The Inn Garden Descends In Terraces To The
River; Stable-Yard, Kailyard, Orchard, And A Space Of Lawn, Fringed
With Rushes And Embellished With A Green Arbour.
On the opposite
bank there is a reach of English-looking plain, set thickly with
willows and poplars.
And between the two lies the river, clear and
deep, and full of reeds and floating lilies. Water-plants cluster
about the starlings of the long low bridge, and stand half-way up
upon the piers in green luxuriance. They catch the dipped oar with
long antennae, and chequer the slimy bottom with the shadow of
their leaves. And the river wanders and thither hither among the
islets, and is smothered and broken up by the reeds, like an old
building in the lithe, hardy arms of the climbing ivy. You may
watch the box where the good man of the inn keeps fish alive for
his kitchen, one oily ripple following another over the top of the
yellow deal. And you can hear a splashing and a prattle of voices
from the shed under the old kirk, where the village women wash and
wash all day among the fish and water-lilies. It seems as if linen
washed there should be specially cool and sweet.
We have come here for the river. And no sooner have we all bathed
than we board the two shallops and push off gaily, and go gliding
under the trees and gathering a great treasure of water-lilies.
Some one sings; some trail their hands in the cool water; some lean
over the gunwale to see the image of the tall poplars far below,
and the shadow of the boat, with the balanced oars and their own
head protruded, glide smoothly over the yellow floor of the stream.
At last, the day declining - all silent and happy, and up to the
knees in the wet lilies - we punt slowly back again to the landing-
place beside the bridge. There is a wish for solitude on all. One
hides himself in the arbour with a cigarette; another goes a walk
in the country with Cocardon; a third inspects the church. And it
is not till dinner is on the table, and the inn's best wine goes
round from glass to glass, that we begin to throw off the restraint
and fuse once more into a jolly fellowship.
Half the party are to return to-night with the wagonette; and some
of the others, loath to break up company, will go with them a bit
of the way and drink a stirrup-cup at Marlotte. It is dark in the
wagonette, and not so merry as it might have been. The coachman
loses the road. So-and-so tries to light fireworks with the most
indifferent success. Some sing, but the rest are too weary to
applaud; and it seems as if the festival were fairly at an end -
'Nous avons fait la noce,
Rentrons a nos foyers!'
And such is the burthen, even after we have come to Marlotte and
taken our places in the court at Mother Antonine's. There is punch
on the long table out in the open air, where the guests dine in
summer weather. The candles flare in the night wind, and the faces
round the punch are lit up, with shifting emphasis, against a
background of complete and solid darkness. It is all picturesque
enough; but the fact is, we are aweary. We yawn; we are out of the
vein; we have made the wedding, as the song says, and now, for
pleasure's sake, let's make an end on't. When here comes striding
into the court, booted to mid-thigh, spurred and splashed, in a
jacket of green cord, the great, famous, and redoubtable Blank; and
in a moment the fire kindles again, and the night is witness of our
laughter as he imitates Spaniards, Germans, Englishmen, picture-
dealers, all eccentric ways of speaking and thinking, with a
possession, a fury, a strain of mind and voice, that would rather
suggest a nervous crisis than a desire to please. We are as merry
as ever when the trap sets forth again, and say farewell noisily to
all the good folk going farther. Then, as we are far enough from
thoughts of sleep, we visit Blank in his quaint house, and sit an
hour or so in a great tapestried chamber, laid with furs, littered
with sleeping hounds, and lit up, in fantastic shadow and shine, by
a wood fire in a mediaeval chimney. And then we plod back through
the darkness to the inn beside the river.
How quick bright things come to confusion! When we arise next
morning, the grey showers fall steadily, the trees hang limp, and
the face of the stream is spoiled with dimpling raindrops.
Yesterday's lilies encumber the garden walk, or begin, dismally
enough, their voyage towards the Seine and the salt sea. A sickly
shimmer lies upon the dripping house-roofs, and all the colour is
washed out of the green and golden landscape of last night, as
though an envious man had taken a water-colour sketch and blotted
it together with a sponge. We go out a-walking in the wet roads.
But the roads about Grez have a trick of their own. They go on for
a while among clumps of willows and patches of vine, and then,
suddenly and without any warning, cease and determine in some miry
hollow or upon some bald knowe; and you have a short period of
hope, then right-about face, and back the way you came! So we draw
about the kitchen fire and play a round game of cards for ha'pence,
or go to the billiard-room, for a match at corks and by one consent
a messenger is sent over for the wagonette - Grez shall be left to-
morrow.
To-morrow dawns so fair that two of the party agree to walk back
for exercise, and let their kidnap-sacks follow by the trap.
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