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Around the World on a Bicycle V1

T >> Thomas Stevens >> Around the World on a Bicycle V1




Monsieur, the accomplished, come down to see his Anglais friend and
protege next morning, a few minutes after his Anglais friend and protege,
has started off toward a distant street called Rue Poussen, which le
garcon had unwittingly directed him to when he inquired the way to the
bureau de poste; the natural result, I suppose, of the difference between
Elbeuf pronunciation and mine. Discovering my mistake upon arriving at
the Rue Poussen, I am more fortunate in my attack upon the interpreting
abilities of a passing citizen, who sends an Elbeuf gamin to guide me
to the post-office.

Post office clerks are proverbially intelligent people in any country,
consequently it doesn't take me long to transact my business at the
bureau de poste; but now - shades of Caesar! - I have thoughtlessly
neglected to take down either the name of the hotel or the street in
which it is located, and for the next half-hour go wandering about as
helplessly as the "babes in the wood" Once, twice I fancy recognizing
the location; but the ordinary Elbeuf house is not easily recognized
from its neighbors, and I am standing looking around me in the
bewildered attitude of one uncertain of his bearings, when, lo! the
landlady, who has doubtless been wondering whatever has become
of me, appears at the door of a building which I should certainly never
have recognized as my hotel, besom in hand, and her pleasant, "Oui,
monsieur," sounds cheery and welcome enough, under the circumstances,
as one may readily suppose.

Fine roads continue, and between Gaillon and Vernon one can see the
splendid highway, smooth, straight, and broad, stretching ahead for miles
between rows of stately poplars, forming magnificent avenues that add
not a little to the natural loveliness of the country. Noble chateaus
appear here and there, oftentimes situated upon the bluffs of the Seine,
and forming the background to a long avenue of chestnuts, maples, or
poplars, running at right angles to the main road and principal avenue.
The well-known thriftincss of the French peasantry is noticeable on every
hand, and particularly away off to the left yonder, where their small,
well-cultivated farms make the sloping bluffs resemble huge log-cabin
quilts in the distance. Another glaring and unmistakable evidence of the
Normandy peasants' thriftiness is the remarkable number of patches they
manage to distribute over the surface of their pantaloons, every peasant
hereabouts averaging twenty patches, more or less, of all shapes and
sizes. When the British or United States Governments impose any additional
taxation on the people, the people gruinblingly declare they won't put
up with it, and then go ahead and pay it; but when the Chamber of Deputies
at Paris turns on the financial thumb-screw a little tighter, the French
peasant simply puts yet another patch on the seat of his pantaloons, and
smilingly hands over the difference between the patch and the new pair
he intended to purchase!

Huge cavalry barracks mark the entrance to Vernon, and, as I watch with
interest the manoauvring of the troops going through their morning drill,
I cannot help thinking that with such splendid loads as France possesses
she might take many a less practical measure for home defence than to
mount a few regiments of light infantry on bicycles; infantry travelling
toward the front at the late of seventy-five or a hundred miles a day
would be something of an improvement, one would naturally think. Every
few miles my road leads through the long, straggling street of a village,
every building in which is of solid stone, and looks at least a thousand
years old; while at many cross-roads among the fields, and in all manner
of unexpected nooks and corners of the villages, crucifixes are erected
to accommodate the devotionally inclined. Most of the streets of these
interior villages are paved with square stones which the wear and tear
of centuries have generally rendered too rough for the bicycle; but
occasionally one is ridable, and the astonishment of the inhabitants as
I wheel leisurely through, whistling the solemn strains of "Roll, Jordan,
roll," is really quite amusing. Every village of any size boasts a church
that, for fineness of architecture and apparent costliness of construction,
looks out of all proportion to the straggling street of shapeless
structures that it overtops. Everything here seems built as though
intended to last forever, it being no unusual sight to see a ridiculously
small piece of ground surrounded by a stone wall built as though to
resist a bombardment; an enclosure that must have cost more to erect
than fifty crops off the enclosed space could repay. The important town
of Mantes is reached early in the evening, and a good inn found for the
night.

The market-women are arraying their varied wares all along the main
street of Mantes as I wheel down toward the banks of the Seine this
morning. I stop to procure a draught of new milk, and, while drinking
it, point to sundry long rows of light, flaky-looking cakes strung on
strings, and motion that I am desirous of sampling a few at current
rates; but the good dame smiles and shakes her head vigorously, as well
enough she might, for I learn afterward that the cakes are nothing less
than dried yeast-cakes, a breakfast off which would probably have produced
spontaneous combustion. Getting on to the wrong road out of Mantes, I
find myself at the river's edge down among the Seine watermen. I am shown
the right way, but from Mantes to Paris they are not Normandy roads;
from Mantes southward they gradually deteriorate until they are little
or no better than the "sand-papered roads of Boston." Having determined
to taboo vin ordinaire altogether I astonish the restaurateur of a village
where I take lunch by motioning away the bottle of red wine and calling
for " de I'eau," and the glances cast in my direction by the other
customers indicate plainly enough that they consider the proceeding as
something quite extraordinary. Rolling through Saint Germain, Chalon
Pavey, and Nanterre, the magnificent Arc de Triomphe looms up in the
distance ahead, and at about two o'clock, Wednesday, May 13th, I wheel
into the gay capital through the Porte Maillott. Asphalt pavement now
takes the place of macadam, and but a short distance inside the city
limits I notice the 'cycle depot of Renard Ferres. Knowing instinctively
that the fraternal feelings engendered by the magic wheel reaches to
wherever a wheelman lives, I hesitate not to dismount and present my
card. Yes, Jean Glinka, apparently an employe there, comprehends Anglais;
they have all heard of my tour, and wish me bon voyage, and Jean and his
bicycle is forthwith produced and delegated to accompany me into the
interior of the city and find me a suitable hotel. The streets of Paris,
like the streets of other large cities, are paved with various compositions,
and they have just been sprinkled. French-like, the luckless Jean is
desirous of displaying his accomplishments on the wheel to a visitor so
distingue; he circles around on the slippery pavement in a manner most
unnecessary, and in so doing upsets himself while crossing a car-track,
rips his pantaloons, and injures his wheel. At the Hotel du Louvre they
won't accept bicycles, having no place to put them; but a short distance
from there we find a less pretentious establishment, where, after requiring
me to fill up a formidable-looking blank, stating my name, residence,
age, occupation, birthplace, the last place I lodged at, etc., they
finally assign me quarters. From Paul Devilliers, to whom I bring an
introduction, I learn that by waiting here till Friday evening, and
repairing to the rooms of the Societe Velocipedique Metropolitaine, the
president of that club can give me the best bicycle route between Paris
and Vienna; accordingly I domicile myself at the hotel for a couple of
days. Many of the lions of Paris are within easy distance of my hotel.
The reader, however, probably knows more about the sights of Paris than
one can possibly find out in two days; therefore I refrain from any
attempt at describing them; but my hotel is worthy of remark.

Among other agreeable and sensible arrangements at the Hotel uu Loiret,
there is no such thing as opening one's room-door from the outside save
with the key; and unless one thoroughly understands this handy peculiarity,
and has his wits about him continually, he is morally certain, sometime
when he is leaving his room, absent-mindedly to shut the door and leave
the key inside. This is, of course, among the first things that happen
to me, and it costs me half a franc and three hours of wretchedness
before I see the interior of my room again. The hotel keeps a rude
skeleton-key on hand, presumably for possible emergencies of this nature;
but in manipulating this uncouth instrument le portier actually locks
the door, and as the skeleton-key is expected to manage the catch only,
and not the lock, this, of course, makes matters infinitely worse. The
keys of every room in the house are next brought into requisition and
tried in succession, but not a key among them all is a duplicate of mine.
What is to be done. Le portier looks as dejected as though Paris was
about to be bombarded, as he goes down and breaks the dreadful news to
le proprietaire. Up comes le proprietaire - avoirdupois three hundred
pounds - sighing like an exhaust-pipe at every step. For fifteen unhappy
minutes the skeleton-key is wriggled and twisted about again in the key-
hole, and the fat proprietaire rubs his bald head impatiently, but all
to no purpose. Each returns to his respective avocation. Impatient to
get at my writing materials, I look up at the iron bars across the fifth-
story windows above, and motion that if they will procure a rope I will
descend from thence and enter the window. They one and all point out
into the street; and, thinking they have sent for something or somebody,
I sit down and wait with Job-like patience for something to turn up.
Nothing, however, turns up, and at the expiration of an hour I naturally
begin to feel neglected and impatient, and again suggest the rope; when,
at a motion from le proprietaire, le portier pilots me around a neighboring
corner to a locksmith's establishment, where, voluntarily acting the part
of interpreter, he engages on my behalf, for half a franc, a man to come
with a bunch of at least a hundred skeleton-keys of all possible shapes
to attack the refractory key-hole. After trying nearly all the keys, and
disburdening himself of whole volumes of impulsive French ejaculations,
this man likewise gives it up in despair; but, now everything else has
been tried and failed, the countenance of la portier suddenly lights up,
and he slips quietly around to an adjoining room, and enters mine inside
of two minutes by simply lifting a small hook out of a staple with his
knife-blade. There appears to be a slight coolness, as it were, between
le proprietaire and me after this incident, probably owing to the
intellectual standard of each becoming somewhat lowered in the other's
estimation in consequence of it. Le proprietaire, doubtless, thinks a
man capable of leaving the key inside of the door must be the worst type
of an ignoramus; and certainly my opinion of him for leaving such a
diabolical arrangement unchanged in the latter half of the nineteenth
century is not far removed from the same.

Visiting the headquarters of the Societe Velocipedique Mctropolitaine
on Friday evening, I obtain from the president the desired directions
regarding the route, and am all prepared to continue eastward in the
morning. Wheeling down the famous Champs Elysees at eleven at night,
when the concert gardens are in full blast and everything in a blaze,
of glory, with myriads of electric lights festooned and in long brilliant
rows among the trees, is something to be remembered for a lifetime.
Before breakfast I leave the city by the Porte Daumesiul, and wheel
through the environments toward Vincennes and Jonville, pedalling, to
the sound of martial music, for miles beyond the Porte. The roads for
thirty miles east of Paris are not Normandy roads, but the country for
most of the distance is fairly level, and for mile after mile, and league
beyond league, the road is beneath avenues of plane and poplar, which,
crossing the plain in every direction like emerald walls of nature's own
building, here embellish and beautify an otherwise rather monotonous
stretch of country. The villages are little different from the villages
of Normandy, but the churches have not the architectural beauty of the
Normandy churches, being for the most part massive structures without
any pretence to artistic embellishment in their construction. Monkish-looking
priests are a characteristic feature of these villages, and when, on
passing down the narrow, crooked streets of Fontenay, I wheel beneath a
massive stone archway, and looking around, observe cowled priests and
everything about the place seemingly in keeping with it, one can readily
imagine himself transported back to medieval times. One of these little
interior French villages is the most unpromising looking place imaginable
for a hungry person to ride into; often one may ride the whole length
of the village expectantly looking around for some visible evidence of
wherewith to cheer the inner man, and all that greets the hungry vision
is a couple of four-foot sticks of bread in one dust-begrimed window,
and a few mournful-looking crucifixes and Roman Catholic paraphernalia
in another. Neither are the peasants hereabouts to be compared with the
Normandy peasantry in personal appearance. True, they have as many patches
on their pantaloons, but they don't seem to have acquired the art of
attaching them in a manner to produce the same picturesque effect as
does the peasant of Normandy; the original garment is almost invariably
a shapeless corduroy, of a bagginess and an o'er-ampleness most unbeautiful
to behold.

The well-known axiom about fair paths leading astray holds good with the
high-ways and by-ways of France, as elsewhere, and soon after leaving
the ancient town of Provins, I am tempted by a splendid road, following
the windings of a murmuring brook, that appears to be going in my
direction, in consequence of which I soon find myself among cross-country
by-ways, and among peasant proprietors who apparently know little of the
world beyond their native Tillages. Four o'clock finds me wheeling through
a hilly vineyard district toward Villenauxe, a town several kilometres
off my proper route, from whence a dozen kilometres over a very good
road brings me to Sezanne, where the Hotel de France affords excellent
accommodation. After the table d'hote the clanging bells of the old
church hard by announce services of some kind, and having a natural
penchant when in strange places from wandering whithersoever inclination
leads, in anticipation of the ever possible item of interest, I meander
into the church and take a seat. There appears to be nothing extraordinary
about the service, the only unfamiliar feature to me being a man wearing
a uniform similar to the gendarmerie of Paris: cockade, sash, sword, and
everything complete; in addition to which he carries a large cane and a
long brazen-headed staff resembling the boarding-pike of the last century.
It has rained heavily during the night, but the roads around here are
composed mainly of gravel, and are rather improved than otherwise by the
rain; and from Sezanne, through Champenoise and on to Vitry le Francois,
a distance of about sixty-five kilometres, is one of the most enjoyable
stretches of road imaginable. The contour of the country somewhat resembles
the swelling prairies of Western Iowa, and the roads are as perfect for
most of the distance as an asphalt boulevard. The hills are gradual
acclivities, and, owing to the good roads, are mostly ridable, while -
the declivities make the finest coasting imaginable; the exhilaration
of gliding down them in the morning air, fresh after the rain, can be
compared only to Canadian tobogganing. Ahead of you stretches a gradual
downward slope, perhaps two kilometres long. Knowing full well that from
top to bottom there exists not a loose stone or a dangerous spot, you
give the ever-ready steel-horse the rein; faster and faster whirl the
glistening wheels until objects "by the road-side become indistinct
phantoms as they glide instantaneously by, and to strike a hole or
obstruction is to be transformed into a human sky-rocket, and, later on,
into a new arrival in another world. A wild yell of warning at a blue-
bloused peasant in the road ahead, shrill screams of dismay from several
females at a cluster of cottages, greet the ear as you sweep past like
a whirlwind, and the next moment reach the bottom at a rate of speed
that would make the engineer of the Flying Dutchman green with envy.
Sometimes, for the sake of variety, when gliding noiselessly along on
the ordinary level, I wheel unobserved close up behind an unsuspecting
peasant walking on ahead, without calling out, and when he becomes
conscious of my presence and looks around and sees the strange vehicle
in such close proximity it is well worth the price of a new hat to see
the lively manner in which he hops out of the way, and the next moment
becomes fairly rooted to the ground with astonishment; for bicycles and
bicycle riders are less familiar objects to the French peasant, outside
of the neighborhood of a few large cities, than one would naturally
suppose.

Vitry le Frangois is a charming old town in the beautiful valley of the
Marne; in the middle ages it was a strongly fortified city; the moats
and earth-works are still perfect. The only entrance to the town, even
now, is over the old draw-bridges, the massive gates, iron wheels, chains,
etc., still being intact, so that the gates can yet be drawn up and
entrance denied to foes, as of yore; but the moats are now utilized for
the boats of the Marne and Rhine Canal, and it is presumable that the
old draw-bridges are nowadays always left open. To-day is Sunday - and
Sunday in France is equivalent to a holiday - consequently Vitry le Frangois,
being quite an important town, and one of the business centres of the
prosperous and populous Marne Valley, presents all the appearance of
circus-day in an American agricultural community. Several booths are
erected in the market square, the proprietors and attaches of two
peregrinating theatres, several peep-shows, and a dozen various games
of chance, are vying with each other in the noisiness of their demonstrations
to attract the attention and small change of the crowd to their respective
enterprises. Like every other highway in this part of France the Marne
and Bhine Canal is fringed with an avenue of poplars, that from neighboring
elevations can be seen winding along the beautiful valley for miles,
presenting a most pleasing effect.

East of Vitry le Francois the roads deteriorate, and from thence to Bar-
le they are inferior to any hitherto encountered in France; nevertheless,
from the American standpoint they are very good roads, and when, at five
o'clock, I wheel into Bar-le-Duc and come to sum up the aggregate of the
day's journey I find that, without any undue exertion, I have covered
very nearly one hundred and sixty kilometres, or about one hundred English
miles, since 8.30 A.M., notwithstanding a good hour's halt at Vitry le
Francois for dinner. Bar-le-Duc appears to be quite an important business
centre, pleasantly situated in the valley of the Ornain River, a tributary
of the Marne; and the stream, in its narrow, fertile valley, winds around
among hills from whose sloping sides, every autumn, fairly ooze the
celebrated red wines of the Meuse and Moselle regions. The valley has
been favored with a tremendous downpour of rain and hail during the
night, and the partial formation of the road leading along the level
valley eastward being a light-colored, slippery clay, I find it anything
but agreeable wheeling this morning; moreover, the Ornain Valley road
is not so perfectly kept as it might be. As in every considerable town
in France, so also in Bar-le-Duc, the military element comes conspicuously
to the fore. Eleven kilometres of slipping and sliding through the greasy
clay brings me to the little village of Tronville, where I halt to
investigate the prospect of obtaining something to eat. As usual, the
prospect, from the street, is most unpromising, the only outward evidence
being a few glass jars of odds and ends of candy in one small window.
Entering this establishment, the only thing the woman can produce besides
candy and raisins is a box of brown, wafer-like biscuits, the unsubstantial
appearance of which is, to say the least, most unsatisfactory to a person
who has pedalled his breakfastless way through eleven kilometres of
slippery clay. Uncertain of their composition, and remembering my unhappy
mistake at Mantes in desiring to breakfast off yeast-cakes, I take the
precaution of sampling one, and in the absence of anything more substantial
conclude to purchase a few, and so motion to the woman to hand me the
box in order that I can show her how many I want. But the o'er-careful
Frenchwoman, mistaking my meaning, and fearful that I only want to sample
yet another one, probably feeling uncertain of whether I might not wish
to taste a whole handful this time, instead of handing it over moves it
out of my reach altogether, meanwhile looking quite angry, and not a
little mystified at her mysterious, pantomimic customer. A half-franc
is produced, and, after taking the precaution of putting it away in
advance, the cautious female weighs me out the current quantity of her
ware; and I notice that, after giving lumping weight, she throws in a
few extra, presumably to counterbalance what, upon sober second thought,
she perceives to have been an unjust suspicion. While I am extracting
what satisfaction my feathery purchase contains, it begins to rain and
hail furiously, and so continues with little interruption all the forenoon,
compelling me, much against my inclination, to search out in Tronville,
if possible, some accommodation till to-morrow morning. The village is
a shapeless cluster of stone houses and stables, the most prominent
feature of the streets being huge heaps of manure and grape-vine prunings;
but I manage to obtain the necessary shelter, and such other accommodations
as might be expected in an out-of-the-way village, unfrequented by
visitors from one year's end to another. The following morning is still
rainy, and the clayey roads of the Ornain Valley are anything but inviting
wheeling; but a longer stay in Tronville is not to be thought of, for,
among other pleasantries of the place here, the chief table delicacy
appears to be boiled escargots, a large, ungainly snail procured from
the neighboring hills. Whilst fond of table delicacies, I emphatically
draw the line at escargots. Pulling out toward Toul I find the roads,
as expected, barely ridable; but the vineyard-environed little valley,
lovely in its tears, wrings from one praise in spite of muddy roads and
lowering weather. En route down the valley I meet a battery of artillery
travelling from Toul to Bar-le Duc or some other point to the westward;
and if there is any honor in throwing a battery of French artillery into
confusion, and wellnigh routing them, then the bicycle and I are fairly
entitled to it.

As I ride carelessly toward them, the leading horses suddenly wheel
around and begin plunging about the road. The officers' horses, and, in
fact, the horses of the whole company, catch the infection, and there
is a plunging and a general confusion all along the line, seeing which
I, of course, dismount and retire - but not discomfited - from the field
until they have passed. These French horses are certainly not more than
half-trained. I passed a battery of English artillery on the road leading
out of Coventry, and had I wheeled along under the horses' noses there
would have been no confusion whatever.

On the divide between the Ornain and Moselle Valleys the roads are
hillier, but somewhat less muddy. The weather continues showery and
unsettled, and a short distance beyond Void I find myself once again
wandering off along the wrong road. The peasantry hereabout seem to have
retained a lively recollection of the Prussians, my helmet appearing to
have the effect of jogging their memory, and frequently, when stopping
to inquire about the roads, the first word in response will be the pointed
query, "Prussian." By following the directions given by three different
peasants, I wander along the muddy by-roads among the vineyards for two
wet, unhappy hours ere I finally strike the main road to Toul again.
After floundering along the wellnigh unimproved by-ways for two hours
one thoroughly appreciates how much he is indebted to the military
necessities of the French Government for the splendid highways of France,
especially among these hills and valleys, where natural roadways would
be anything but good. Following down the Moselle Valley, I arrive at the
important city of Nancy in the eventide, and am fortunate, I suppose,
in discovering a hotel where a certain, or, more properly speaking, an
uncertain, quantity and quality of English are spoken. Nancy is reputed
to be one of the loveliest towns in France. But I merely remained in it
over night, and long enough next morning to exchange for some German
money, as I cross over the frontier to-day.

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