DOI issue:
September 13, 1884
DOI Page / Citation link:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.17757#0131
124
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
September 13, 1884.
VERY MUCH ABROAD.
(Notes of a First Visit to La Bourboule-les-Bains, Puy-de-Dome.)
III.
Nearing La JBourboule—Objects of Interest—Easy and Uneasy—On
\ the Road—Arrival—Reception—First Impressions—Difficulties.
Arrival at Laqueuille.—Hot, dusty, dirty, weary, and not in the
most angelic temper, either of us. Still, as Chivers sticks to it
that but for me he would not have come to La Bourboule, I feel
bound to make the best of everything for the sake of my own repu-
tation as an adviser ; besides, if we were both to succumb to melan-
choly, the very strongest waters would never do us any good.
Our Rosses at La Bourboule, and the Jolly Young Cocher who “ ‘ drives ’
along thinking of nothing at all.”
So I begin, as cheerfully as possible, by pointing out that it seems
to be a pretty-ish country.
“ Pretty country, be bio wed! ” growls Chivers, peevishly. “ Why
we can’t see anything a hundred yards away from the station.”
This is not strictly the fact, but I admit there is not much to be
seen as yet.
“ Wish to goodness I had brought a servant,” exclaims the gentle-
man whose “name is Easy,” adding, in despair, “I know I shall
never get my things brushed. And then ”—turning to me with an air
of supreme dejection—“who’s to unpack my confounded luggage?”
The Boots will do this, I suggest, or the Porter, or the Chamber-
maid. But he sneers at the mention of each oDe of these domestics
separately, as if, though they might be good enough for the simple
task of unpacking my luggage, or anybody else’s, it would be utterly
; impossible for them, individually or collectively, to venture upon
unpacking his. He speaks as if he were carrying dynamite. What he
means by “ unpacking” is not simply undoing the straps, but taking
everything out, and laying each article, from the button-hook to
the slippers, in its proper place. The fact is, that for seven or eight
years of his life,—during which I had lost sight of Chivers, and it is
only just at this moment it occurs to me that I had lost sight of him
for so long,—Dudley Chivers held a supremely important post in
; the East, where he was waited on hand and foot by grovelling
1 slaves, who, like sweet Alice in the song, “ trembled with fear at his
frown,” and who “wept with delight” on the rare occasions when
, he deigned to “ give them a smile.” His every wish in that Oriental
i Palace was anticipated before it could be expressed, and, at first,
before it could be even understood when it was expressed. And so,
having been for eight years in the habit of clapping his hands as the
signal for a hundred ebon slaves, more or less, to bring him his boot-
jack, or his button-hook, or whatever it might be, it is no wonder
that, in spite of his still affirming his name to be “ Easy,” he should
be a trifle put out at having come on a long journey to a new place
without any servant at all, and so find himself reduced to clapping
his hands as much as he likes, without any immediate effect beyond
that of making them very red and tender. Dudley Chiver3 h
emphatically a man whom a Leader-writer in any paper would
declare was “ born to he a Euler of Men.” Quite so. Only he must
have some one on whom to exercise this gift, and, at present, that
one has been left behind.
“I shall never get anything done,” he exclaims, wretchedly, and
almost wrings his hands in the utter helplessness of his misery.
Pour le distraire un peu (as I have before remarked, one does drop
into French as Wegg did into poetry), I direct his attention to the
Station-master of Laqueuille, who is very much decorated, with about
half-a-dozen silver medals hanging in a row on his breast, as if he
! had been convicted of uttering had coin, and these were false speci-
I mens fixed on to him as a warning to others, just as a keeper hangs
up stoats and weasels on a barn door, or a shopkeeper nails
“ duifer ” halfpennies to his counter.
The appearance of this Station-master makes Chivers very angry.
He says he hates officials,—specially decorated officials,—and, more
especially, decorated French officials. He won’t even condescend
to obtain renseignements from him about the omnibus to La Bour-
boule. However, not much information is necessary, as here are
the omnibuses ail in a row, and, a little way off, some dusty,
broken-down-looking two-horsed open flys, with very unprofessional-
looking drivers, dressed as ordinary peasants, in blouse and casquette.
The omnibuses have four horses each,—and suth h>rses! They
look as if another mile in any direction would shut them up alto-
gether. The poor things hang their heads, as though ashamed of -
being seen by strangers in this miserable condition; and, if they
cannot even “ carry their heads,” how they are going to carry their
loads, is a puzzle to any unprejudiced person, for the omnibuses are
by this time choke-full inside and out, being apparently licensed to
carry as many as can manage to seat themselves without regard to
personal comfort.
We debate whether it would not be better to take one of the open
vehicles; but on being informed by a driver that his fare will be
twenty francs, we determine to take out the money’s worth of
our railway ticket, which includes the ’bus.
Chivers is very angry. “Twenty francs!—a regular ‘do!’
just like ’em! ” and he won’t even make a bargain.
Ours is the last ’bus to start. We are on the roof of the omnibus,
on a seat of peculiarly ingenious open-work construction, warranted
to keep the traveller awake, and prevent his falling over the side.
“What a beastly seat!,” cries Chivers, wriggling. ‘What a
wretched old omnibus! Ugh!” Then, as 1 really cannot help agreeing
with him, though I still smile, and try by that simple means to put
the best face possible on the matter, he goes on— “ Did you ever see
such horses! Poor devils ! We shall never get to Bourboule. We ’re
an hour or more late as it is ! That’s what comes of railways being
under State control! ” And for a few minutes he is buried in the
deepest meditation, from which I would no more rouse him than I
I would venture to disturb the Poet’s inspiration, for he is evidently
revolving some tremendous scheme of Europt an Pailway Reform,
which shall unite the Great Powers as one man, and be the inaugu-
ration of a new Golden Era for France, consolidating the Commercial
alliance between the two countries, putting an end to State monopoly,
and which, as an immediate practical but important result, will ter- i
minate the authority of the decorated Station-master at Laqueuille, j
and bring to an end for ever the wretched omnibus service between |
here and La Bourboule.
I am convinced that this is what is passing through Chivers’
mind, but all he says, and herein he shows the caution of the true
diplomatist, is, “ What an infernally uncomfortable seat! ”
Again I draw his attention to the prospect, which really begins to
be very pretty, though not, at present, anything grand.
“I don’t think it’s a very friendly sort of country,” he says. 1
subsequently find that the expression “friendly” goes for a good
deal in Chivers’s vocabulary, as he applies it, when in a better
humour than at present, to everything and everybody.
“Ah! of course!” he exclaims, presently, jerking his head in
the direction of the driver, “ I thought so—I knew he’d do it! Just
like ’em! Our stupid ass of a coachman has waited till all the others
have gone on; and now he is sticking close behind, and we shall
have all their dust. What a pig of an idiot! What a beastly
drive ! ” And then comes the melancholy refrain, which is like the
burden of an old song, “ I wish to goodness I’d brought a servant
I shall never get my clothes brushed.”
It is a dusty, up-hill journey. The sun has come out strong for
the occasion, and the rosses (Anglice, our ’osses,—first symptom
of an international calembour) have come out weak.
“ Oh, the idiot may crack his whip, and shout as much as he darned
pleases, but he ’ll never get ’em up this hill! ” says Chivers, angrily.
This seems to be the universal opinion of the passengers outside,
who begin to express great pity for the poor animals. But no one
at present offers to lighten the load by descending. At last the horses-
come to a standstill. They don’t stir, no more does anybody else.
“Dashed if 1 get down,” says Chivers, The Easy, with a touch
of the Oriental despot in his tone. “ I didn’t pay to walk. Let’em
get more horses, or stand us a Hy.”
However, half-a-dozen passengers do take to the road. I am
too tired to walk. We have had no breakfast, and no refreshments
except the abominably warm lemonade at Limoges, since dinner last
night in Paris.
“Why,” growls Chivers, “if one hadn’t anything the matter
with one, this infernal journey would make some sort of medical
treatment absolutely necessary. Ugh ! beastly! ”
I point out the picturesqueness of the scenery,—it is for the most
part a beautiful drive from Laqueuille to La Bourboule, with a good
view of the Puy-de-Dome itself in the far-off distance,—but he
keeps his back turned on it. I point out to him the volcanic cha-
racter of the rocks before him, but all he growls out is,—
“ Bah ! seen the same sort of thing in Devonshire. I believe La
Bourboule’s all a swindle. I believe the waters are doctored.”
“ And so will you be when you get there— at least you ought to be
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
September 13, 1884.
VERY MUCH ABROAD.
(Notes of a First Visit to La Bourboule-les-Bains, Puy-de-Dome.)
III.
Nearing La JBourboule—Objects of Interest—Easy and Uneasy—On
\ the Road—Arrival—Reception—First Impressions—Difficulties.
Arrival at Laqueuille.—Hot, dusty, dirty, weary, and not in the
most angelic temper, either of us. Still, as Chivers sticks to it
that but for me he would not have come to La Bourboule, I feel
bound to make the best of everything for the sake of my own repu-
tation as an adviser ; besides, if we were both to succumb to melan-
choly, the very strongest waters would never do us any good.
Our Rosses at La Bourboule, and the Jolly Young Cocher who “ ‘ drives ’
along thinking of nothing at all.”
So I begin, as cheerfully as possible, by pointing out that it seems
to be a pretty-ish country.
“ Pretty country, be bio wed! ” growls Chivers, peevishly. “ Why
we can’t see anything a hundred yards away from the station.”
This is not strictly the fact, but I admit there is not much to be
seen as yet.
“ Wish to goodness I had brought a servant,” exclaims the gentle-
man whose “name is Easy,” adding, in despair, “I know I shall
never get my things brushed. And then ”—turning to me with an air
of supreme dejection—“who’s to unpack my confounded luggage?”
The Boots will do this, I suggest, or the Porter, or the Chamber-
maid. But he sneers at the mention of each oDe of these domestics
separately, as if, though they might be good enough for the simple
task of unpacking my luggage, or anybody else’s, it would be utterly
; impossible for them, individually or collectively, to venture upon
unpacking his. He speaks as if he were carrying dynamite. What he
means by “ unpacking” is not simply undoing the straps, but taking
everything out, and laying each article, from the button-hook to
the slippers, in its proper place. The fact is, that for seven or eight
years of his life,—during which I had lost sight of Chivers, and it is
only just at this moment it occurs to me that I had lost sight of him
for so long,—Dudley Chivers held a supremely important post in
; the East, where he was waited on hand and foot by grovelling
1 slaves, who, like sweet Alice in the song, “ trembled with fear at his
frown,” and who “wept with delight” on the rare occasions when
, he deigned to “ give them a smile.” His every wish in that Oriental
i Palace was anticipated before it could be expressed, and, at first,
before it could be even understood when it was expressed. And so,
having been for eight years in the habit of clapping his hands as the
signal for a hundred ebon slaves, more or less, to bring him his boot-
jack, or his button-hook, or whatever it might be, it is no wonder
that, in spite of his still affirming his name to be “ Easy,” he should
be a trifle put out at having come on a long journey to a new place
without any servant at all, and so find himself reduced to clapping
his hands as much as he likes, without any immediate effect beyond
that of making them very red and tender. Dudley Chiver3 h
emphatically a man whom a Leader-writer in any paper would
declare was “ born to he a Euler of Men.” Quite so. Only he must
have some one on whom to exercise this gift, and, at present, that
one has been left behind.
“I shall never get anything done,” he exclaims, wretchedly, and
almost wrings his hands in the utter helplessness of his misery.
Pour le distraire un peu (as I have before remarked, one does drop
into French as Wegg did into poetry), I direct his attention to the
Station-master of Laqueuille, who is very much decorated, with about
half-a-dozen silver medals hanging in a row on his breast, as if he
! had been convicted of uttering had coin, and these were false speci-
I mens fixed on to him as a warning to others, just as a keeper hangs
up stoats and weasels on a barn door, or a shopkeeper nails
“ duifer ” halfpennies to his counter.
The appearance of this Station-master makes Chivers very angry.
He says he hates officials,—specially decorated officials,—and, more
especially, decorated French officials. He won’t even condescend
to obtain renseignements from him about the omnibus to La Bour-
boule. However, not much information is necessary, as here are
the omnibuses ail in a row, and, a little way off, some dusty,
broken-down-looking two-horsed open flys, with very unprofessional-
looking drivers, dressed as ordinary peasants, in blouse and casquette.
The omnibuses have four horses each,—and suth h>rses! They
look as if another mile in any direction would shut them up alto-
gether. The poor things hang their heads, as though ashamed of -
being seen by strangers in this miserable condition; and, if they
cannot even “ carry their heads,” how they are going to carry their
loads, is a puzzle to any unprejudiced person, for the omnibuses are
by this time choke-full inside and out, being apparently licensed to
carry as many as can manage to seat themselves without regard to
personal comfort.
We debate whether it would not be better to take one of the open
vehicles; but on being informed by a driver that his fare will be
twenty francs, we determine to take out the money’s worth of
our railway ticket, which includes the ’bus.
Chivers is very angry. “Twenty francs!—a regular ‘do!’
just like ’em! ” and he won’t even make a bargain.
Ours is the last ’bus to start. We are on the roof of the omnibus,
on a seat of peculiarly ingenious open-work construction, warranted
to keep the traveller awake, and prevent his falling over the side.
“What a beastly seat!,” cries Chivers, wriggling. ‘What a
wretched old omnibus! Ugh!” Then, as 1 really cannot help agreeing
with him, though I still smile, and try by that simple means to put
the best face possible on the matter, he goes on— “ Did you ever see
such horses! Poor devils ! We shall never get to Bourboule. We ’re
an hour or more late as it is ! That’s what comes of railways being
under State control! ” And for a few minutes he is buried in the
deepest meditation, from which I would no more rouse him than I
I would venture to disturb the Poet’s inspiration, for he is evidently
revolving some tremendous scheme of Europt an Pailway Reform,
which shall unite the Great Powers as one man, and be the inaugu-
ration of a new Golden Era for France, consolidating the Commercial
alliance between the two countries, putting an end to State monopoly,
and which, as an immediate practical but important result, will ter- i
minate the authority of the decorated Station-master at Laqueuille, j
and bring to an end for ever the wretched omnibus service between |
here and La Bourboule.
I am convinced that this is what is passing through Chivers’
mind, but all he says, and herein he shows the caution of the true
diplomatist, is, “ What an infernally uncomfortable seat! ”
Again I draw his attention to the prospect, which really begins to
be very pretty, though not, at present, anything grand.
“I don’t think it’s a very friendly sort of country,” he says. 1
subsequently find that the expression “friendly” goes for a good
deal in Chivers’s vocabulary, as he applies it, when in a better
humour than at present, to everything and everybody.
“Ah! of course!” he exclaims, presently, jerking his head in
the direction of the driver, “ I thought so—I knew he’d do it! Just
like ’em! Our stupid ass of a coachman has waited till all the others
have gone on; and now he is sticking close behind, and we shall
have all their dust. What a pig of an idiot! What a beastly
drive ! ” And then comes the melancholy refrain, which is like the
burden of an old song, “ I wish to goodness I’d brought a servant
I shall never get my clothes brushed.”
It is a dusty, up-hill journey. The sun has come out strong for
the occasion, and the rosses (Anglice, our ’osses,—first symptom
of an international calembour) have come out weak.
“ Oh, the idiot may crack his whip, and shout as much as he darned
pleases, but he ’ll never get ’em up this hill! ” says Chivers, angrily.
This seems to be the universal opinion of the passengers outside,
who begin to express great pity for the poor animals. But no one
at present offers to lighten the load by descending. At last the horses-
come to a standstill. They don’t stir, no more does anybody else.
“Dashed if 1 get down,” says Chivers, The Easy, with a touch
of the Oriental despot in his tone. “ I didn’t pay to walk. Let’em
get more horses, or stand us a Hy.”
However, half-a-dozen passengers do take to the road. I am
too tired to walk. We have had no breakfast, and no refreshments
except the abominably warm lemonade at Limoges, since dinner last
night in Paris.
“Why,” growls Chivers, “if one hadn’t anything the matter
with one, this infernal journey would make some sort of medical
treatment absolutely necessary. Ugh ! beastly! ”
I point out the picturesqueness of the scenery,—it is for the most
part a beautiful drive from Laqueuille to La Bourboule, with a good
view of the Puy-de-Dome itself in the far-off distance,—but he
keeps his back turned on it. I point out to him the volcanic cha-
racter of the rocks before him, but all he growls out is,—
“ Bah ! seen the same sort of thing in Devonshire. I believe La
Bourboule’s all a swindle. I believe the waters are doctored.”
“ And so will you be when you get there— at least you ought to be