Herman Melville, Mariner and Mystic
down from the town, met the Queen coming from visiting the sick Queen
Dowager. Carriage and four going past with outriders. The Prince with
her. My English friend bowed, so did I--salute returned by the Queen
but not by the Prince. I would commend to the Queen, Rowland’s Kalydon
for clarifying the complexion. She is an amiable domestic woman though,
I doubt not, and God bless her, say I, and long live the ‘Prince of
Whales’--The stables were splendid.”
On Friday, November 23, at quarter to eleven, Melville “had just
returned from Mr. Murray’s where I dined agreeable to invitation. It
was a most amusing affair. Mr. Murray was there in a short vest and
dress coat, looking quizzical enough; his footman was there also,
habited in small clothes and breeches, revealing a despicable pair
of sheepshanks. The impudence of the fellow in showing his legs, and
such a pair of legs too! in public, I thought extraordinary. The
ladies should have blushed, one would have thought, but they did not.
Lockhart was there also, in a prodigious white cravat (made from Walter
Scott’s shroud, I suppose). He stalked about like a half galvanised
ghost,--gave me the tips of two skinny fingers, when introduced to
me, or rather, I to him. Then there was a round faced chap by the
name of Cook--who seemed to be Murray’s factotum. His duty consisted
in pointing out the portraits on the wall and saying that this or
that one was esteemed a good likeness of the high and mighty ghost
Lockhart. There were four or five others present, nameless, fifth-rate
looking varlets and four lean women. One of them proved agreeable in
the end. She had visited some time in China. I talked with her some
time. Besides these there was a footman or boy in a light jacket with
bell-buttons.”
The lines following, Melville has heavily crossed out. They are,
in most part, decipherable, however, and they are not excessively
complimentary either to his host or the guest of honour. “I managed to
get through, though, somehow,” Melville continues after this blotted
abuse, “by conversing with Dr. Holland, a very eminent physician,
it seems,--and a very affable, intelligent man who has travelled
immensely. After the ladies withdrew, the three decanters, port,
sherry and claret, were kept going the rounds with great regularity.
I sat next to Lockhart and seeing that he was a customer who was
full of himself and expected great homage, and knowing him to be a
thoroughgoing Tory and fish-blooded Churchman and conservative, and
withal editor of the _Quarterly_--I refrained from playing the snob
to him like the rest--and the consequence was he grinned at me his
ghastly smiles. After returning to the drawing-room coffee and tea were
served. I soon after came away.” After two more blotted lines, Melville
concludes: “Oh, Conventionalism, what a ninny thou art, to be sure. And
now I must turn in.”
Melville continued to interview publishers, and publishers continued
to chasten him with reflections on the state of the copyright laws.
Between times he amused himself as best he could; but there was
little novelty, brilliancy or excitement in the amusement. He was once
entertained very formally at dinner, however: a Baroness Somebody
on his left, an anonymous Baron opposite him, and near him at table
“a most lovely young girl, a daughter of Captain Chamier, the sea
novelist.” And in these brilliant surroundings, he saw a copy of
_Typee_ on a table in the drawing room. He ran upon an old friend
of Gansevoort’s, too, and as a result was betrayed into sober and
sentimental reflections. “No doubt, two years ago, or three, Gansevoort
was writing here in London, about the same hour as this--alone in his
chamber, in profound silence, as I am now. This silence, is a strange
thing. No wonder the Greeks deemed it the vestibule to the higher
mysteries.”
He paid for his sentimentality, however, by passing “a most
extraordinary night--one continuous nightmare--till daybreak.
Hereafter, if I should be condemned to purgatory, I shall plead the
night of November 25, 1849, in extenuation of the sentence.”
On November 27, he abruptly left England, to find himself, two days
following, “right snugly roomed in the fifth story of a lodging house
No. 12 & 14 Rue de Bussy, Paris. It is the first night I have taken
possession,” he says, “and the chambermaid has lighted a fire of wood,
lit the candle and left me alone, at 11 o’clock P. M. On first gazing
round, I was struck by the apparition of a bottle containing a dark
fluid, a glass, a decanter of water, and a paper package of sugar
(loaf) with a glass basin next to it. I protest all this was not in the
bond. But tho if I use these things they will doubtless be charged to
me, yet let us be charitable, so I ascribe all this to the benevolence
of Madame Capelle, my most polite, pleasant and Frenchified landlady
below. I shall try the brandy before writing more--and now to resume
my Journal.” The account of Israel Potter’s first night in Paris,
after Benjamin Franklin shows him into lodgings in the Latin Quarter,
is certainly built upon Melville’s experience on this occasion.
Israel finds in his room a heavy plate glass mirror; and among the
articles genially reflected therein, he notes: “seventh, one paper of
loaf sugar, nicely broken into sugar-bowl size; eighth, one silver
teaspoon; ninth, one glass tumbler; tenth, one glass decanter of cool
pure water; eleventh, one sealed bottle containing a richly hued
liquid, and marked ‘Otard.’” Melville makes a chapter out of Israel’s
adventures with this bottle of Otard,--a chapter in which Benjamin
Franklin unburdens himself of much almanac moralising upon the almanac
virtues.
Despite the Otard, and the snug quarters, and the diversions of
Paris--diversions somewhat restricted by Melville’s complete inability
to speak French--Melville was not happy every moment he was in France.
“Fire made, and tried to be comfortable. But this is not home and--but
no repinings.” Adler was in Paris at the time, however, and this
somewhat cheered his solitude. Yet on December 2, when Melville left
Adler after an evening of eau de vie and cigars, he “strolled out into
a dark rainy night and made my melancholy way across the Pont (rather
a biscuit’s toss of the Morgue) to my sixth story apartment.” And once
safely in his room, he complained: “I don’t like that mystic door
tapestry leading out of the closet.” On the following day he “looked in
at the Morgue,” and “bought two pair of gloves and one pair of shoes
for Lizzie.” That night, he dined with Adler, and “talked high German
metaphysics till ten o’clock.”
He visited the Hotel de Cluny, and found “the house just the house
I’d like to live in.” He made a half-hearted effort to see Rachel
at the Theatre Française, but failed. He saw the obvious sights and
on December 6 hurried away from Paris. He closes the record of his
departure with a “Selah!” Even in Paris, he speaks of taking his “usual
bath” upon getting up in the morning.
He touched at Brussels: and despite its architecture, “a more dull,
humdrum place I never saw:” he hurried through Cologne, where he
found “much to interest a pondering man like me.” From Cologne he was
headed for Coblenz: but he looked forward to the voyage with little
eagerness: “I feel homesick to be sure--being all alone with not a soul
to talk to--but the Rhine is before me, and I must on.” Of Coblenz he
wrote: “Most curious that the finest wine of all the Rhine is grown
right under the guns of Ehrenbreitstein.” “Opposite is this frowning
fortress--and some 4000 miles away is America and Lizzie. To-morrow I
am _homeward_-bound! Hurrah and three cheers!” “In the horrible long
dreary cold ride to Ostend on the coach, in a fit of the nightmare
was going to stop at a way-place, taking it for the place of my
destination.”
By December 13, he was back to his old chamber overlooking the Thames.
Upon his arrival he was vaguely told “a gentleman from St. James called
in his coach,” and “was handed, with a meaning flourish, a note sealed
with a coronet.” The note was from the Duke of Rutland,--perversely
called at times by Melville, _Mr._ Rutland--inviting Melville to visit
Belvoir Castle “at any time after a certain day in January.” “Cannot
go,” Melville writes--“I am homeward bound, and Malcolm is growing all
the time.” He called at Bentley’s for letters. “Found one from Lizzie
and Allan. Most welcome but gave me the blues most horribly. Felt like
chartering a small boat and starting down the Thames embarked for New
York.” So he drank some punch to cheer him, and walked down the Strand
to buy a new coat, “so as to look decent--for I found my green coat
plays the devil with my respectability here.” He haunted the bookshops,
and “at last succeeded in getting the much desired copy of Rousseau’s
_Confessions_,” as well as an 1686 folio of Sir Thomas Browne.
On December 15, Melville “rigged for Bentley, whom I expect to meet at
1 P. M. about _White-Jacket_. Called but had not arrived from Brighton.
Walked about a little and bought a cigar case for Allan in Burlington
Arcade. Saw some pretty things for presents--but could not afford to
buy.” So back to his room he came, and filled up the time before four
o’clock, when he was to call again at Bentley’s, by writing up his
journal. “He does not know that I am in town,” Melville writes--“I
earnestly hope that I shall be able to see him and I shall be able to
do something about that ‘pesky’ book.”
At six o’clock, Melville was back again in his room. “Hurrah and three
cheers! I have just returned from Mr. Bentley’s and have concluded an
arrangement with him that gives me to-morrow his note for two hundred
pounds (sterling). It is to be at 6 months and I am almost certain
I shall be able to get it cashed at once. This takes a load off my
heart. The two hundred pounds is in anticipiation, for the book is not
to be published till the last of March next. Hence the long time of the
note. The above mentioned sum is for the first 1000 copies, subsequent
editions (if any) to be jointly divided between us. At eight to-night I
am going to Mrs. Daniels’. What sort of an evening is it going to be?
Mr. Bentley invited me to dinner for Wednesday at 6 P. M. This will do
for a memorandum of the enjoyment. I have just read over the Duke of
Rutland’s note, which I had not fully perused before. It seems very
cordial. I wish the invitation was for next week, instead of being
so long ahead, but this I believe is the mode here for these sort of
invitations into the country. (Memo. At 1 P. M. on Monday am to call at
Mr. Bentley’s.)”
Under Sunday, December 16, Melville wrote: “Last night went in a cab to
Lincoln’s Inn Fields and found Mrs. Daniel and daughters. Very cordial.
The elder ‘daught’ remarkably sprightly and the mother as nice an old
body as any one could desire. Presently there came in several ‘young
gents’ of various complexions. We had some coffee, music, dancing,
and after an agreeable evening I came away at 11 o’clock, and walking
to the Cock near Temple Bar, drank a glass of stout and home to bed
after reading a few chapters in _Tristram Shandy_, which I have never
yet read. This morning breakfasted at 10 at the Hotel De Sabloneue
(very nice cheap little snuggery being closed on Sundays). Had a sweet
omelette which was delicious. Thence walked to St. Thomas’s Church,
Charter House, to hear my famed namesake (almost) ‘The Reverend H.
Melvill.’ I had seen him placarded as to deliver a charity sermon.
The church was crowded--the sermon admirable (granting the Rev.
gentleman’s premises). Indeed he deserves his reputation. I do not
think that I hardly ever heard so good a discourse before--that is for
an ‘orthodox’ divine. It is now 3 P. M. I have had a fire made and am