The Joys of Motoring.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XLIV, Issue 22, 1 June 1910, Page 42

The Joys of Motoring.

Experiences on the Road — The Speed of an Automobile —The Story of My Chauffeur*

By

OCTAVE MIRBEAU.

IT may as well be owned at once; autoniobiling is a mental malady, masquerading under an attractive name—speed (la vitesse). Have you observed that illnesses often have pretty names? Scarletina, typhoid, diphtheria, for instance. The more attractive the name the more serious the illness. 1 rejoice in the sound of mine— Vitesse! Not the mechanical speed jwhi< h makes the machine lly across the country, but the neurasthenic speed ■which fairly carries a man out of him* self, stretching his nerves like stecf springs. Xo sooner has he arrived Somewhere than he is eager to be off again; mad to be away; to be somewhere— somewhere el-e. His head is an endless track where thoughts, pictures, sensations, roar ami roll because of—liberalise of sixty miles an hour! Sixty ' miles an hour! That is -tin; standard of t liis activities. He rushes like a cyclone, L thinks, feels, sees, lives like a cyclone! LNi» life is a hurly-burly animated by , mad movement; a. cavalry charge; a cinematograph, rushing up and disYip•pearing again, like the tree*, fences, Walls, and silhouettes that line the road. {Everything around him anti in him jumps, dances, gallops, tears —and always I in the opposite direction! These may Lbe unpleasant sensations sometimes, but ®they are always strong, fantastic, and • intoxicating, like fever dreams. f An example: When I am bored with p,Paris I suddenly decide to go to AniI fiterdam. I shall spend a week there. •JI will take a week to see that pleasant kXown again a trifle superficially, perl liaps, but calmly. If a week does not . sullice I shall fake two. I am free. t 'have plenty of time. Nothing presses. I d(‘part. I arrive in Amsterdam. In spite of the sweetness of my motor and the cradle-like elasticity of its springs, I find that I ache a little from traversing Jthe barbarous, stone-paved roads of Belgium. ’They are like interminable moraines; many a poor chassis has succumbed upon them. Yes. I arrive in Amsterdam one morning I for I slept overnight at The Hague, where I saw the pond and the swans, and breathed the golden calm which ought to cure the agitation of my brain), so here 1 am. I am happy. Amsterdam is charming. Two weeks is not enough. I ll stay three. “Brosset te,’’ I say to my chauffeur, *‘We shall stay here some time a month, perhaps, or more.” Brossette sniilet. “Very good, monsieur. Then I had better take down the luggage—all?” “All of (•burse.” “Very go*d. monsieur.” “And you. my good Brossette you may have your time to yourself, v I shall not u-e the auto while we are here.” Brossetie’s smile broaden*. “Very well, monsieur; very well. But I’ll call on monsieur this evening, to see if monsieur has any orders.” “No, no. Don’t trouble. Amuse yourself.” And he goes to the garage. Aly shower baih taken and my body

rubbed from head to foot with sage and rosemary, I set forth, gay and elastic, to rediscover Amsterdam. What a town! How tranquil I feel! For the thousandth time I bless the motor and its incomparable benefits. "What a marvel an auto is!” 1 reflect. "One starts when one wishes and stops when one wishes. No more tyrannical time-tables to rout one out of bed too early, or set one down in muddy laby-

rinths of stations at unearthly hours of the night. No more promiscuities in narrow cells with intolerable people—people with dogs, valises, odours, and eccentricities. I should stay away from Amsterdam, rather than endure such things!” Reflecting thus, I stroll along, observing nothing. Gradually, I increase my pace! I am full of elasticity. A brisk •walk will do me good. 1 go faster — faster. Ah! The museums! Those magnificent museums where, before the masterpieces of Rembrandt and Vermeer, one can forget the foolishness of Paris. . . . Rooms, rooms, rooms. I seem to be standing still, while pictures rush by me so fast that 1 hardly get a glimpse of them. Presently, without knowing much of what I have been doing, I find myself hurrying along beside the canals - canals of stagnant water, bronzed and feverish, on which lie massive Dutch barks, like Chinese junks, easting acid, green reflections. Next I am wandering among the little streets that cross and Teeross each other; those highly coloured streets, with houses strung along them, as though unwound from a spool houses with high facades, narrow and pointed, leaning against each other. Twice, thrice I cross the dam, hurrying, hurrying. Then, in the mirror of a shop

I see a mad image pass —an image of dizziness and speed—my own! There is much to stop one in Amstef’ dam —much. But I don’t stop. I don’t stop for anything. I run. I run into a negress. She exclaims. I go—go on, without knowing whither. Vaguely I see, cafes whence silent, shadowy faces watch the crowds that pass in black procession beneath blinding lights which roll like waves, and balance themselves like vague. . . . Foundered, exhausted, I return to the hotel, my head splitting with the mutilated images I have crammed into it. I go away! Oh, to go away! away! Oh, to go away! Brossette awaits me. He is regaling the porter with vivid tales of speed; of wild runs, and adventures in which his skill and audacity have saved us from destruction. It is good to see Brossette! “Here, monsieur.” “Good. To-morrow morning at seven we start—we start!” Brossette is not at all surprised. He is accustomed to these sudden changes in my plans. Besides, he does not like Amsterdam. I recall his remark: “This is no town for a chauffeur, monsieur. Give me Trouville, Dieppe, Monte Carlo. Ostend—they are good garage towns. But best of all the Avenue de la Grand Armee—that is the chauffeur’s paradise!” Brossette makes one inquiry: “Monsieur returns to Paris?” “Yes, yes. And like an arrow!” “Monsieur is right,” he approves. “This is no sort of country. They steal the gasolene right out of your car!” Brossette has this mania as much as I have. He is mad away from his machine. Not until his hand is on the steering wheel again will calm re-enter his soul—and mine. It is distressing that we cannot start at once. 1 shan’t sleep—l know I shan’t. Not even the calm of this hotel can

make my nerves stop vibrating. I am like an automobile which has been driven almost to death, but which is not quite .■stroyed. Then, catching sight of the auto, I see that Brossette has not carried out my orders. The heavy baggage is still on the machine. He sees through me—the rascal. Brossette was born in a little village near Amboise, in Touraine. Until he was 20 he worked with his father, a blacksmith, thus acquiring a love for horses and a taste for mechanics. His military service ended and his father—one of the most perfect drunkards of the region—dead, Brossette became a coachman. But he detested livery; his employers invariably eonplained of his untidiness. (He lias not changed since.) Eventually he eame to Paris and went to work in factories and garages, familiarising himself with all sorts of autos and driving all sorts of people to all softs of places. When 1 met him he had just come from America. In the course of our talk I asked his opinion of that country. “America? Nothing astonishing, monsieur. A big manufacturing town like Aitbervilliers larger, that’s all.” His description amused me; I engaged Brossette.

I found it difficult to get used to him at first; later he became my pet weakness, fastening himself on me like & taste for liquor or tobacco. Brossette is the product of a garages. He finds it difficult to distinguish between my things and his. Three years ago, when he first eame to me, my gasolene tank began to leak. It has been leaking ever since. It has countless holes —invisible ones that cannot be stopped up. By a strange contagion, the oil tank followed the example of its neighbour 1 , imitating it to perfection. Thus, at the end of each month, when Brossette brings me his book, the same conversation takes place between us: “Look here, Brossette. 1 don’t understand this. On the 17 th of March you put down 35 gallons of gasolene.” “Yes, monsieur.” “And again on Wednesday, the 18th, 35 gallons.” “That’s right, monsieur.” “But we didn’t go out!” “I know, monsieur ” “And here, on Thursday, the 19th, you had 35 gallons more.” “Well, monsieur knows about that infernal tank!” “And the oil? Brossette, you’ll never make me believe ” "Yes, the oil reservoir, too! It is perfectly plain. Everything runs right out!” “For goodness sake, repair the tanks, then!” “It can’t be done, monsieur. It’s the nature of such things. I could kill myself over them, and they’d go on leaking.” Frankly, it makes me unhappy to eateh him at flagrant lying or stealing. And suppose I do catch him—what then? “It is the history of riches, monsieur.” So I keep still, and pay, balancing against these professional practices of his the unquestionable virtues he possesses. He is an excellent companion on the road; good-natured, ingenious, and attentive, and —barring the flights of fancy contained in his accounts—faithful. He amuses me, and I rely on him. He has imperturbable coolness, prudence, and', when needed, hardihood. He ignores fatigue, and under al! circumstances keeps his good humour. You should see him when policemen stop him. He fairly stuns them with his picturesque gentility, so that, usually, they let him go scot-free. Besides, he loves his machine; he is proud of it; he talks about it as though it were a beautiful womait, Last month, returning from

UTe “died” four times between Blois and Chartres. When, beyond Versailles, near EVille d’Avray, a fifth tyre burst. ... I was worn out and in a hurry to get home, and I was truly sorry for poor (Brossette. I told him not to bother about it. “It’s not far now; run in on the flat I said. “No, monsieur,” he returned, stopping

the machine. “It won’t do; it would be too hard on the differential.” So, bolstering his spirits with a song, he set .to work, jacking up the ear. In the fond imaginings of cooks and. Chambermaids, chauffeurs rank about as fliigli as soldiers. The calling seems heroic and full of dangers, like war. The tnan who is hurled through space, like a cyclone, must be almost superhuman. (Tor all this, Brossette is not goodloffking. He is round-shouldered, flatchested, thin-legged and a little knockfcneed. His hair looks moth-eaten. His lace would not be inviting, were it not lor the. genial, mischievous smile that it pan give. His gait is slouchy and his clothing worn and dirty. He wears his Cap pulled back on his neck. Nevertheless, he rules the kitchen. The cooks /that I have had adore him: the cham-ber-maids are mad about him. They take care of him as though he were a [pasha; they coddle him like an infant. /While one stuffs him with engaging jdishes, lovingly prepared, the other takes pare of his clothing. He is deluged with Jheir gifts—which include among them my pigars. He allows them to fuss over him, accepting their homage calmly, as a man accustomed to it'. But these things don’t go on, mind you, without terrible scenes ■of jealousy. Now and again the rivals fight and pull each other’s hair. When these outbursts occur, there is such a ifleafening racket among pots, pans, and (dishes that I am obliged to turn the Creatures out. Then others come, and the whole thing begins again. At last I tame to the conclusion that to have peace in the house I must send Brossette 'to other quarters. •‘‘Book here, Brossette,'' I said. “You're ST regular nuisance. You turn this place into a bedlam. It has ceased to be. a borne at all. You' will have to get board and lodging outside.” Brossette is a philosopher. “Monsieur is right',” he answered. “If tt lodge out I can at least read ‘The iAuto’- in quiet. But it won’t change anything else. These infernal women like to tight, monsieur. Oh, these wolinen! How bothersome they arc!” When we are on tour he is bombarded With letters. He glances at' them, shrugs his shoulders, and never thinks of answering. But he writes copiously tn his friends, giving them moving yarns Of wild adventures and record runs which have never taken place. One thing I admire in him is the power «J>f sight; he sees obstacles in the road miles ahead. But above all 1 marvel at liis strange sense of orientation. Ono (can explain such a faculty in pigeons and ‘rvild ducks, perhaps, but how explain it in. Brossette’ And, oddly, though he loves to brag of other things, he is Bhodest on this point. He doesn’t seem to give it any thought'. I often watch him: his back bent, his Jiand resting lightly on the wheel, his face grave and wrinkled, his eye glancing in turn at the oiler, the voltmetre, the gauge, and the country round; his car Snick to catch the least sound of the ngine. He ignores milestones and road At crossroads he raises his head * little, glances at the horizon, sniffs the then he starts resolutely on one

of flie four or six roads before him, and it is always the right one. lie never makes a mistake. Two years ago, returning from Marseilles, we stopped in Lyons for a day. 1 noticed that Brossette seemed particularly happy. “It is the machine, monsieur,” he said, when I mentioned his gaiety. “She goes like an angel!” So that’ I might carry out a plan to stop and have luncheon with a friend in Dijon—a thing I had long looked forward to—we left Lyons early. Presently, however, it struck me that we were not oh the right road for Dijon. 1 spoke to Brossette. “Monsieur must' not be uneasy,” he said with perfect confidence. “We're all light—absolutely.” He seemed so certain that 1 did not insist further. Nevertheless, I kept saying to myself: “We are not on the right road. We are not on the right road.” The day was cool—almost cold. The sun was hidden, but there was no mist. The atmosphere was of a limpid grey—with subtle silver lights that gave soft colour to the landscape. 1 was happy. The machine was eager, running with even, powerful pulsations, and—we went! We tore through landscapes, past villages, cities, hills—places 1 was sure I had not seen before; certainly not between Lyons and Dijon. Two hours—three hou’Y —four hours! By the looks of the

country and the people I would have sworn that we were near Touraine; perhaps in Touraine, or even past it'. We stopped at last, in a little .village. While Brossette got gasolene 1 consulted the map. There! What had I tuld him! I showed him the map. “Now, you see, Brossette, you were wrong after all! We are way off the track. Fours hours more on this road and we will be in Bordeaux instead of Dijon. My friend lunches at one. We are running west. Here’s Dijon way over here!” “How monsieur worries!” he said, calmly. “I know the roads. I could run over them with my eyes shut. Monsieur knows I don’t lose my way.” “But look at the map! There it is!” ‘•Ah, the map!” He threw the last empty gasolene-can on the sidewalk, and shrugged his shoulders in sovereign disdain. •’The map,” he repeated, touching his forehead. “There’s the only map 1 need. The whole bag of tricks is right in there.” We resumed our way. An hour later, on the outskirts of a little village, we stopped beside a high wall, in which was a door, heavily stud ded. Over the door was a weather-beaten sign: “Asylum.” Brossette got down and rung a bell beside the door. “Monsieur mustn't be . disturbed. 1 shall return immediate!v.”

I was too stupefied to answer. The door opened and he disappeared. What asylum? Why this asylumT What was he going to do there? Had he suddenly become demented? Through the half-open door 1 saw gardens, and beyond them a large white house. Groups of old people were gathered here and there. Brossette soon reappeared, his face wreathed in smiles. He was helping along a very ancient dame —fat, short, wrinkled, and bent—who walked slowly with the assistance of a cane. Bringing her close to I iie car, he >hot me a glance which begged pardon, even while it beamed with happiness. “Above all, monsieur,” he said, “I have been wanting to introduce you to my mother.” And turning to the old woman: “Mother, it is Monsieur. Say good morning to Monsieur.” The mother seemed alarmed at first, with our wolfskins and our goggles. Her eye. took me in; then her son, whom she seemed hardly to recognise in the huge coat with its blended skins uf black and white. “Is it possible!” she bleated, at last. “You wear masks!” Brossette burst into a laugh a laugh full of tenderness. “Oh, Mother! So that astonishes you, eh? Come, look at the automobile; That's the auto your son runs! Look it over. Perhaps you’ve not seen one before, dear old Mother? Look

He flet the engine going, making it •nurt horribly. The old woman looked alarmed; she moved towards the garden. “Can such things be!” she cried. “It !s beyond belief!” Brossette kissed her tenderly, and 91ip[>ed two gold pieces into her hand. “Come, say good-bye to monsieur. Wo tnust be olF; but we shall come back tc •ce you another time.” Kissing her tenderly, In; gave his mother into the •are of an attendant who stood by, and jumped into the auto. “Take good care of yourself, Mother!’* Ami we moved into the village. “Seventy-seven years monsieur, and ▼cry much alive!” he said. “She’s all alone in the world, so I have put her there. They take fine care of her; she’s very happy.” Then: “.Monsieur has been most kind to me. I am very grateful. Monaieur is certainly all right.” He looked at the oiler. “Amboise is only ten miles from here. If monsieur is hungry we can lunch there.” Passing slowly through the village he recognised the houses and named the people. ‘•Well, if then; isn’t old Prosper— Hello, Prosper!—His father's forge used to be in that building—now it's turned into a cafe. Ami there's my uncle —the fat little man in front of the grocery — Good day, Uncle!” He must have felt himself to be impressive, for he sat unusually straight. When he had passed the last house, he settled down and giving her ji*>re gas, remarked: “It's a funny little old place, isn't it, rnon<-ieur? It hasn't changed at all.’ Thia month, in looking over his book, I observed with little surprise, and no irritation, that my good Brossette had largely compensated himself for the two gold pieces given to his mother. To do him justice I mu.-t add that he had had a struggle with himself over doing it. The heaviest overcharges were all rce -nt, indicating visibly that he had de- < '•<;< d only at the last moment to re-imbur-e himself. I was pleased with him for this. I have often reflected upon the miracle of the motor. It is this: Tn a few hours it ba 1 transported me from one race of men to another—not in a h*np, but in a Fleady, swift progression, through all the intermediate regions ami degrees of culture, customs, and humanity. The sensation is one of having in a single day l*v< <1 months ami months. Thia sensation the automobile alone can give. The railroads —with their impiisoncd routes, always alike; their pennrd-up. passenger's, always alike; their cities, workshops, lumber yards, dorks, ami stations, always alike—do not really traverse the country or put one in touch with the people. When, after a run of twelve hours, one alights from the machine it is like fL.w iy resuming contact with the outer world after a fainting fit. Objects seem to be animated with strange grimaces and disorganised movements. It is only little by little that they take back form, pla.-e, and equilibrium. One's oars sing as though invaded by swarms of buzzing insects; one’s eyelids lift on life with effort, like a theatre curtain on a scene. What has happened? One has only the remembrance, or, rather, the very vague sensation, of having traversed wide readies, infinite whitenesses where numberless little tongues of flame danced and writhed. One must shake oneself, walk about, stamp one’s foot on earth ami feel it hard and solid: one must pull one-< If together and note that houses shops, people, are about one—live people who talk and bustle. One only gets hold of oneself when night falls, after dinner, and even so a sort of nervous agitation remains, growing with the hours until it magnifies one's dreams. If would be impossible, I think, to an ilvse and set forth all the varied emotions am! sensations which make the aiiio so infatuating. There are times when 1 ask myself seriously, how much of it all is dream ami how much reality. Ik is the embodiment of caprice, fantasy, incoherence Ihe forgetfulness of everything. One departs from Bordeaux and - how?—why? By evening one is at T.ille. And. after all. Lille or Bordeaux Florence, or Berlin. Budapes or Madrid •—what’s the difference?