of me all the time, cent per cent, in
secret entertainment which caused his spectacles to glitter and
his mouth to twitch. The ground of this ill-suppressed mirth
(as well as I could make out) was simply the fact that I was an
American. "Well," he would say, drawing out the word to
infinity, "and I suppose now in your country, things will be so
and so." And the whole group of my cousins would titter
joyously. Repeated receptions of this sort must be at the root, I
suppose, of what they call the Great American Jest; and I know
I was myself goaded into saying that my friends went naked in
the summer months, and that the Second Methodist Episcopal
Church in Muskegon was decorated with scalps. I cannot say
that these flights had any great success; they seemed to awaken
little more surprise than the fact that my father was a
Republican or that I had been taught in school to spell
COLOUR without the U. If I had told them (what was after all
the truth) that my father had paid a considerable annual sum to
have me brought up in a gambling hell, the tittering and
grinning of this dreadful family might perhaps have been
excused.
I cannot deny but I was sometimes tempted to knock my Uncle
Adam down; and indeed I believe it must have come to a
rupture at last, if they had not given a dinner party at which I
was the lion. On this occasion, I learned (to my surprise and
relief) that the incivility to which I had been subjected was a
matter for the family circle and might be regarded almost in the
light of an endearment. To strangers I was presented with
consideration; and the account given of "my American brother-
in-law, poor Janie's man, James K. Dodd, the well-known
millionnaire of Muskegon," was calculated to enlarge the heart
of a proud son.
An aged assistant of my grandfather's, a pleasant, humble
creature with a taste for whiskey, was at first deputed to be my
guide about the city. With this harmless but hardly aristocratic
companion, I went to Arthur's Seat and the Calton Hill, heard
the band play in the Princes Street Gardens, inspected the
regalia and the blood of Rizzio, and fell in love with the great
castle on its cliff, the innumerable spires of churches, the
stately buildings, the broad prospects, and those narrow and
crowded lanes of the old town where my ancestors had lived
and died in the days before Columbus.
But there was another curiosity that interested me more deeply
--my grandfather, Alexander Loudon. In his time, the old
gentleman had been a working mason, and had risen from the
ranks more, I think, by shrewdness than by merit. In his
appearance, speech, and manners, he bore broad marks of his
origin, which were gall and wormwood to my Uncle Adam.
His nails, in spite of anxious supervision, were often in
conspicuous mourning; his clothes hung about him in bags and
wrinkles like a ploughman's Sunday coat; his accent was rude,
broad, and dragging: take him at his best, and even when he
could be induced to hold his tongue, his mere presence in a
corner of the drawing-room, with his open-air wrinkles, his
scanty hair, his battered hands, and the cheerful craftiness of
his expression, advertised the whole gang of us for a self-made
family. My aunt might mince and my cousins bridle; but there
was no getting over the solid, physical fact of the stonemason
in the chimney-corner.
That is one advantage of being an American: it never occurred
to me to be ashamed of my grandfather, and the old gentleman
was quick to mark the difference. He held my mother in tender
memory, perhaps because he was in the habit of daily
contrasting her with Uncle Adam, whom he detested to the
point of frenzy; and he set down to inheritance from his
favourite my own becoming treatment of himself. On our
walks abroad, which soon became daily, he would sometimes
(after duly warning me to keep the matter dark from "Aadam")
skulk into some old familiar pot-house; and there (if he had the
luck to encounter any of his veteran cronies) he would present
me to the company with manifest pride, casting at the same
time a covert slur on the rest of his descendants. "This is my
Jeannie's yin," he would say. "He's a fine fallow, him." The
purpose of our excursions was not to seek antiquities or to
enjoy famous prospects, but to visit one after another a series of
doleful suburbs, for which it was the old gentleman's chief
claim to renown that he had been the sole contractor, and too
often the architect besides. I have rarely seen a more shocking
exhibition: the bricks seemed to be blushing in the walls, and
the slates on the roof to have turned pale with shame; but I was
careful not to communicate these impressions to the aged
artificer at my side; and when he would direct my attention to
some fresh monstrosity--perhaps with the comment, "There's an
idee of mine's: it's cheap and tasty, and had a graand run; the
idee was soon stole, and there's whole deestricts near Glesgie
with the goathic adeetion and that plunth,"--I would civilly
make haste to admire and (what I found particularly delighted
him) to inquire into the cost of each adornment. It will be
conceived that Muskegon capitol was a frequent and a
welcome ground of talk; I drew him all the plans from memory;
and he, with the aid of a narrow volume full of figures and
tables, which answered (I believe) to the name of Molesworth,
and was his constant pocket companion, would draw up rough
estimates and make imaginary offers on the various contracts.
Our Muskegon builders he pronounced a pack of cormorants;
and the congenial subject, together with my knowledge of
architectural terms, the theory of strains, and the prices of
materials in the States, formed a strong bond of union between
what might have been otherwise an ill-assorted pair, and led
my grandfather to pronounce me, with emphasis, "a real
intalligent kind of a cheild." Thus a second time, as you will
presently see, the capitol of my native State had influentially
affected the current of my life.
I left Edinburgh, however, with not the least idea that I had
done a stroke of excellent business for myself, and singly
delighted to escape out of a somewhat dreary house and plunge
instead into the rainbow city of Paris. Every man has his own
romance; mine clustered exclusively about the practice of the
arts, the life of Latin Quarter students, and the world of Paris as
depicted by that grimy wizard, the author of the _Comedie
Humaine_. I was not disappointed--I could not have been; for I
did not see the facts, I brought them with me ready-made. Z.
Marcas lived next door to me in my ungainly, ill-smelling hotel
of the Rue Racine; I dined at my villainous restaurant with
Lousteau and with Rastignac: if a curricle nearly ran me down
at a street-crossing, Maxime de Trailles would be the driver. I
dined, I say, at a poor restaurant and lived in a poor hotel; and
this was not from need, but sentiment. My father gave me a
profuse allowance, and I might have lived (had I chosen) in the
Quartier de l'Etoile and driven to my studies daily. Had I done
so, the glamour must have fled: I should still have been but
Loudon Dodd; whereas now I was a Latin Quarter student,
Murger's successor, living in flesh and blood the life of one of
those romances I had loved to read, to re-read, and to dream
over, among the woods of Muskegon.
At this time we were all a little Murger-mad in the Latin
Quarter. The play of the _Vie de Boheme_ (a dreary, snivelling
piece) had been produced at the Odeon, had run an
unconscionable time--for Paris, and revived the freshness of the
legend. The same business, you may say, or there and
thereabout, was being privately enacted in consequence in
every garret of the neighbourhood, and a good third of the
students were consciously impersonating Rodolphe or
Schaunard to their own incommunicable satisfaction. Some of
us went far, and some farther. I always looked with awful envy
(for instance) on a certain countryman of my own who had a
studio in the Rue Monsieur le Prince, wore boots, and long hair
in a net, and could be seen tramping off, in this guise, to the
worst eating-house of the quarter, followed by a Corsican
model, his mistress, in the conspicuous costume of her race and
calling. It takes some greatness of soul to carry even folly to
such heights as these; and for my own part, I had to content
myself by pretending very arduously to be poor, by wearing a
smoking-cap on the streets, and by pursuing, through a series
of misadventures, that extinct mammal, the grisette. The most
grievous part was the eating and the drinking. I was born with
a dainty tooth and a palate for wine; and only a genuine
devotion to romance could have supported me under the cat-
civets that I had to swallow, and the red ink of Bercy I must
wash them down withal. Every now and again, after a hard
day at the studio, where I was steadily and far from
unsuccessfully industrious, a wave of distaste would overbear
me; I would slink away from my haunts and companions,
indemnify myself for weeks of self-denial with fine wines and
dainty dishes; seated perhaps on a terrace, perhaps in an arbour
in a garden, with a volume of one of my favourite authors
propped open in front of me, and now consulted awhile, and
now forgotten:--so remain, relishing my situation, till night fell
and the lights of the city kindled; and thence stroll homeward
by the riverside, under the moon or stars, in a heaven of poetry
and digestion.
One such indulgence led me in the course of my second year
into an adventure which I must relate: indeed, it is the very
point I have been aiming for, since that was what brought me
in acquaintance with Jim Pinkerton. I sat down alone to dinner
one October day when the rusty leaves were falling and
scuttling on the boulevard, and the minds of impressionable
men inclined in about an equal degree towards sadness and
conviviality. The restaurant was no great place, but boasted a
considerable cellar and a long printed list of vintages. This I
was perusing with the double zest of a man who is fond of
wine and a lover of beautiful names, when my eye fell (near the
end of the card) on that not very famous or familiar brand,
Roussillon. I remembered it was a wine I had never tasted,
ordered a bottle, found it excellent, and when I had discussed
the contents, called (according to my habit) for a final pint. It
appears they did not keep Roussillon in half-bottles. "All
right," said I. "Another bottle." The tables at this eating-house
are close together; and the next thing I can remember, I was in
somewhat loud conversation with my nearest neighbours.
From these I must have gradually extended my attentions; for I
have a clear recollection of gazing about a room in which every
chair was half turned round and every face turned smilingly to
mine. I can even remember what I was saying at the moment;
but after twenty years, the embers of shame are still alive; and I
prefer to give your imagination the cue, by simply mentioning
that my muse was the patriotic. It had been my design to
adjourn for coffee in the company of some of these new friends;
but I was no sooner on the sidewalk than I found myself
unaccountably alone. The circumstance scarce surprised me at
the time, much less now; but I was somewhat chagrined a little
after to find I had walked into a kiosque. I began to wonder if I
were any the worse for my last bottle, and decided to steady
myself with coffee and brandy. In the Cafe de la Source, where
I went for this restorative, the fountain was playing, and (what
greatly surprised me) the mill and the various mechanical
figures on the rockery appeared to have been freshly repaired
and performed the most enchanting antics. The cafe was
extraordinarily hot and bright, with every detail of a
conspicuous clearness, from the faces of the guests to the type
of the newspapers on the tables, and the whole apartment
swang to and fro like a hammock, with an exhilarating motion.
For some while I was so extremely pleased with these
particulars that I thought I could never be weary of beholding
them: then dropped of a sudden into a causeless sadness; and
then, with the same swiftness and spontaneity, arrived at the
conclusion that I was drunk and had better get to bed.
It was but a step or two to my hotel, where I got my lighted
candle from the porter and mounted the four flights to my own
room. Although I could not deny that I was drunk, I was at the
same time lucidly rational and practical. I had but one
preoccupation--to be up in time on the morrow for my work;
and when I observed the clock on my chimney-piece to have
stopped, I decided to go down stairs again and give directions
to the porter. Leaving the candle burning and my door open, to
be a guide to me on my return, I set forth accordingly. The
house was quite dark; but as there were only the three doors on
each landing, it was impossible to wander, and I had nothing to
do but descend the stairs until I saw the glimmer of the porter's
night light. I counted four flights: no porter. It was possible, of
course, that I had reckoned incorrectly; so I went down another
and another, and another, still counting as I went, until I had
reached the preposterous figure of nine flights. It was now
quite clear that I had somehow passed the porter's lodge
without remarking it; indeed, I was, at the lowest figure, five
pairs of stairs below the street, and plunged in the very bowels
of the earth. That my hotel should thus be founded upon
catacombs was a discovery of considerable interest; and if I had
not been in a frame of mind entirely businesslike, I might have
continued to explore all night this subterranean empire. But I
was bound I must be up betimes on the next morning, and for
that end it was imperative that I should find the porter. I faced
about accordingly, and counting with painful care, remounted
towards the level of the street. Five, six, and seven flights I
climbed, and still there was no porter. I began to be weary of
the job, and reflecting that I was now close to my own room,
decided I should go to bed. Eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve,
thirteen flights I mounted; and my open door seemed to be as
wholly lost to me as the porter and his floating dip. I
remembered that the house stood but six stories at its highest
point, from which it appeared (on the most moderate
computation) I was now three stories higher than the roof. My
original sense of amusement was succeeded by a not unnatural
irritation. "My room has just GOT to be here," said I, and I
stepped towards the door with outspread arms. There was no
door and no wall; in place of either there yawned before me a
dark corridor, in which I continued to advance for some time
without encountering the smallest opposition. And this in a
house whose extreme area scantily contained three small
rooms, a narrow landing, and the stair! The thing was
manifestly nonsense; and you will scarcely be surprised to learn
that I now began to lose my temper. At this juncture I
perceived a filtering of light along the floor, stretched forth my
hand which encountered the knob of a door-handle, and
without further ceremony entered a room. A young lady was
within; she was going to bed, and her toilet was far advanced,
or the other way about, if you prefer.
"I hope you will pardon this intrusion," said I; "but my room is
No. 12, and something has gone wrong with this blamed
house."
She looked at me a moment; and then, "If you will step outside
for a moment, I will take you there," says she.
Thus, with perfect composure on both sides, the matter was
arranged. I waited a while outside her door. Presently she
rejoined me, in a dressing-gown, took my hand, led me up
another flight, which made the fourth above the level of the
roof, and shut me into my own room, where (being quite weary
after these contraordinary explorations) I turned in, and
slumbered like a child.
I tell you the thing calmly, as it appeared to me to pass; but the
next day, when I awoke and put memory in the witness-box, I
could not conceal from myself that the tale presented a good
many improbable features. I had no mind for the studio, after
all, and went instead to the Luxembourg gardens, there, among
the sparrows and the statues and the falling leaves, to cool and
clear my head. It is a garden I have always loved. You sit
there in a public place of history and fiction. Barras and
Fouche have looked from these windows. Lousteau and de
Banville (one as real as the other) have rhymed upon these
benches. The city tramples by without the railings to a lively
measure; and within and about you, trees rustle, children and
sparrows utter their small cries, and the statues look on forever.
Here, then, in a seat opposite the gallery entrance, I set to work
on the events of the last night, to disengage (if it were possible)
truth from fiction.
The house, by daylight, had proved to be six stories high, the
same as ever. I could find, with all my architectural
experience, no room in its altitude for those interminable
stairways, no width between its walls for that long corridor,
where I had tramped at night. And there was yet a greater
difficulty. I had read somewhere an aphorism that everything
may be false to itself save human nature. A house might
elongate or enlarge itself--or seem to do so to a gentleman who
had been dining. The ocean might dry up, the rocks melt in the
sun, the stars fall from heaven like autumn apples; and there
was nothing in these incidents to boggle the philosopher. But
the case of the young lady stood upon a different foundation.
Girls were not good enough, or not good that way, or else they
were too good. I was ready to accept any of these views: all
pointed to the same conclusion, which I was thus already on
the point of reaching, when a fresh argument occurred, and
instantly confirmed it. I could remember the exact words we
had each said; and I had spoken, and she had replied, in
English. Plainly, then, the whole affair was an illusion:
catacombs, and stairs, and charitable lady, all were equally the
stuff of dreams.
I had just come to this determination, when there blew a flaw
of wind through the autumnal gardens; the dead leaves
showered down, and a flight of sparrows, thick as a snowfall,
wheeled above my head with sudden pipings. This agreeable
bustle was the affair of a moment, but it startled me from the
abstraction into which I had fallen like a summons. I sat
briskly up, and as I did so, my eyes rested on the figure of a
lady in a brown jacket and carrying a paint-box. By her side
walked a fellow some years older than myself, with an easel
under his arm; and alike by their course and cargo I might
judge they were bound for the gallery, where the lady was,
doubtless, engaged upon some copying. You can imagine my
surprise when I recognized in her the heroine of my adventure.
To put the matter beyond question, our eyes met, and she,
seeing herself remembered and recalling the trim in which I
had last beheld her, looked swiftly on the ground with just a
shadow of confusion.
I could not tell you to-day if she were plain or pretty; but she
had behaved with so much good sense, and I had cut so poor a
figure in her presence, that I became instantly fired with the
desire to display myself in a more favorable light. The young
man besides was possibly her brother; brothers are apt to be
hasty, theirs being a part in which it is possible, at a
comparatively early age, to assume the dignity of manhood;
and it occurred to me it might be wise to forestall all possible
complications by an apology.
On this reasoning I drew near to the gallery door, and had
hardly got in position before the young man came out. Thus it
was that I came face to face with my third destiny; for my
career has been entirely shaped by these three elements,--my
father, the capitol of Muskegon, and my friend, Jim Pinkerton.
As for the young lady with whom my mind was at the moment
chiefly occupied, I was never to hear more of her from that day
forward: an excellent example of the Blind Man's Buff that we
call life.
Content of CHAPTER II - ROUSSILLON WINE [Robert Louis Stevenson's novel: The Wrecker]
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