passengers, tearing along at a real good dare-devil pace, and out
of sight in no time. Steady old Cures come jolting past, now and
then, in such ramshackle, rusty, musty, clattering coaches as no
Englishman would believe in; and bony women dawdle about in
solitary places, holding cows by ropes while they feed, or digging
and hoeing or doing field-work of a more laborious kind, or
representing real shepherdesses with their flocks – to obtain an
adequate idea of which pursuit and its followers, in any country,
it is only necessary to take any pastoral poem, or picture, and
imagine to yourself whatever is most exquisitely and widely unlike
the descriptions therein contained.
You have been travelling along, stupidly enough, as you generally
do in the last stage of the day; and the ninety-six bells upon the
horses – twenty-four apiece – have been ringing sleepily in your
ears for half an hour or so; and it has become a very jog-trot,
monotonous, tiresome sort of business; and you have been thinking
deeply about the dinner you will have at the next stage; when, down
at the end of the long avenue of trees through which you are
travelling, the first indication of a town appears, in the shape of
some straggling cottages: and the carriage begins to rattle and
roll over a horribly uneven pavement. As if the equipage were a
great firework, and the mere sight of a smoking cottage chimney had
Page 8
Dickens, Charles – Pictures From Italy
lighted it, instantly it begins to crack and splutter, as if the
very devil were in it. Crack, crack, crack, crack. Crack-crackcrack.
Crick-crack. Crick-crack. Helo! Hola! Vite! Voleur!
Brigand! Hi hi hi! En r-r-r-r-r-route! Whip, wheels, driver,
stones, beggars, children, crack, crack, crack; helo! hola! charite
pour l’amour de Dieu! crick-crack-crick-crack; crick, crick, crick;
bump, jolt, crack, bump, crick-crack; round the corner, up the
narrow street, down the paved hill on the other side; in the
gutter; bump, bump; jolt, jog, crick, crick, crick; crack, crack,
crack; into the shop-windows on the left-hand side of the street,
preliminary to a sweeping turn into the wooden archway on the
right; rumble, rumble, rumble; clatter, clatter, clatter; crick,
crick, crick; and here we are in the yard of the Hotel de l’Ecu
d’Or; used up, gone out, smoking, spent, exhausted; but sometimes
making a false start unexpectedly, with nothing coming of it – like
a firework to the last!
The landlady of the Hotel de l’Ecu d’Or is here; and the landlord
of the Hotel de l’Ecu d’Or is here; and the femme de chambre of the
Hotel de l’Ecu d’Or is here; and a gentleman in a glazed cap, with
a red beard like a bosom friend, who is staying at the Hotel de
l’Ecu d’Or, is here; and Monsieur le Cure is walking up and down in
a corner of the yard by himself, with a shovel hat upon his head,
and a black gown on his back, and a book in one hand, and an
umbrella in the other; and everybody, except Monsieur le Cure, is
open-mouthed and open-eyed, for the opening of the carriage-door.
The landlord of the Hotel de l’Ecu d’Or, dotes to that extent upon
the Courier, that he can hardly wait for his coming down from the
box, but embraces his very legs and boot-heels as he descends. ‘My
Courier! My brave Courier! My friend! My brother!’ The landlady
loves him, the femme de chambre blesses him, the garcon worships
him. The Courier asks if his letter has been received? It has, it
has. Are the rooms prepared? They are, they are. The best rooms
for my noble Courier. The rooms of state for my gallant Courier;
the whole house is at the service of my best of friends! He keeps
his hand upon the carriage-door, and asks some other question to
enhance the expectation. He carries a green leathern purse outside
his coat, suspended by a belt. The idlers look at it; one touches
it. It is full of five-franc pieces. Murmurs of admiration are
heard among the boys. The landlord falls upon the Courier’s neck,
and folds him to his breast. He is so much fatter than he was, he