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Show TWO TRAVELERS <br><br> It was on the road from Paris to Lausanne. The scene: Interior of a first class compartment on the through night express. Time: A little after 1 o'clock A.M. The weather, well, that was simply indescribable. To merely say that it rained, would, from the very mildness of the term, provoke a smile of derision. It came down in great round drops, which thumped in wearisome monotony upon the roof of the carriage, and were driven by the violence of the wind and the speed with which we dashed through them furiously against the window-panes, even trickling down upon them inside. There was literally water, water everywhere, though my situation was so far better than the Ancient Mariner in that there were plenty of drops to drink had I been so minded. Instead of being stagnant, the water was of the liveliest description. <br><br> We had made a somewhat lengthy stop at Dijon, but were again in motion. At that station a gentleman had entered my compartment, of which I had been the sole occupant - A Frenchman, I knew, by the style of his dress and manner, the former showing the latest Parisian mode, and the latter (unreadable) politeness which characterizes every true Frenchman; also by the hearty profuseness of his apologies as he tripped over my feet in getting in. An Englishman would have settled the matter in far fewer words, and been far less demonstrative about it. My knowledge of French was most inconveniently limited, but I knew what he meant when he said "Pardong, if I didn't understand the rest of it. He ensconced himself in the further opposite corner from me and was soon apparently sound asleep. If I could only have conversed with him what a relief I felt it would have been to have broken the monotony of the enforced silence. <br><br> I could not help envying him the ease with which he had dropped off; as all my endeavors to woo the approaches of the balmy god had been futile. Indeed, I never felt more wide awake in my whole life before. <br><br> My traveling companion looked up for a moment - he had only been dozing after all, I thought - then he gazed out the window, shrugged his shoulders like a true Frenchman, glanced towards me, and catching my eye, observed. <br><br> "O'est terrible, ceite pinio." <br><br> "Oui, monsieur," I answered, though not exactly catching his meaning. I blushed as I spoke and he immediately looked again out of the window, doubtlessly to conceal the smile, which he was too polite to betray, at my barbarous pronunciation. However, talking bad French, even to a Parisian was, under the circumstances, better than not talking at all. I Hoped he would say something more, for desirous as I was to loosen my tongue as an absolute relief, I did not dare to venture first upon a remark. <br><br> Presently he shook his head and said "Quel tempel". <br><br> I knew that quel meant what and tempe time, but whether he was asking me what time it was, or something else, I was not quite sure. But I thought it better to pull out my watch, for, rather than be thought impolite, I would run the risk of appearing ridiculous, and holding it up before him, I would let him look for himself. It was precisely half past 2, but how to express it correctly in French I hadn't the remotest idea. <br><br> My companion looked at it, nodded his head, said "Merce" and sank back into his corner. Presently he said, looking up, and speaking with great care and deliberation, no doubt for my special benefit, as my inefficiency in his language must have been only too apparent to him. <br><br> "Nons arrivone a Pontarlier a los six houres, jo pense; nost-il pas, monsieur?" <br><br> Now what the deuce did he mean? I blushed, stammered, hesitated, but catching at the word Pontarlier, the frontier town where our trunks would be examined, I repeated in a vague sort of way, and with obvious constraint of manner "Pontalier?" <br><br> My companion himself blushed- no wonder- at my stupidity, and said, "Oui, Pontarlier, a six houres." <br><br> "Oui", I repeated, "six Houres", and I sank back relieved. There was silence for some few minutes, and then my companion again spoke slowly and distinctly, so that I might catch every word. It was very kind and considerate of him, to be sure, but then he was a Frenchman - no one else would have taken the trouble. <br><br> "Vons allez a Lausanne?" <br><br> I hazarded "Oui", and then trembled in silence until he should say more. <br><br> "l'ouves-vous-mu-dire-mon-seur-quel est-le-plus bon hotel-dans-Lausanne?" <br><br> I was fairly stumped again; and again I blushed painfully and hesitated, and my companion also blushed and looked painfully confused. No wonder he felt for me, and my embarrassment was excessive. We sat starting at each other in a helpless, idiotic sort of way for a few moments in most awkward silence, until feeling the desperate necessity of saying something as a relief to our mutual embarrassment, I said quite recklessly and utterly indifferent to consequences: <br><br> "Ah-oui-Mon-seor-ju-pentez-le pins bon hotel" Perhaps by repeating some of his words he might think I was corroborating what he had said. <br><br> He said "Merce" with a bewildered sort of air, but with an evident sigh of relief, and sank back again in his cushion. There was an unbroken silence in that compartment for the space of about three hours following. As I occasionally glanced at him I detected him always looking at me. There was a peculiar expression on his face at such times - with all of his native politeness he could not repress it - which unmistakably denoted pity struggling with contempt, and upon catching my eye he would look quickly away, to conceal from me his only too-plainly apparent opinion of me. I would avert my gaze as quickly, with a sickening sense of humiliation. <br><br> Morning began to break among the lovely Swiss mountains, which were now becoming quite visible. We both gazed eagerly from our respective windows. It had stopped raining and had cleared away and the view was beautiful in the extreme. Sunrise among the Swiss mountains; what could have been lovelier? It was beautiful enough to have moved the most unimpressionable to an enthusiastic expression of delight. <br><br> It was too much for the Frenchman, and he exclaimed, turning rapturously to me: <br><br> "Grande! Magnifique! It est un grand pays, ce Suisse!" <br><br> As enthusiastic as himself at the beautiful prospect before us, I exclaimed, forgetting my timidity and utterly indifferent to all the grammatical proprieties of the Gallic tongue; <br><br> "Oui, oui, Mun-seer; grande, jolie, magnifisant!" If I could have expressed my sentiments aloud in English, and given full vent to my feelings in my mother tongue, I thought what a satisfaction it would have been to me. But to have done so in a language unintelligible to my companion I felt would have been impolite. <br><br> We continued gazing out in silence until we reached Pontarlier, where we alighted to take a stretch and attend to the inspection of our trunks. This ordeal gone through, we remounted. Continuing our sociability to such occasional remarks as grand, magnifique,jolie, and splondeed, we at last reached the next station.. My companion was to remain over here for the next following train - that was what I (not readable) sorry to lose his company. It had begun to rain again very hard which sadly marred the view. <br><br> "Trop abauvais (?)" he said, evincing an equal disgust with myself at the state of the weather. We had our umbrellas up as we were standing on the platform of the station; and as, after shaking hands with him, I turned to leave him, I could not help exclaiming to myself: <br><br> "This is simply beastly." <br><br> "Hey, what do you say?" cried my companion in an astonished tone, turning suddenly toward me. <br><br> "What? Do you talk English?" I exclaimed in equal astonishment. <br><br> "Of course I do," he replied, "it's my native tongue I'm and American" <br><br> "And so am I," I said. We burst into a roar and shook hands again. <br><br> "I took you for a Frenchman," I said, "and was awfully afraid of venturing on the language before you." <br><br> "And I took you for one," he replied, "and I was dreadfully scary about airing my French before you." <br><br> "I am sorry you are not going further with ___"<br><br> "Montez! Montez!" shouted the guard, cutting me short. I had just time to jump into my seat, and the train was off. I waved my hand to my fellow traveler and compatriot, as a parting salute, and that was the last I ever saw of him. - [T.H. Farnham. |