an inland voyage-第16章

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　is　to　be　ashamed　of　what　we　are。　　To　detect　　the　flavour　of　an　olive　is　no　less　a　piece　of　human　perfection　than　　to　find　beauty　in　the　colours　of　the　sunset。

Canoeing　was　easy　work。　　To　dip　the　paddle　at　the　proper　　inclination；　now　right；　now　left；　to　keep　the　head　down　stream；　to　　empty　the　little　pool　that　gathered　in　the　lap　of　the　apron；　to　　screw　up　the　eyes　against　the　glittering　sparkles　of　sun　upon　the　　water；　or　now　and　again　to　pass　below　the　whistling　tow…rope　of　the　　DEO　GRATIAS　of　Conde；　or　the　FOUR　SONS　OF　AYMON　…　there　was　not　　much　art　in　that；　certain　silly　muscles　managed　it　between　sleep　　and　waking；　and　meanwhile　the　brain　had　a　whole　holiday；　and　went　　to　sleep。　　We　took　in；　at　a　glance；　the　larger　features　of　the　　scene；　and　beheld；　with　half　an　eye；　bloused　fishers　and　dabbling　　washerwomen　on　the　bank。　　Now　and　again　we　might　be　half…wakened　by　　some　church　spire；　by　a　leaping　fish；　or　by　a　trail　of　river　grass　　that　clung　about　the　paddle　and　had　to　be　plucked　off　and　thrown　　away。　　But　these　luminous　intervals　were　only　partially　luminous。　　　A　little　more　of　us　was　called　into　action；　but　never　the　whole。　　　The　central　bureau　of　nerves；　what　in　some　moods　we　call　Ourselves；　　enjoyed　its　holiday　without　disturbance；　like　a　Government　Office。　　　The　great　wheels　of　intelligence　turned　idly　in　the　head；　like　fly…　wheels；　grinding　no　grist。　　I　have　gone　on　for　half　an　hour　at　a　　time；　counting　my　strokes　and　forgetting　the　hundreds。　　I　flatter　　myself　the　beasts　that　perish　could　not　underbid　that；　as　a　low　　form　of　consciousness。　　And　what　a　pleasure　it　was！　　What　a　hearty；　　tolerant　temper　did　it　bring　about！　　There　is　nothing　captious　　about　a　man　who　has　attained　to　this；　the　one　possible　apotheosis　　in　life；　the　Apotheosis　of　Stupidity；　and　he　begins　to　feel　　dignified　and　longaevous　like　a　tree。

There　was　one　odd　piece　of　practical　metaphysics　which　accompanied　　what　I　may　call　the　depth；　if　I　must　not　call　it　the　intensity；　of　　my　abstraction。　　What　philosophers　call　ME　and　NOT…ME；　EGO　and　NON　　EGO；　preoccupied　me　whether　I　would　or　no。　　There　was　less　ME　and　　more　NOT…ME　than　I　was　accustomed　to　expect。　　I　looked　on　upon　　somebody　else；　who　managed　the　paddling；　I　was　aware　of　somebody　　else's　feet　against　the　stretcher；　my　own　body　seemed　to　have　no　　more　intimate　relation　to　me　than　the　canoe；　or　the　river；　or　the　　river　banks。　　Nor　this　alone：　　something　inside　my　mind；　a　part　of　　my　brain；　a　province　of　my　proper　being；　had　thrown　off　allegiance　　and　set　up　for　itself；　or　perhaps　for　the　somebody　else　who　did　the　　paddling。　　I　had　dwindled　into　quite　a　little　thing　in　a　corner　of　　myself。　　I　was　isolated　in　my　own　skull。　　Thoughts　presented　　themselves　unbidden；　they　were　not　my　thoughts；　they　were　plainly　　some　one　else's；　and　I　considered　them　like　a　part　of　the　　landscape。　　I　take　it；　in　short；　that　I　was　about　as　near　Nirvana　　as　would　be　convenient　in　practical　life；　and　if　this　be　so；　I　make　　the　Buddhists　my　sincere　compliments；　'tis　an　agreeable　state；　not　　very　consistent　with　mental　brilliancy；　not　exactly　profitable　in　a　　money　point　of　view；　but　very　calm；　golden；　and　incurious；　and　one　　that　sets　a　man　superior　to　alarms。　　It　may　be　best　figured　by　　supposing　yourself　to　get　dead　drunk；　and　yet　keep　sober　to　enjoy　　it。　　I　have　a　notion　that　open…air　labourers　must　spend　a　large　　portion　of　their　days　in　this　ecstatic　stupor；　which　explains　their　　high　composure　and　endurance。　　A　pity　to　go　to　the　expense　of　　laudanum；　when　here　is　a　better　paradise　for　nothing！

This　frame　of　mind　was　the　great　exploit　of　our　voyage；　take　it　all　　in　all。　　It　was　the　farthest　piece　of　travel　accomplished。　　Indeed；　　it　lies　so　far　from　beaten　paths　of　language；　that　I　despair　of　　getting　the　reader　into　sympathy　with　the　smiling；　complacent　　idiocy　of　my　condition；　when　ideas　came　and　went　like　motes　in　a　　sunbeam；　when　trees　and　church　spires　along　the　bank　surged　up；　　from　time　to　time　into　my　notice；　like　solid　objects　through　a　　rolling　cloudland；　when　the　rhythmical　swish　of　boat　and　paddle　in　　the　water　became　a　cradle…song　to　lull　my　thoughts　asleep；　when　a　　piece　of　mud　on　the　deck　was　sometimes　an　intolerable　eyesore；　and　　sometimes　quite　a　companion　for　me；　and　the　object　of　pleased　　consideration；　…　and　all　the　time；　with　the　river　running　and　the　　shores　changing　upon　either　hand；　I　kept　counting　my　strokes　and　　forgetting　the　hundreds；　the　happiest　animal　in　France。



DOWN　THE　OISE：　　CHURCH　INTERIORS



WE　made　our　first　stage　below　Compiegne　to　Pont　Sainte　Maxence。　　I　　was　abroad　a　little　after　six　the　next　morning。　　The　air　was　　biting；　and　smelt　of　frost。　　In　an　open　place　a　score　of　women　　wrangled　together　over　the　day's　market；　and　the　noise　of　their　　negotiation　sounded　thin　and　querulous　like　that　of　sparrows　on　a　　winter's　morning。　　The　rare　passengers　blew　into　their　hands；　and　　shuffled　in　their　wooden　shoes　to　set　the　blood　agog。　　The　streets　　were　full　of　icy　shadow；　although　the　chimneys　were　smoking　　overhead　in　golden　sunshine。　　If　you　wake　early　enough　at　this　　season　of　the　year；　you　may　get　up　in　December　to　break　your　fast　　in　June。

I　found　my　way　to　the　church；　for　there　is　always　something　to　see　　about　a　church；　whether　living　worshippers　or　dead　men's　tombs；　you　　find　there　the　deadliest　earnest；　and　the　hollowest　deceit；　and　　even　where　it　is　not　a　piece　of　history；　it　will　be　certain　to　leak　　out　some　contemporary　gossip。　　It　was　scarcely　so　cold　in　the　　church　as　it　was　without；　but　it　looked　colder。　　The　white　nave　was　　positively　arctic　to　the　eye；　and　the　tawdriness　of　a　continental　　altar　looked　more　forlorn　than　usual　in　the　solitude　and　the　bleak　　air。　　Two　priests　sat　in　the　chancel；　reading　and　waiting　　penitents；　and　out　in　the　nave；　one　very　old　woman　was　engaged　in　　her　devotions。　　It　was　a　wonder　how　she　was　able　to　pass　her　beads　　when　healthy　young　people　were　breathing　in　their　palms　and　　slapping　their　chest；　but　though　this　concerned　me；　I　was　yet　more　　dispirited　by　the　nature　of　her　exercises。　　She　went　from　chair　to　　chair；　from　altar　to　altar；　circumnavigating　the　church。　　To　each　　shrine　she　dedicated　an　equal　number　of　beads　and　an　equal　length　　of　time。　　Like　a　prudent　capitalist　with　a　somewhat　cynical　view　of　　the　commercial　prospect；　she　desired　to　place　her　supplications　in　　a　great　variety　of　heavenly　securities。　　She　would　risk　nothing　on　　the　credit　of　any　single　intercessor。　　Out　of　the　whole　company　of　　saints　and　angels；　not　one　but　was　to　suppose　himself　her　champion　　elect　against　the　Great　Assize！　　I　could　only　think　of　it　as　a　　dull；　transparent　jugglery；　based　upon　unconscious　unbelief。

She　was　as　dead　an　old　woman　as　ever　I　saw；　no　more　than　bone　and　　parchment；　curiously　put　together。　　Her　eyes；　with　which　she　　interrogated　mine；　were　vacant　of　sense。　　It　depends　on　what　you　　call　seeing；　whether　you　might　not　call　her　blind。　　Perhaps　she　had　　known　love：　　perhaps　borne　children；　suckled　them　and　given　them　　pet　names。　　But　now　that　was　all　gone　by；　and　had　left　her　neither　　happier　nor　wiser；　and　the　best　she　could　do　with　her　mornings　was　　to　come　up　here　into　the　cold　church　and　juggle　for　a　slice　of　　heaven。　　It　was　not　without　a　gulp　that　I　escaped　into　the　streets　　and　the　keen　morning　air。　　Morning？　why；　how　tired　of　it　she　would　　be　before　night！　and　if　she　did　not　sleep；　how　then？　　It　is　　fortunate　that　not　many　of　us　are　brought　up　publicly　to　justify　　our　lives　at　the　bar　of　threescore　years　and　ten；　fortunate　that　　such　a　number　are　knocked　opportunely　on　the　head　in　what　they　call　　the　flower　of　their　years；　and　go　away　to　suffer　for　their　follies　　in　private　somewhere　else。　　Otherwise；　between　sick　children　and　　discontented　old　folk；　we　might　be　put　out　of　all　conceit　of　life。

I　had　need　of　all　my　cerebral　hygiene　during　that　day's　paddle：　　　the　old　devotee　stuck　in　my　throat　sorely。　　But　I　was　soon　in　the　　seventh　heaven　of　stupidity；　and　knew　nothing　but　that　somebody　was　　paddling　a　canoe；　while　I　was　counting　his　strokes　and　forgetting　　the　hundreds。　　I　used　sometimes　to　be　afraid　I　should　remember　the　　hundreds；　which　would　have　made　a　toil　of　a　pleasure；　but　the　　terror　was　chimerical；　they　went　out　of　my　mind　by　enchantment；　and　　I　knew　no　more　than　the　man　in　the　moon　about　my　only　occupation。

At　Creil；　where　we　stopped　to　lunch；　we　left　the　canoes　in　another　　floating　lavatory；　which；　as　it　was　high　noon；　was　packed　with　　washerwomen；　red…handed　and　loud…voiced；　and　they　and　their　broad　　jokes　are　about　all　I　remember　of　the　place。　　I　could　look　up　my　　history…books；　if　you　were　very　anxious；　and　tell　you　a　date　or　　two；　for　it　figured　rather　largely　in　the　English　wars。　　But　I　　prefer　to　mention　a　girls'　boarding…school；　which　had　an　interest　　for　us　because　it　was　a　girls'　boarding…school；　and　because　we　　imagined　we　had　rather　an　interest　for　it。　　At　least　…　there　were　　the　girls　about　the　garden；　and　here　were　we　on　the　river；　and　　there　was　more　than　one　handkerchief　waved　as　we　went　by。　　It　　caused　quite　a　stir　in　my　heart；　and　yet　how　we　should　have　wearied　　and　despised　each　other；　these　girls　and　I；　if　we　had　been　　introduced　at　a　croquet…party！　　But　this　is　a　fashion　I　love：　　to　　kiss　the　hand　or　wave　a　handkerchief　to　people　I　shall　never　see　　again；　to　play　with　possibility；　and　knock　in　a　peg　for　fancy　to　　hang　upon。　　It　gives　the　traveller　a　jog；　reminds　him　that　he　is　　not　a　traveller　everywhere；　and　that　his　journey　is　no　more　than　a　　siesta　by　the　way　on　the　real　march　of　life。

The　church　at　Creil　was　a　nondescript　place　in　the　inside；　splashed　　with　gaudy　lights　from　the　windows；　and　picked　out　with　medallions　　of　the　Dolorous　Way。　　But　there　was　one　oddity；　in　the　way　of　an　EX　　VOTO；　which　pleased　me　hugely：　　a　faithful　model　of　a　canal　boat；　　swung　from　the　vault；　with　a　written　aspiration　that　God　should　　conduct　the　SAINT　NICOLAS　of　Creil　to　a　good　haven。　　The　thing　was　　neatly　executed；　and　would　have　made　the　delight　of　a　party　of　boys　　on　the　water…side。　　But　what　tickled　me　was　the　gravity　of　the　　peril　to　be　conjured。　　You　might　hang　up　the　model　of　a　sea…going　　ship；　and　welcome：　　one　that　is　to　plough　a　furrow　round　the　world；　　and　visit　the　tropic　or　the　frosty　poles；　runs　dangers　that　are　　well　worth　a　candle　and　a　mass。　　But　the　SAINT　NICOLAS　of　Creil；　　which　was　to　be　tugged　for　some　ten　years　by　patient　draught…　horses；　in　a　weedy　canal；　with　the　poplars　chattering　overhead；　and　　the　skipper　whistling　at　the　tiller；　which　was　to　do　all　its　　errands　in　green　inland　places；　and　never　get　out　of　sight　of　a　　village　belfry　in　all　its　cruising；　why；　you　would　have　thought　if　　anything　could　be　done　without　the　intervention　of　Providence；　it　　would　be　that！　　But　perhaps　the　skipper　was　a　humorist：　　or　perhaps　　a　prophet；　reminding　people　of　the　seriousness　of　life　by　this　　preposterous　token。

At　Creil；　as　at　Noyon；　Saint　Joseph　seemed　a　favourite　saint　on　the　　score　of　punctuality。　　Day　and　hour　can　be　specified；　and　grateful　　people　do　not　fail　to　specify　them　on　a　votive　tablet；　when　prayers　　have　been　punctually　and　neatly　answered。　　Whenever　time　is　a　　consideration；　Saint　Joseph　is　the　proper　intermediary。　　I　took　a　　sort　of　pleasure　in　observing