Which Is Not Superfluous for the Travellers’ Final Verdict on the Irrationality of Frenchmen
“But why is it, after all, that Frenchmen are not rational?”
I asked myself this question as I was examining four new passengers, Frenchmen, who had just come into our carriage. They were the first Frenchmen I met on their native soil, if I discount the customs official in Erquelines, which we had just left. The customs officials had been exceedingly polite, did their job quickly and I entered my carriage very pleased with my debut in France.
As far as Erquelines, though our compartment had eight seats, there were only two of us: myself and a Swiss, a middle-aged man, simple and reserved, and a pleasant conversationalist at that, so that we chatted all the time for about two hours on end. But now there were six of us, and to my astonishment my Swiss, at the sight of our four new companions, fell all of a sudden almost completely silent. I made an attempt to continue our conversation, but he was obviously eager to change the subject, gave short non-committal answers, turned away from me with an air almost of annoyance, gazed at the view out of the window for a bit and then, taking out his German guidebook, was soon entirely absorbed in it. I abandoned him at once and, without saying a word, concentrated my attention on our new companions.
They were odd folk, somehow. They carried no luggage and bore not the slightest resemblance to travellers. They did not have so much as a bundle between them, nor were they dressed in a way calculated to make them look like travellers. They all wore a thin sort of frock coat, terribly shabby and threadbare, little better than those worn by our officers’ batmen or by servants in the house of a not very well-off country squire. Their shirts were dirty, their neckties very bright and also very dirty; one of them wore the remnants of a silk kerchief, of the kind which are constantly worn and become stiff with grease after fifteen years’ contact with the wearer’s neck. The man also had studs with imitation diamonds the size of a hazelnut. However, there was a certain smartness and even dash about them. All four appeared to be of the same age – thirty-five or thereabout – and though their faces were dissimilar, they themselves were much alike. Their faces, somewhat haggard in appearance, had the usual little French beards, which also looked very much alike. They were obviously people with a large and varied experience behind them, who had acquired a permanently businesslike if sour expression. Also I got the impression that they knew each other, but I do not remember them exchanging a single word. It was fairly obvious that they did not want to look at us – that is, at the Swiss and at me – they sat and smoked with a somewhat nonchalant air, and affected complete indifference, as they riveted their gaze on the windows of the compartment.
I lit a cigarette and began to examine them for lack of anything better to do. True enough, the question did flit through my mind – what sort of people can they possibly be? Not quite workmen, but not quite bourgeois either. Could they possibly be ex-soldiers? Something à demi-solde* perhaps? However, I did not worry about them too much. Ten minutes later, as soon as we reached the next station, all four of them jumped out of the train one after the other; the door slammed and we sped on. Along this route the train hardly waits at the stations: about two minutes, three at the most, and on it rushes. The transport is excellent, in other words – very quick.
As soon as we found ourselves alone, the Swiss immediately shut his guidebook, put it aside and looked at me with an air of satisfaction, obviously keen to renew our conversation.
“These fellows did not stay long,” I began, looking at him with some curiosity.
“But they only intended to travel to the next station.”
“Do you know them?”
“Them?… Why, they are the police…”
“How do you mean? What police?” I asked with surprise.
“There now… I noticed at once you had no idea who they were.”
“And are they really police spies?” (I still could not bring myself to believe it.)
“Of course; they came in here because of us.”
“You know it for certain?”
“Oh, there’s no doubt about it. I have travelled this way several times before. We were pointed out to them back in the customs house while our passports were being examined, our names were told to them and so on and so forth. So they came and sat down here in order to accompany us.”
“But why should they, after all, want to accompany us if they had seen us already? You said, didn’t you, that we were pointed out to them at that other station?”
“We were indeed, and our names were given. But that’s not enough. Now they have studied us in detail: face, dress, suit-cases, in fact our whole appearance. They made a mental note of your studs; you took out your cigar case, if you remember – well now, they’ve made a note of that cigar case too; all these little trifles, you know, and distinguishing marks, particularly distinguishing marks – as many of them as possible. You could lose yourself in Paris, or change your name (if you are a suspicious character, that is). Those trifles would then help the search. All this is immediately telegraphed to Paris from the very same station. And there it’s kept in the proper place, in case of need. Besides, hotel keepers must supply the most detailed information about foreigners, and must include trifles as well!”
“But why,” I went on asking, still feeling a bit puzzled, “were there so many of them? There were four of them, after all!”
“Oh, they are very numerous here. Probably this time there are few foreigners, but if there were more they would have distributed themselves among different coaches.”
“Come now, they did not even look at us. They were looking out of the windows.”
“Oh, don’t you worry, they saw everything… It was because of us they sat down here.”
Well, well, I thought, there you are, you and your “irrational Frenchmen”, and I threw (shamefacedly, I admit) a somewhat mistrustful glance at the Swiss, as the thought flitted through my mind: you wouldn’t be one of those yourself, my boy, would you now, and just pretending not to be? But I did not think that for more than a split second, I assure you. Absurd, but what can one do? Such thoughts are bound to arise…
The Swiss had told me the truth. As soon as I arrived at my hotel, a full description of my person down to the most minute detail was immediately made and sent to the appropriate authorities. The thoroughness and minuteness with which you are examined in order to describe all particulars concerning you lead one to conclude that your entire life in the hotel, your every step, so to speak, is being scrupulously observed and counted. However, in my first hotel, I personally was not bothered and my description was drawn up on the quiet, except, of course, for the questions which you are asked in the book in which you make your full confession: who are you, how did you arrive and whence and with what intentions in mind? etc. But in the second hotel to which I went, having failed to find a room in my first – the Hôtel des Coquillières – after my eight-day trip to London, I was treated with far greater frankness. In general this second hotel – Hôtel des Empereurs – seemed to be run much more on family lines in every respect. The owner and his wife were very good people and very considerate, rather elderly and extraordinarily attentive to the needs of their guests. In the evening of the very day on which I arrived, the landlady caught me in the hall and asked me to come into the room which served as an office. The husband was there too, but the landlady apparently ran the whole administrative side.
“I am sorry,” she began politely, “we need all your particulars.”
“But I’ve given them to you… you have my passport.”
“Yes, but votre état?”*
This “votre état” is an extremely confusing thing and I never liked it. What can one put down? Traveller is too abstract. Homme de lettres* earns no respect.
“We’d better put down propriétaire.* What do you think?” asked the landlady. “That would be the best of all.”
“Oh yes, that would be best of all,” confirmed her spouse.
“All right. Well now, your reason for visiting Paris?”
“As a traveller, in transit.”
“Mm… yes, pour voir Paris.* Now, monsieur, your height?”
“How do you mean – height?”
“How tall are you, in fact?”
“Average height – as you can see.”
“That’s so, monsieur… But we should like to know a bit more precisely… I should think, I should think…” she went on, looking questioningly at her husband.
“I should think so high,” decided the husband, stating my height in metres as a rough estimate.
“But what do you want it for?” I asked.
“Oh, it is es-sential,” replied the landlady with a polite drawl on the word “essential”, but at the same time entering my height in the book. “Now, monsieur, your hair? Fair… e-er… very fair, really… straight…”
She made a note of the hair as well.
“Would you mind, monsieur,” she went on as she put down her pen, left her seat and came up to me with all the politeness she could muster, “over here, a step or two nearer the window. I must have a look at the colour of your eyes. Hm… light colour…”
And again she glanced questioningly at her husband. They were obviously very fond of each other.
“A bit greyish,” remarked the husband with a particularly businesslike, even worried expression. “Voilà,” he said and gave his wife a wink, pointing at something over one of his eyebrows, but I understood perfectly well what it was he was pointing at. I have a small scar on my forehead, and he wanted his wife to take note of this distinguishing mark too.
“Permit me to ask you now,” I said to the landlady when the whole examination was over, “are you really required to present such a detailed account?”
“Oh, monsieur, it is es-sential!…”
“Monsieur!” repeated the husband after her, with a somehow particularly impressive air.
“But they didn’t ask me in the Hôtel des Coquillières.”
“Impossible,” retorted the landlady promptly. “They could get into serious trouble for that. They probably examined you without saying a word about it, but they certainly, certainly examined you. But we are simpler and more frank with our guests. We treat them as one of the family. You will be satisfied with us. You’ll see…”
“Oh, monsieur!…” confirmed the husband solemnly and a look of tenderness even came into his face.
And this was a very honest and a very pleasant couple, anyway as far as I got to know them afterwards. But the word “es-sential” was pronounced by no means apologetically or in a tone of voice which pleaded extenuating circumstances, but rather in the sense of absolute necessity which almost coincided with their personal convictions.
And so I am in Paris.