The French They are a Funny Race

You might not think it to look at me, but I've never been to France. Up until recently, I had been saving la belle France as a sort of Disneyland for my declining years, on the theory that she had the power to make old men young. But now I'm not so sure. The reason for my uncertainty is a small paperbound volume called Manuel de Conversation du Touriste en France, or French for the Traveler, that I picked up second-hand at a bookstall.

In all fairness to its author, Captain J. S. Keyworth, I must confess that it was not his purpose to frighten potential tourists. As he explains in the Introduction, "During the course of the War the author published for the use of the troops a few small Conversation Books which met with so favourable a reception that he conceived the idea of a set of more comprehensive Handbooks, thoroughly up-to-date as regards the life of the present day, and thus suitable for those whom business or pleasure may take abroad ..."

The book contains no date, but on the basis of the text, I have finally pinned down "the War" as having occurred sometime after Charlemagne and a little before Versailles. Though story and character were probably furthest from Keyworth's mind, his book contains enough of both to pass as travel-horror fiction. Skipping the French subtitles, get a load of the way he manages to capture the excitement of a ship's arrival in the opening scene:

"Here are the outer harbour piers, and the lighthouse."

"We are alongside. People are landing."

"Porter, will you take this luggage?"

"Where do we pass the customs?"

"In the luggage hall, sir."

"Have you your luggage ticket?"

"Yes, but I am going on to Paris."

"In that case your trunks (heavy luggage) will be examined when you get to Paris."

"Here your hand-luggage, your bags, will be examined."

"Here are my keys."

"You had better attend personally when your bag is opened."

"Open all bags, please!"

"Have you anything to declare?"

"Nothing at all."

"What have you got in that bag?"

"No cigars, cigarettes, tobacco? No spirits? No matches?"

"Only personal effects, underwear and a few books."

"A few cigars for my personal use."

"You must pay duty."

"Very good. How much?"

"It will be five francs."

"And in that box, what have you got?"

"These are samples without any value."

"And is that bicycle yours?"

"Yes."

"You will have to deposit a sum which will be handed back to you when you leave France."

"But I am a member of the French Touring Club; here are my papers."

"In that case you may bring in your bicycle free of duty."

So far, so good. Here is a man in whom we can all recognize something of ourselves -- a stranger in a strange land, facing the unknown with only his underwear, a few books, and a box of worthless samples. Samples of what, one wonders. Mustache wax? Snaffle bits? Swatches of floral chintz? Though Keyworth never tells us, how beautifully they serve to symbolize our hero's money-grubbing past, which he now repudiates as being totally without value. That he is a man of means, the reader will soon have no reason to doubt. The mere fact that he is traveling with his own bicycle, and is hip to the old dodge of joining the French Touring Club in order to avoid paying duty, stamps him as a man who is used to having his own things about him, and is well-connected among the cognoscenti. But enough of calling him "our hero." After reading French for the Traveler twice, I have come to think of him as Edwin C. Fahnstock, the (continued on page 76) The French (continued from page 59) man whom France destroyed. The moment he steps off the dock, his inner anchor seems to snap, and he is adrift on a sea of confusion and doubt. Consider, for instance, the next chapter, which Keyworth calls The Train.

"Porter, is the train alongside?"

"Yes, sir, I'll take your luggage along."

"Are they corridor carriages?"

"I want a first- (second-, third-) class compartment."

"A seat in a dining-car."

"A berth in a sleeping-car."

"A smoking (non-smoking) compartment."

"A compartment for ladies only."

"Here is the train for Paris, sir."

"Find me a corner seat if possible."

"Back to the engine. Facing the engine."

"Here's a corner seat."

Though he may now be yearning for a third-class sleeping-car where ladies may smoke in their berths, Fahnstock presumably plops himself down. A strange voice coldly murmurs:

"This seat is bespoken, sir. That's my hat."

The episode is climaxed by a patch of double-spaced silence, during which Fahnstock apparently makes a getaway down the corridor, clutching his two-wheeler in embarrassment. Spotting another vacant seat, he now takes the precaution of inquiring:

"Is this seat free?"

"Yes, sir." -- "Thanks."

"Porter, hand me up my dressing-bag."

"My hat-box."

"My stick and umbrella."

"Does the train start at once, porter?"

"No, sir; you've got twenty minutes yet; time to look in at the refreshment room."

Vivid as it is, this scene is apt to leave the reader wondering just what in hell is going on. Having found a seat, for example, Fahnstock instructs the porter to hand him up his dressing-bag. What are we to make of this suggestion of altitude on Fahnstock's part? Has he merely used the seat to climb into an upper berth? Or could it be that he has an extremely short porter? The fact that he still has 20 minutes left is a nice realistic touch. This is life as we have all known and lived it, and it is a tribute to Keyworth's insight into character that he has Fahnstock next appear in Le Buffet, or The Refreshment Room.

"Please let me have a cup of coffee and milk."

"A cup of tea. A cup of chocolate."

"A bottle of Flemish beer."

"And a roll, sir?"

"Yes, roll and butter."

"Give me also a slice of ham."

"A little cold meat. A hard-boiled egg."

"A little more coffee and milk, sir?"

"No, thanks."

"Yes, thanks, a little more."

It was at this point that I began to suspect that France was no place for me. If that's what goes on at Le Buffet, I'd rather stay home. But the worst was yet to come. Having lost all track of time while downing his cocoa and beer, Fahnstock hastens back to the platform to find that the Paris train has left, taking along his bicycle, hat-box, stick and dressing-bag. Still carrying his box of samples, his bag of underwear, books and personal cigars, he then decides to start from scratch and buy a new ticket. Stepping up to the window, he mumbles distractedly:

"Second (First, Third) to Fontainebleau."

"Return?"

"No, single only."

"A tourist ticket."

"May I stop on the way?"

"You may break your journey for twenty-four hours, but you must get your ticket stamped."

"Now we must get the luggage checked."

"Porter, here are our tickets."

"It's a penny for each box. Here is your luggage ticket, sir. Don't lose it; you must show it on your arrival."

"Here is the waiting-room. You have ten minutes yet; the train is late."

"Travelers for the Lyons line!"

"Take your seats, gentlemen; make haste!"

"I beg your pardon, are you the guard?"

"At what o'clock do we get to Fontainebleau?"

"Is this the Fontainebleau train?"

"Tickets, please!"

"It's stifling in here. Will you allow me to open the window?"

"By all means, sir."

"There is a strong draught. May I close the window?"

"Is the door properly closed?"

Anyone who has ever made a weekend jaunt to Westport or Speonk will attest to the authenticity of this chapter. Though Edwin Fahnstock may be highballing toward Fontainebleau, instead of Connecticut or the Long Island shore, one gets the feeling that it is indeed one world. But is Edwin Fahnstock really en route to Fontainebleau, or has he inadvertently boarded the train for Lyons? Is he traveling alone, or did he meet someone after leaving the refreshment room, as his reference to "our tickets" would seem to suggest? Why the sudden interest in making a 24 hour stopover? Has he abandoned all thought of going to Paris, just because he lost his bicycle? To these and all other questions, the student of Keyworth can give no pat answers. The next we see of Fahnstock, he has already arrived somewhere, and is heard to exclaim:

"Is there no omnibus for the Hotel de 1'Europe?"

"Porter, call me a cab."

"Drive me to the Hotel de l'Europe."

"Here you are, sir."

"How much do I owe you?"

"It is 2 francs 50 centimes, and the tip, say three francs."

Disregarding the cabby's hint, Fahnstock firmly insists, "The taximeter reading is 2 francs 50 c.," and bolts like mad into the next chapter, A l'Hotel.

"Where is the office, please?"

"There you are, sir, to the right (left) of the hall."

"I want a single-bedded room."

"A Double room."

"A room with two beds."

"I want a double room, with bed for a child."

"On the first (second) floor."

"What is the price of the room per day? per week?"

"Are those inclusive terms?"

"What are your best terms for full board?"

"How much is breakfast?"

"Lunch? Dinner?"

"Is there a lift?"

Since the desk clerk never has a chance to answer, I'm still in the dark as to whether or not the Hotel de l'Europe is a walk-up. But one thing appears certain: Fahnstock is not alone. Somewhere along the line he did meet someone, and that someone has a child. As a former second-class scout with a merit badge for Personal Health. I prefer to think that his companion is his wife, the former Olympia Grimshaw of Fort Wayne, Indiana, who preceded him to Europe in May, in order to visit the Edinburgh branch of the family with her young son, Muirhead. You're entitled to your own opinion, of course, and may put any construction you like on the following scene, called Settling Down.

"Are you the chambermaid?"

"What is your name?"

"Will you show me the bathroom and the closet?"

"Now bring me some hot water."

"I want a foot-bath, a hip-bath."

"Give me some soap."

"Some towels. A chamber."

"A needle and thread. A buttonhook."

"A shoe-horn."

"A candlestick and some matches."

"A candle. A lamp."

"The gas needs a new mantle."

"Light a fire, please."

"I should like an arm-chair."

"Where can I put away my things?"

"In the wardrobe, the chest of drawers."

"There is the dressing-table."

"The mirror. The table."

"The washstand. The bell."

"Another pillow, please."

"Give me another blanket."

"Have you not got a hair mattress?"

"I don't like feather beds."

"Have you an eiderdown?"

"Are the sheets well aired?"

"Have my boots cleaned."

"Call me at eight."

I think most readers will agree that for sheer savoir-faire this chapter far surpasses anything in recent literature. For all its suavity, however, it loses somewhat in translation, as may be deduced from a perusal of the same scene in French. Even so prosaic a query as "Are the sheets well aired?" takes on deeper meaning when it becomes "Les draps sont-ils bien secs?"

Up to this point, the key word seems to be "secs." But the chapter doesn't end here. Three all-important lines remain, proving beyond a doubt that Olympia has been in the room the whole time.

"I shall have breakfast in my room."

"Very good, madam."

"Good night, madam. I hope you will sleep well."

Regardless of how well Olympia slept, morning finds Fahnstock raring to go. After a night under the eiderdown with his shoes off, he can't wait to see the sights.

"Call me a taxi."

"A carriage with one horse."

"A carriage and pair."

"I shall take a cab by the hour to see the town."

Having galloped past the church, the town hall, the opera house and the quay, he winds up -- even as you and I -- at Le Café, where he announces:

"I am thirsty."

"Waiter, a glass of beer."

"A bottle of beer."

"A whisky and soda."

"A lemon squash."

"An appetizer."

"A cup of coffee. A glass of coffee."

"Some fresh water. Some ice."

"Some red-currant syrup. Some almond syrup."

"Some notepaper, envelopes."

"A pen and ink. Some blotting paper."

Keeping in mind that French for the Traveler is a language manual, and lacks the editing necessary to a well-shaped novel, we can safely assume that Fahnstock did not drink everything he ordered. It is my contention that he didn't drink the ink, for instance, but used it to write a letter to the railroad in an effort to retrieve his hat-box and bicycle. But the fact that Keyworth has felt obliged to instruct the traveler in how to order red-currant syrup and lemon squash in French, gives one pause. Is that how France affects the American thirst? Or are these to be considered emergency requests, to be used only in the event that le Café has run out of beer? After two generations of tourists have given their orders according to Keyworth, is it still possible for a newcomer to order a whiskey and soda, with out having the waiter automatically bring along the almond syrup?

If not, I'm afraid I'd never make it to Le Restaurant, where Fahnstock is next found in the company of a Mysterious Stranger.

"Here we are!"

"I hope you have a good appetite."

"I am very hungry, and I hope the food will be good and well cooked, for I am most particular."

"They tell me that this is the best establishment in the town."

"We're all right, then."

"Will you wait one moment and I will look for the head waiter."

"He knows me well, so we shall have a table by the window."

Reading this, even my faulty plot-sense tells me that the Mysterious Stranger is in cahoots with the head waiter. In fact, he isn't a Mysterious Stranger at all, but one Hubert Sinclair, an American ne'erdo-well, who has been forced to live by his wits abroad ever since his expulsion from the exclusive Euchre & Lotto Club of Scranton, Pa. Working on a commission basis, he goads Fahnstock into ordering a meal that goes on for a full page and a half in both languages, and includes oysters, anchovies, beefsteak, chicken, omelettes, seven vegetables, four cheeses, fruit, champagne, rum, gin and coffee. As the meal groans to a halt over brandy and cigars, the waiter, with all the gentle irony of a true countryman of Voltaire, suggests:

"Perhaps you would care for the full luncheon, gentlemen."

"How much is it?" Fahnstock mumbles, and the scene concludes on a note of brisk flatulence:

"Waiter, bring me the bill, please."

"You have made a slight mistake, I think."

"Where, sir?" -- "Here."

"I am very sorry, sir."

"It does not matter."

"This way out, sir."

"Good-day, sir, and many thanks."

"Are you ready?" -- "Quite!"

"Come on then! Hurry up!"

With Hubert Sinclair, Fahnstock makes a flying visit to the post office, the barbershop and the tobacconist's, where he parts company with the scheming ne'er-do-well, and returns to the Hotel de l'Europe, a full man. Olympia, meanwhile, has been to the Salon pour Dames, and has had her hair washed, singed and curled "in the latest style." Unaware that Fahnstock has had his hot meal in the middle of the day, she then decides to go Marketing. Her shopping list runs to 140 items, including a leg of mutton, a calf's head, two pounds of lard, one franc 50 worth of cooked tripe, two baked pig's trotters, Jerusalem artichokes, a wild rabbit and a haunch of venison.

How she ever got past the desk clerk with such a load, and how she managed to roast a haunch of venison in her room, are secrets known only to Olympia. For the tragic aftermath, I refer you to the following chapter, Le Médecin.

"Will you please send for a doctor."

"I am ill."

"I have telephoned, the doctor will come at once."

"Here he is, sir."

"Good evening, doctor."

"What is the matter with you?"

"Tell me what you feel."

"Do you suffer much?"

"I haven't been well for some days."

"I am suffering from diarrhea."

"I am suffering from palpitation."

"I have a headache."

"I have constant sick headaches."

"I am aching all over."

"I have a toothache."

"My eyes ache."

"I've got a cold."

"It is a cold in the chest."

"I am coughing a great deal."

"I have a bad cold in my head."

"My stomach is out of order."

"I am suffering from stomach-ache."

"My digestion is bad."

"I feel feverish."

"I have shivering fits."

"I am suffering from the bladder."

"I sometimes feel pain in the womb."

"I have pimples on my face."

"I have a blister on my heel."

"My finger is swollen and very painful."

"I think it is a whitlow."

"I have sprained my wrist."

"My ankle is swollen."

"I fear it is sprained."

"I have a very painful boil."

"Look. There it is."

"I can't sleep."

From the varied nature of the complaints, it doesn't take a diagnostician to figure out that the whole family has been laid low. The doctor, true to all that is highest and best in his profession, takes pulses and offers assurances.

"It's nothing serious."

"You want a few days' rest and a potion."

"I will write you out a prescription."

Which of the ill-fated Fahnstocks finally makes it down to the drugstore, we cannot say. But the prescription quoted in At the Chemist's pretty much ransacks the shelves. Forty-six separate nostrums are called for, including such old standbys as castor oil, magnesia, Epsom salts, Vichy water, flowers of sulphur, hair restorer, and worm powder for a child.

But the doctor must have known what he was doing, for in the next chapter Fahnstock is already up and around. Having negotiated a fresh bundle of francs At the Bank, he immediately sets about Renting a House -- which leads one to suspect that gas-jet barbecues are not permitted at the Hotel de l'Europe. A renting agent shows him "a nice house in the Rue Gambetta, the villa Beausite. Rent 300 frs.," and after requesting that all the ornaments be removed, Fahnstock takes it. Leaving Olympia to hire The Servant, he then decides to buy a motorcar to replace his long-lost bicycle. As may be expected, he is soon weaving all over the boulevard, shouting:

"Show me the way to a garage."

"This way. Here. There."

"To the right. To the left."

"Straight on."

"Is it far? No, quite near."

"Opposite. At the hotel."

"Thank you very much."

"Don't mention it."

"The tyre is punctured."

"I have broken the rim. A spoke."

"The chain. The fork."

"The wheel is bent (buckled)."

Not even a buckled wheel can explain Fahnstock's presence in the chapter that follows, however. To account for it, I have been forced to assume that he must have met the American ne'er-do-well, Hubert Sinclair, while strolling in the public gardens of the Trompe l'Oeil. Surely it must be Sinclair and not Fahnstock who proposes a trip to the three-story suburban establishment that is the scene of En Visite.

"Is Madame Dumas at home?"

"Yes, sir, she is."

"I am at home."

"You are at home."

"He is at home."

"They (masc.) are at home."

"She is at home."

"They (fem.) are at home."

It is, in short, the sort of place where everyone is at home, if you get my meaning. Always the gentleman, Fahnstock nevertheless feels called upon to inquire:

"Does she receive visitors to-day?"

"If you will have the goodness to give me your card, I will inquire."

"Yes, sir, Madame does receive. Will you come this way, please."

"Good-day, madam."

"Good evening, Miss A."

"How do you do?"

"Very well, thank you, and you?"

With the formalities out of the way, the Madame gives us to understand that despite the scented Moorish hangings and the mute overtures of Miss A., hers is a sporting house in every sense of the word:

"There are some very nice people here, and many of your countrymen."

"If you are fond of sport, you can shoot and fish."

"You can bathe in summer and skate in winter."

"You can drive."

"We play golf and tennis."

Sidestepping the fully-equipped Miss A., Fahnstock adopts a cautious, cultural tone:

"For my part I prefer a more tranquil life."

"I like the theatre, the cinematograph."

"This evening I am going to the opera, to-morrow to a concert."

But no amount of pretense can save him. The hand of Fate intervenes with five ravishing knuckles:

"There is a knock at the door."

"Come in! Oh, it is Marie!"

"May I present my niece Marie?"

"I am delighted to meet you, Miss Mary."

"I am going out to post some letters."

"May I have the pleasure of accompanying you?"

"With great pleasure."

"Are you fond of dancing?"

"Very. I am going to the ball tonight."

"Will you give me a waltz?"

"But you are quite a stranger to me."

"I hope I shall not be so for long."

"Are you fond of music? Singing?"

"Painting? Drawing? Sculpture?"

"Yes, I paint in water colour and oil, also."

"I play the piano a little."

"And you sing?"

"A little also. I have not had many lessons."

"I shall come and hear you, if you will permit me."

"Oh! No! I should be too nervous."

"How well you speak English!"

"I learnt at school."

"There is a good teacher here for French and Italian."

"I must now say good-bye."

"Not good-bye. Au revoir."

With a flick of her skirt and a provocative display of firmly molded ankle, Marie goes off to post her letters. Smitten with a darkling passion for this, the most accomplished of all the Madame's many "nieces." Fahnstock apparently decides to stay over a few days. While Keyworth discreetly skips the entertainments of evening, he is almost prodigal in providing us with glimpses of the more wholesome pursuits of day. With the fun-loving Marie, Fahnstock is soon lost in a mad whirl of golf, tennis and auction bridge. She trounces him at billiards. They play chess, and mate in three. Then it's off to the Théatre Francais to see a performance of Learned Ladies.

"Attention! There go the three knocks."

"That is how the beginning of the play is announced in France."

"The curtain is going up."

"The play is beginning."

"The action takes place in Paris, in the seventeenth century."

"Armande and Henriette occupy the stage."

"They come down to the footlights."

"The first act is over."

"The curtain is being lowered."

"There are ten minutes' interval."

"Let us go and see the crush-room."

What or where the crush-room may be, I have no idea. But if I have read my French for the Traveler aright, it is the point of no return, the last outpost on the way of all flesh. For, with these words, Fahnstock and Marie leave the stage. Keyworth lowers the curtain, Destiny its boom, and our little drama of one man's fight against France is brought to a hasty close. The tragic epilogue that follows tells its own story of degradation and defeat. Having abandoned family and career for the illusory delights of life in the demi-monde, Fahnstock awakens to find himself faced with the grim realities of Money, Weights and Measures. In place of gourmet menus and tourist timetables, he now reads Public Notices: No Admittance ... No Thoroughfare ... Begging is not Allowed in this Department ... Dangerous Corner ... Dangerous Cross-Roads ... Dangerous Hill ... Do not Alight before the train has stopped ... Smoking is not Allowed ... Please Wipe your Feet ... Push ... Pull ...

The book ends in a montage of sings seen in parks, public gardens and art galleries, and closes with a warning that might well apply to la belle France herself: Do not Touch. Personally, I don't intend to -- at least not this year. I am suffering from palpitation. I have a blister on my heel. My finger is swollen and very painful. I think it is a whitlow.