ShepherdsTHE GIRONDE SHEPHERDS.[Page 51.
THE GIRONDE SHEPHERDS.
[Page 51.
Coming back to Arcachon, we met a typical old peasant woman, with two huge straw baskets—one white and one black, a bigstick, and a black handkerchief tied over her head, and a most characteristic face, crumpled, seamed and lined with all the different hand-writings over it that the pencil of Fate had drawn during a long lifetime. When young, the peasant women of the Landes are not striking. The peculiar characteristics of the face are unvarying; you meet with them everywhere all about the Gironde and Bordeaux. The faces are sallow, low-browed, with dark hair and eyes. They are brisk-looking, but just escape being either pretty or noticeable. Most of the women, too, that we saw, were of small stature and insignificant looking. It is when they are old that the beauty to which they are heir, is developed. The women of the Landes are evening primroses: the striking quality of their faces comes out after the heyday of life is over. It seems that the face of the Gironde woman needs many seasons of sun and heat to bring out the sap of the character. The autumn tints are beautifulin faces, as in trees. Theirs is the beauty that Experience—that Teacher of the Thing-as-it-is—brings; and it is in the clash of the meeting of the peculiar personality with the experience from outside, that character springs to the birth. You see—if you can read it—their life, in the eyes of the dweller by the countryside. In a more civilised class one can but read too often, what has been put on with intention, as a mask. Civilisation and convention eliminate individuality, as far as possible, and they recommend dissimulation, and we, oftener than not, take their recommendation.
So in all countries, and in all ages, Jean François Millet's idea is the right one—that to find life at its plainest, at its fullest, one should study it,au fond, in the lives of the sons and daughters of the soil. Their open-air life prints deep on their faces the divine impress of Nature, obtainable, in quite the same measure, in no other way; they have become intimate with Nature, and have livedtheir everyday life close to her heart-beats. What she gives is incommunicable to others: it can only be given by direct contact, and can never be passed on, for only by direct contact can the creases of the mind, caused by the life of towns and great cities, be smoothed out, and a calm, strong, new breadth of outlook given.
I remember a typical face of this kind. We had been out for a day's excursion from Arcachon, and, coming home, at the station where we took train, there got into our carriage, a mother and daughter. After getting into conversation with them—a thing they were quite willing to do, with ready natural courtesy of manner,—we learned that the mother was eighty-one years old and had worked as aparcheusein her young days. She had a fine old face, wrinkled and lined with a thousand life stories. Kindly, pathetic, had been their influence upon her, for her eyes and expression were just like a sunset over a beautiful country: it was the beauty that isonly reached when one has well drunk at the goblets of life—some of us to the bitter dregs—and set them down, thankful that at last it is growing near the time when one need lift them to one's lips no more.
The mother told me that the womenparcheusescould not earn so much as the men, three francs a day—perhaps only thirty centimes—being their ordinary wage. She turned to me once, so tragically, with such a sudden world of sorrow rising in her eyes. "I have worked all my life in the fields, and at fishing, and now, one by one, all whom I love have left me, and I am so lonely left behind."
"Ah,c'est malheureux!" exclaimed the daughter, turning sympathetically to her.
We parted at Arcachon station, but how often since, have I not seen the face of the old mother looking sadly out of our carriage window, the tears gathering slowly in her eyes as she remembered those with whom she had started life, and whom death had distanced from her now, so far.
There are two distinguishing characteristics of the villages of the Landes as we saw them, and these are the absence of beggars and of drunkenness—I didn't see a single drunken man. As one knows, it is somewhat rare to meet with them in other parts of France, and one remembers the story of the English barrister who was taken up by the police and thought to be drunk (so seldom had they been enabled to diagnose drunkenness), and taken off to the lock-up! It turned out that he was only suffering from an over-emphasised Anglicised pronunciation of the French language, studied (without exterior aid) at home, before travelling abroad.
Thrift and sobriety are two virtues which generally go in company—they are very much in evidence in the country of the Gironde to-day. Happy the land where this is the case! Unfortunately it is not the case in England now, nor has been indeed for many a long year. Think of the difference too there is in mannerbetween the countrymen of our own England and that of France. One cannot travel in this part of France without meeting everywhere that simple, native courtesy which is so spontaneously ready on all occasions. It is a perfect picture of what the intercourse of strangers should be.
As a nation, we are apt to be stiff and awkward in our initial conversation with a stranger. We require so long a time before we thaw and are our natural selves; our introductory chapters are so long and tiresome.
But to the Frenchman,you are there!that is all that matters. You do not require to be labelled conventionally to be accepted; there is such a thing, in his eyes, as an intimate strangership, and it is this very immediateness of friendliness and smile, that makes the charm of those unforgettable day-fellowships of intercourse which are so possible in France and—so difficult in England. How many such little cordial acts ofcamaraderiecome back to my mind, perhaps some of them onlyten minutes in duration, perhaps even less than that, and consisting solely in some spontaneous sympathy during travelling incidents; in the kindly, ready recognition of a difficulty, in the quick appreciation maybe of the humour of some idyll of the road. Whatever it is, you are at home and in touch at once for a happy moment, even if nothing more is to come of the brief encounter.
In a garden near the post-office at Arcachon we came upon this startling notice: "Beware of the wild boar!" Then there followed an injunction to the wild boar himself: "Beware of the snare," in the same sort of way as "Mind the step" is sometimes written up! Making inquiries later at the hotel, I found that there were plenty of wild boars in the forest of Arcachon, and that in winter time they often ventured into the town. Hunting parties, for the purpose of limiting family developments, are organised from time to time throughout the winter.
Shepherd and woodsmenSHEPHERD AND WOODSMEN, ARCACHON.[Page 57.
SHEPHERD AND WOODSMEN, ARCACHON.
[Page 57.
As regards the forest of Arcachon, we were struck specially by the fungi of all sorts and colours, that grow at the foot of the trees, and on the vivid green branching, long-stalked moss that envelops the surface of the ground: deep violet, orange, soft blue, brilliant yellow, scarlet and black spotted, dingy ink-black were some of the colours that I noted. Indeed, I did more than "note" them, for I picked a fair-sized basket full, took them back to the hotel, did them up carefully and despatched them to the post-office, where they refused to send them to England, saying that, owing to recent stipulations, they were not allowed to send such commodities by parcel post any longer. Crestfallen and disappointed, I had to unpack that gorgeous paint-box of colours again, and left them on my window ledge to enjoy them myself before they deliquesced.
In the forest here is no sound of birds. Too many have been shot for that to be possible any longer, and consequently a strange, eeriesilence prevails over everything. Alas! I saw no birds at all, except a few long-tailed tits. The sunlight lay roughly gleaming on the red-brown needles below the dark pine trees, and grey and soft on the white, silvery sand. No other colour broke the sombre, olive green of the foliage overhead, but here and there flecks of vivid yellow, from the heather growing sparsely in clumps, spattered like a flung egg upon the banks. The stems of the pines are a rich red-brown, flaked and covered in places with soft, green lichen.
The hotel was not a place where one got much change in the matter of guests, but people came in for lunch now and againen routefor somewhere else; and I shall never forget one such party. It consisted of a father, mother and two small infants of about one and a half and two and a half years of age. The children fed as did the parents. I watched with interest the courses which were packed into these children's mouths. Radishes, roast rabbit, egg omelet,vin ordinaireand milk,mixed (or one after the other, I really forget which!) From time to time they were attacked by spasms of whooping-cough, which rendered the process of digestion even more difficult than it would otherwise have been. One of the children had a cherubic face, and each time a doubtful morsel was crammed into his mouth he turned up his eyes seraphically to heaven as he admitted it, but—if he disliked its taste—only for time enough to turn it over once in his mouth previous to ejecting it! The parents never seemed to be in the least deterred from pressing these morsels on him, however often they returned.
Theconciergeat our hotel, (he who knew four words of English), was a distinct character. He would often come up to our room aftertable d'hôtefor a chat, on the pretence of making up our already glowing log fire. But whenever a bell rang he would instantly stop talking and cock his ears to hear if it were two peals or one, for two peals werehissummons, and one only the chambermaid's. Before weleft we added to his stock of English, and it was a performance during the hearing of which no one could have kept grave. "Ah, c'est difficile," he exclaimed after trying ineffectually to achieve a correct pronunciation: "Pad-dool you-r-y-owe carnoo!"
He told us that, as a rule, aconciergewas paid only fifty francs, but sometimes he got as much as 250 francs a month inpourboiresfrom the guests in the hotel. Afemme de chambrewould make twenty-five francs a month at a hotel. Neitherconciergenorfemme de chambrewould be given more than eight days' notice if sent away. At this hotel he had no room to himself, no seat even (we often found him sitting on the stairs in the evening) and up most nights until half-past twelve, and yet he had to rise up and be at work, each morning by half-past five.
In the summer months it seemed the custom to go further south to some hotel or other, guests spending half the year at one place, and half at another.
Huts of the FishermenGUJAN-MESTRAS,Huts of the Fishermen, and "Parcheurs" (Oyster Catchers).[Page 61.
GUJAN-MESTRAS,Huts of the Fishermen, and "Parcheurs" (Oyster Catchers).
[Page 61.
By far the most interesting village in the neighbourhood of Arcachon, is Gujan-Mestras.
Gujan-Mestras is the centre of the oyster fishery, and that of the royan, which is a species of sardine. Nearly all royans indeed are caught there. Thepatoisof theparcheursandparcheuses(oyster catchers) we were told, is partly Spanish. They can talk our informant said, very good French, but when any strangers are present they talk a sort of Spanishpatois. "For instance,une fillewould bela hille," he explained. "The Spaniards talk very slowly, as do the Italians; it is onlyles Anglais qui, je trouve, parlent très vite." The oysters of Gujan-Mestras are of worldwide renown. Among others, it will be remembered, Rabelais praised highly theoysters of the Bassin d'Arcachon. And indeed, it cannot fail to be one of the most important places for oyster-culture and the breeding ground of the young oyster, considering what the annual production is—more than a million of oysters, young, middle-aged, and infants under age.
The day I first saw Gujan-Mestras there was a grey, lowering sky, and everything was dun-coloured. But the port was alive with activity, interest, and excitement. The huts, which face the bay, are built all on the same pattern—of one story, dark brown in colour, wooden-boarded, and roofed with rounded, light yellow tiles, which look in the distance like oyster shells. Over the doors of some are little inscriptions: over some a red cross is chalked, or afleur de lys. Theparcheursdo not sleep here; they live in the village above, but these huts are simply for use while they are at work during the day.
A road leads up from the station lined with these huts, and a long row of them faces thebay and skirts one side of it. Beside the water are many clumps of heather tied up at the stalks, which are for packing purposes: and there are also many wooden troughs, sieves, and trestles. The boats used for fishing are mostly long and narrow, black or green as to colour, and with pointed prows. Most of them had the letters "ARC," and a number painted on them: for instance, I noticed "ARC. 4S 47" upon one name-board. All the boats have regular, upright staves placed all along the inner sides, and are planked with the roughest of boarding.
The first day I saw Gujan-Mestras, as I came up to the landing stage, the boats were all rounding the corner of the headland, which is crowned by the big crucifix, and crowding into the little harbour. As they swung rapidly round, down came the sails with a flop, and in a moment the gunwales bent low to the surface of the water. A moment later still, they grounded on the little beach, and were instantly surrounded by a great crowdof excited, jabberingparcheurs, gesticulating and arguing energetically. They seemed to be expecting some one who had failed to put in an appearance.
The baskets were soon full of glistening, steely fish, their greenish, speckled backs in strong contrast to the grey, oval baskets in which they lay, heap upon heap.
The women helped unlade the boats, and also in cleaning and sorting the fish. One woman whom I noticed, in an enormous overhanging, black sun-bonnet, slouched far over her face, her dress, made of some material like soft silk, tucked up and pinned behind her, went clattering along in her wooden sabots, wheeling the fish before her in a rough wheelbarrow. They shone literally with a dazzling centre of light. Then came slowly lumbering along the road, one of the typical waggons of the neighbourhood, which are disproportionately long for their breadth, with huge wheels; at either end two upright poles, and on each side a sort of fence of staves, yellow for choice.
Presently this was succeeded by a diminutive donkey cart, loaded withmarchandise, and covered over in front with a wide tarpaulin. Inside, I caught sight of a large pumpkin (presumably), sliced open, its yellow centre showing up vividly against its dark background, some cauliflowers, watercress, etc., while its owner, a burly countryman in a full blue blouse and cap, excitedly gesticulated and called out, "En avant! Allez!" to the meek and diminutive one in front.
Under a sort of open shelter were rows of barrels; some arranged in blocks, some arranged all together in one position. The whole effect against the glaring yellow of the vine leaves being a strongly effective contrast, the barrels being the palest straw colour.
We were told that theparcheusescannot make as much as the men: perhaps three francs a day would be their outside wage. Indeed sometimes they found it impossible to earn more than thirty centimes; and, notwithstanding the low wage, the life of aparcheuseis every bit as hard as that of her countrywoman in the fields.
At most of the street corners the groups of peasant women sit and knit behind their wares, wearing flounced caps, (ye who belong to the sex that needleworks these garments, forgive it, if I have appropriated to the use of the headgear the adjective that of right belongs to the petticoat!) and many coloured neckerchiefs. Sometimes they sit in little sentry boxes, their wares by their side, but oftener they sit, in open defiance of the weather, with no shelter above their heads.
As for the boys, it is almost impossible to see them without the inevitable short golf cape, with hood floating out behind, which is so much affected in that Order! It is difficult to understand quite why this particular costume has had such a "run," for one would imagine it to be rather an impeding garment for a boy.
Gujan-MestrasGUJAN-MESTRAS, OYSTER CATCHERS.[Page 67.
GUJAN-MESTRAS, OYSTER CATCHERS.
[Page 67.
Before I came away that afternoon thefishing nets were being hung up to dry, and, as we went along, we could see groups of men and women cleaning, sorting, and chopping oysters, and placing them in the characteristic shallow baskets that one sees all over the Landes, and some, on other trestles, were packing them up for transport. One woman near by was loading a cart with manure, while her companion—one of that half of mankind which possesses the most rights, but does not always (in France) do the most work—was calmly watching the process, without attempting to help! It is true that, in their dress, there was not much to distinguish the one sex from the other, as most of the women wore brilliant blue, or red, knickerbockers, no skirt, and coats, aprons, and big sabots. Some of the latter had very striking faces, though weather-beaten. Anything like the vivid contrast afforded by the arresting colours of their knickerbockers, backed by the cold, even grey of the huts, against which theparcheuseswere standing, as they worked, it would be difficult to imagine.
I believe at La Hume, the adjoining village to Gujan-Mestras, which appeared to be dedicated to the goddess of laundry work, even as this place was dedicated to pisciculture, the women go about in the same gaudy leg gear, but I only saw it from the train, as we had not time to make an expedition to the spot.
As we were coming back to the train we came upon a line of bare tables and chairs, looking empty, forlorn, and forsaken (the rain had apparently driven the oyster workers to the shelter of the huts) beside theplage. Somehow they suggested to me an empty bandstand, and indeed theparcheursandparcheusesare the factors of the entire local "music" of the place. Without them it were absolutely characterless—devoid of life and meaning.
Gujan-MestrasGUJAN-MESTRAS, NEAR ARCACHON.[Page 68.
GUJAN-MESTRAS, NEAR ARCACHON.
[Page 68.
At the station a number ofparcheuseswere waiting. Suddenly, without any note ofwarning, a sudden storm of discussion, heated and menacing, swept the humble, bare little waiting-room. It arose with simply a puff of conversation, but it spread in a moment to thunder clouds of invective, gesticulations of threatening import, lightning flashes of anger from eyes that, only an instant previously, had been bathed in the depths of phlegm. It seemed to be concerned (as usual!) with a matter affecting both sexes, for thefacteur, and a young man who accompanied him, kept suddenly turning round on the women, and literally flinging impulsive shafts of fiery retort, beginning with, "Pourquoi? Vous êtes vous-même," etc., etc. The dispute raged with terrific force for a few minutes, then it was suddenly spent, and, as unexpectedly as it had begun, it fell away into a complete silence.
One of the most spontaneous, infectious laughs that I have ever heard, was in the market place at Bordeaux, from a market woman keeping one of the stalls. It was like the trill of a lark springing upwards for pure, light-hearted impulse of gaiety. In it seemed impressed the whole soul of humour.
There is so much in a laugh. Some laughs make one instantly desire to be grave: some are absolutely mirthless, but are part of one's conventional equipment, and come in handy when some sort of a conversational squib has been thrown into the midst of a drawing-room full of people, and does not go off as it was expected to do. But the laugh born of the very spirit of humour itself is rare indeed.
The laugh of the woman in the market place at Bordeaux, was one of these last.What provoked it I have forgotten, but I rather fancy it was in some way connected with my camera, as a few moments later she was exclaiming to her companions, her whole face beaming with pleasure, "Ah! je suis pris! je suis pris!" Her voice was like a little, dancing, sparkling Yorkshire beck that is continually and musically, garrulous. It was full of those little sympathetic descents, when pitying or condoling, which never fall on one's ear so delicately as from a Frenchwoman's tongue. How heavily drag most of our own chariot wheels of voice modulation compared with hers! For her sentences in this respect are all coloured, and ours are often inexpressive, often humourless.
It may be—and perhaps this is a possible hypothesis—that our words mean more than hers, but to be bald, if only in expression, is almost as bad as to be bald on the top of one's head!
In the market our first glimpse in the dull gloom of the tarpaulins, was of huge pumpkinssliced open, their vivid yellow showing in sharp outline against the sooty black of the flapping canvas: cool pineapples wearing still their soft prickly leaves and stalks; the dull crimson of the beetroot: the large open baskets filled withceps, (the fungus common in the neighbourhood, which is like a mushroom, only much larger, and with tiny roots at its base), and with the curious looking bits of warty earth, or dried, dingy sponges, which truffles resemble more than anything else, when first gathered. There was a continuous conversation from all quarters going on as we entered the market, which fell on one's ears like the roar of surf on a distant shore.
In one corner, a little party of four stall holders was sitting down to dinner. The inevitable little bottle of red wine figured on the table, and some hot stew had just been produced, accompanied by the familiar twisted roll of bread which is always a welcome adjunct to any board, whether of high degree or low—the medium betwixt the bread and lipof course being the knife of peculiar shape which one sees everywhere.
Everywhere one met with a ready smile, charming courtesy and kindly interest. For some unknown reason we were taken for Americans in almost every place to which we went! Occasionally, I must confess, I received more "interest" than I care for. For instance, when sketching in the Rue Quai-Bourgeois, I was sometimes aimed at from an upper window with bits of stale bread and apple parings, which luckily failed of their mark and fell harmlessly at my feet! And when trying to "take" some old doorway, people, now and again governed by the idea that human nature must always surpass in interest their dwellings, would strike a pose in the doorway, or leaning against the doorpost itself, hinder one's getting sight of it in its entirety.
Not content even with this, it did on occasion happen that a man would come so close to the lens of the camera that heliterally blocked it up! Once a whole family party came down and stood, or sat, in becoming attitudes before the door, all having assumed the pleasing smile which they consider to be asine quâ nonon such occasions. It really went to my heart not to take them, but I was reserving my last plate that afternoon for a particularly charming old doorway farther on. As I turned away I saw with the tail of my eye the smiles smoothing themselves out, the man's arm slipping down from the waist of the girl beside him, the surprised disappointment sweeping across the group of faces like a cloud across the sun, and I almost "weakened" on my doorway!
I remember once, some years ago, in Belgium, my modest camera attracted so much attention that I speedily became the centre of an enormous crowd, which increased every minute in bulk, so that at last the street was blocked and all traffic suspended.
Bordeaux is a city of barrels. They are the first thing you see as you leave the station.They line the quay side: barrels yellow, barrels green, barrels blue. They meet you daily as you pass along the streets, whether they lie along the road, or whether they are being conveyed in one of the large, fenced-in carts, whose horses are covered with a faded "art-green" horse cloth, and who wear over the collar a curious black wool top-knot.
Bordeaux has a fine quay side. Bridges, shipping, old buildings, spread of river, variety of local colour, all combine to give it this.
Of course to-day it has gained many modern aids to commerce, notably among these the steam tram with its toy trumpet; and what it has gained in these aids it has lost in picturesqueness. But still it has kept variety, that saving clause, in colour. About the streets you can see the reign of colour still in office. Cocked-hat officials, brilliantly red-coated; the labourers loading and unloading on the quay side in blue knickers, with lighter blue coat surmounting them; the stone masons in weather-beaten and weather-faded scarlet coats; costumes of soft grey-green, with sparkling glisten of silver buttons down the front; and everywhere in evidence the flat-topped, round cap, gathered in at its base.
Bordeaux[From Collection of Mr Gustavus A. Sieveking.THE QUAY, BORDEAUX, 1842.[Page 76.
[From Collection of Mr Gustavus A. Sieveking.
THE QUAY, BORDEAUX, 1842.
[Page 76.
The expression of the French boy is not as that of the English boy, in the same way as the expression of the French dog differs widely from that of his English relation. Somehow it always seems to me that the French boy misses the jolly bluffness of demeanour of our boys, though he has a quiet, collected, reflective look. But when you come to the French dog, whether it be the poodle, or that peculiar spotted yellow, squinting variety which is the street arab of Bordeaux, you understand the difficulty an English dog finds in translating a French dog's bark.
Along the quay side, is a sort of rough gutter market; chock full of stalls, which are crowded with all sorts of colours, and a perfect babel as regards noise. Some of the stalls were placed under big tarpaulin umbrellas, some striped blue, some a dirty olive-green, others under tents—dirty yellowish white forchoice—one under a carriage umbrella, or what had once been a carriage umbrella, but had lost its handle and its claims to consideration by "carriage folk."
All the stalls were in close proximity; and pots and pans of all sorts and sizes, harness of all sorts—generally out of sorts—long broom handles, chestnuts peeled and unpeeled, little yellow cakes on the simmer over a brazier, fruits, vegetables, saucepans, kitchen utensils, nails, knives, scissors and every variety of implement jostled each other, with no respect of articles. Each booth possessed a curious, arresting smell of its own. It met you immediately on your entrance, accompanied you a foot or so as you moved on, and then suddenly let go of you, as you were assailed by the smell that was indigenous to the stall coming next in order. It was a kaleidoscope of colour, a German band as to noise.
One old woman, with a faded green pin-cushion on her head, tied with black tapeover her striped handkerchief, a broad red handkerchief over her shoulders, and carrying coils of ropes, was ubiquitous. One met her everywhere, and she carried her own perfume thick upon her wherever she went, but she always left sufficient behind in her own particular booth to keep up its character and special personal note. As I left the excited, jabbering crowd, a countrywoman, seeing the prey about to make its escape, darted out from her stall and seized me by the shoulder, pressing on me at the same time two large fish arranged on a cabbage leaf.
I came along the quay side later in the evening and all the sails—I mean the booths—were furled, carriage umbrella and all; and the low row of furled umbrellas, standing asleep and casting long dark shadows in the dim light, like so many owls, gave a quaint, extraordinary effect to the whole scene.
In the daytime it is difficult to imagine a finer, more striking effect than the quay side, and the stone buildings, most of them withcrests over the doorway, fine ironwork balconies, and jalousied windows. The two ancient gates: La Porte du Cailha, and La Porte de l'hotel de Ville, standing solemn, grim and grey, aloof (how could it be otherwise?) from the modern life of to-day, its trams, its tin trumpets, its electric lights—but permitting in its dignified isolation, the traffic which has revolutionised the entire neighbourhood. Most of the old part of Bordeaux is near the quay side. There are many delightful old houses in Rue Quai-Bourgeois, Rue de la Halle, Rue Porte des Pontanets, Rue de la Fusterie, Rue St. Croix and others. The poetry of past ages, past doings, past individualities, is thick in the air as one passes down these narrow, dimly-lighted, old-world streets. Stories of adventures, of dark deeds, of sudden disappearances, are no longer so difficult to picture when one has stood under these long, broad doorways, in the darkest and most sombre of entrance halls, and seen dim, hardly distinguishable staircases away in the shadow beyond.The only sounds that break on one's ear are the dull, booming drone of the steamer away in the harbour, the loose, uneven rattle of the cumbrous waggons over the cobbles; and, when that has passed, the quick tap-tap perhaps of some stray foot-passenger's sabots.
Bordeaux[From Collection of Mr Gustavus A. Sieveking.BORDEAUX, 1842.[Page 80.
[From Collection of Mr Gustavus A. Sieveking.
BORDEAUX, 1842.
[Page 80.
This district of Bordeaux is full of the narrow, winding alleys, which further north we call "wynds:"—all narrow; the houses, abutting them on either side, being mostly five stories high, with all the lower windows barred, and "squints" on each side of the doorways. In front of each house stretches a little strip of pathway about two feet in breadth, tiled diagonally; token of the time when everyone was bound to subscribe thus to the duties of public paving.
In Rue de la Halle the houses are mostly six stories in height, some having lovely floriated doorways, and over them wrought iron balconies in all varieties of design; over some of the windows I noticed dog-tooth mouldings in perfect repair, and sometimes statues.Now and again one would come upon a specially fine old mansion, with carved doorways and, inside the entrance hall, panelled walls and grand old oak staircase. As often as not, one would find big baskets and sacks of flour arranged all round the hall, showing plainly enough for what purpose it was used now.
Now and again one of the heavy corn waggons would come lumbering down the narrow street, driving one perforce on the extremely cramped allowance of inches, called a pathway here: the dark blue smocks, (shading off into a lighter tint for the trousers), of the carters, making the most perfect foil to the quiet, sombre grey houses which were beside them on either side.
CHATEAU DE LA GUIGNARDIERECHATEAU DE LA GUIGNARDIERE, LA VENDEE.[Page 83.
CHATEAU DE LA GUIGNARDIERE, LA VENDEE.
[Page 83.
Now and again as one turned out of one narrow, corkscrew road into another, one would catch sight, above the towering heights of the overhanging stories, of the spires, reared far beyond the houses of men, of the old churches, which vary the monotony of the roofs of the city, and stand steadfastlythrough the ages all along, as witnesses of the past: its faith and its aims. I am notau faitin the architectural points of churches, or I should like to enlarge on the beauties of the churches of St. André, St. Seurin, and one or two others of ancient fame, which help to make Bordeaux the splendid city it is. Adverse faiths, and the violent way in which they expressed themselves in the past, have terribly spoilt and desecrated much of the old work—work so beautiful that it is difficult to imagine how the hand of Vandalism could bear to destroy it as ruthlessly as it has done. We went to see the cathedral church of St. André one Sunday afternoon. The chancel was literally one blaze of light for Benediction and Vespers. The whole service was magnificently rendered, a first rate orchestra supplementing the grand organ, and the voices of priests and choir beyond all praise. What was, however, infinitely to be condemned, was the irreverent pushing and jostling which was indulged inad nauseamby many of the congregation.That any one was kneeling in prayer, seemed to be no deterrent whatever; for the rough, purposeful shove of hand and arm, to enable its possessor to get a better view of the proceedings, went forward just as energetically.
The curious custom of collecting pennies for chairs, as in our parks at home, was in vogue here, as elsewhere in this country's churches and a smilingbourgeoisecame round to each of us in turn with suggestive outstretched palm. At the church of St. Croix there was, I remember, a notice hung on the walls which put one in mind, somewhat, of the familiar little tablet that faces one when driving in the favourite little conveyanceà deuxof our own London streets—"Tarif des chaises," was printed in clear letters: "10 pour grand messe, Vêpres ordinaires 5, Vêpres avec sermon 10."
On thinking over the pros and cons of both systems; that of some of our English pew-rented churches, giving rise to the evil passions frequently excited in the mind of some seat-holder when, arriving late in his parish church, he finds someone else in temporary possession of his own hired pew, and that of the payment for only temporary privileges and luxuries "while you wait," I must frankly own that the latter infinitely more commends itself to my personal judgment!
Not once, or twice only, but many times have I been witness to selfish, jealous outbursts in civilised communities, all on account of some bone of contention, in the way of a private pew (what an expression it is, too, when you come to think of it!) which has been seized by some man first in the field—I mean the church—when its legal owner happened to be absent, and unexpectedly returns.
Sometimes the incident is so entirely upsetting to the moral equilibrium of the possessor of the private pew, who finds himself suddenly in the position of not being able to enter his own property, that his a Sunday expression, which has unconsciously to himselfbeen put on (a thing peculiarly English) is absolutely in ruins, and nothing visible of it any more! Moreover, his chagrin is such that he is often unable to control the outward expression of his feelings!
St. Emilion is within easy reach, by rail, of Bordeaux, and the bit of country through which one passes to reach it is very characteristic of that part of France.
The vineyards between Bordeaux and St. Emilion stretch in almost one continuous line. They are like serried ranks; the ground literally bristles with them. The sticks to which the vines are attached are not more than two feet in height, (sometimes not that). In one district they were all under water—a broad, grey sheet. Here and there in among the vines were trees—vivid yellow in leafage, with one obtrusively flaring blood-red in colour in their midst. The cows that browsed near the vines were tied by the leg to some big plank of wood, which they had to drag along afterthem as they walked. Most awkward appendage, too, it must have been. Though everywhere accompanied by this "drag upon the wheel," yet they were also governed and directed by the invariable peasant woman, at a little distance in the rear. Cocks and hens are also allowed to disport themselves up and down the vine rows, and seem to be givencarte blanchein the way of pickings.
Possibly, now one comes to think of it, this may account for the odd taste some of the eggs have: it may be that some of the weaker vessels among the hens are tempted to help themselves to the wine in embryo, (in the same sort of way as do some butlers in cellars), and that this spicy flavour gets into the eggs without the hens being aware of it! It may not be the fault of the cocks. What can one cock do, in the way of restraint, among so many flighty hens?
I shall never forget one of the oddest scenes, in connection with cocks and hens, that I ever witnessed. I had, in the courseof a walk, got over a high gate which led into a field. No sooner was I onterra firmaagain than I perceived, by the scuttling and flounce of feathers, and general fussy cackling, that I had stepped into the midst of a conclave which the lord and master of that particular harem was holding: his better halves (?) were around him. I am sorry to have to admit that he did not hesitate an instant, but, having no hands ready in which to take his courage, he left it behind him, in a most ignominious fashion and was the first to hurry to a place of shelter at some distance from me. When the shelter—in the shape of an old outhouse—was secured, he leant out of it and, anxiety for the safety of his household eloquently expressed on his red face, he chortled in his eager injunctions and exhortations to his hens to come and be protected. They obeyed, and I could hear an animated story or recital of some sort being given them by him.
Was he reading them a sermon on the imperative necessity of suppressing the feminine (?) vice of curiosity, which might lead them to venture out imprudently again into the danger just escaped and averted by his watchful vigilance? or was he explaining away his own apparent failure in courage lately shown them? Whichever it was, they lent him their ears—all but one hen, and she perhaps had formed the habit of making up her judgments independently on current events, without the aid of the masculine mind, for she peeped round the corner repeatedly at me, and finally, seeing I appeared to be a harmless individual enough, she, without consulting the cock, ventured to come and inspect, and remained, by my side with a modicum of caution, for some time.
But to return. Underneath some of the elms, which back-grounded the vineyards, the bronze coinage of dead leaves lay thick in handfuls. Past them came slowly and musically, from time to time, a roomy cart; itsbig bell—note of warning of its approach—hanging in a sort of little belfry of its own behind the horse. Here, there would be a belt of tawny trees against one of dark myrtle; there, a wood, soft pink and russet, and in the midst of it, piled bundles of faggots.
We had provided ourselves with oursecond déjeuner, but only the butter and bread and Médoc were beyond reproach; the Camembert had reached an uncertain age, and the ham had gone up higher!Mais que voulez-vous?You can hardly expect a feast out of doors as well as indoors, a feast to the mouth as well as to the eye. And outside was the most royally satisfying banquet of colours that any eye could desire. Colours at their richest, contrasts at their completest period.
Before reaching Coutras, you come again into the region dominated by poplars. And that they do dominate the district in which they appear, no one can doubt. Poplars give a peculiar character to the land; a specialpersonal note to the scenery. They are atmosphere-making. Presently we came upon Angoulême, upon the slope of a hill; all white and red in vivid contrast.
Then, a little later still, we arrived at the end of our journey—St. Emilion.
At St. Emilion, the past insists upon being recognised, and, more than that, on being a potent factor in the present. The modern buildings are in evidence, right enough, but somehow they have an air of not being so much in authority as the ancient ones. Beside its splendid remains, which have lasted through many a long age, the present day town looks but a pigmy.
The day on which we saw the place was one of those quiet, sleepily-sunshiny days; and the very spirit of a gone-by age seemed to be brooding over it. The very pathway leading up to one of its ancient gates has a sacred bit of past history connected with it, for was it not a convent of the Cordeliers,founded by that saint of old, Francis of Assisi, in 1215?
St. EmilionANCIENT CONVENT DES CORDELIERS, S. EMILION.[Page 93.
ANCIENT CONVENT DES CORDELIERS, S. EMILION.
[Page 93.
The cloisters and a staircase and some of the walls still remain, trees and shrubs growing wild within its precincts. Beside it are many other ruins of ancient churches, convents and cloisters, amongst which one might name the convent of the Jacobins, the grand, lonely, gaunt fragment of the first convent of theFrêres PrêcheursorGrandes Murailles, which stands in solitary majesty at the entrance to the town, and which can date back before 1287, and the first church of St. Emilion, which was the underground, rock-hewn collegiate church of the 12th century. Besides these, there is the ruined castle, built by Louis VIII, whose great square keep-tower is the first striking piece of old masonry (among many striking examples) which towers over one on entering the town from the station road; and the crenellated ramparts, watch-doors and gates, built in the days when it was one of thebastidesfounded by Edward I.
As regards the gates, Murray declares the original six are still in existence, but though I tried my best to discover any remains of them, I could only find two, the one at the edge of the town leading to the open land outside St. Emilion, commanding a fine view of the "fair meadows of France," some lying faintly red-brown in the rays of a rather sulky-looking sunset, and others, further away, a dark mauve. In the immediate foreground was a splash of vivid yellow, making a gorgeous focus of light.
An old woman sitting beside the road (who informed us her age was ninety-two) told us that she still worked in the vineyards, (think of it, at ninety-two!) and that champagne was made in this district, as well as the claret named after the place. St. Emilion is a place whose houses—some three hundred years old—are built at all levels; up and down hill, and in most unexpected crooked corners; some, too, of the dwellings are caves simply. In theArceau de la Cadênethere isthe splendid old house of theperruquierTroquart, and beyond it an old timbered house built of dark oak with crest and sculptures.
Over many of the doors I had noticed little bunches of dead flowers, or bundles of wheat or corn, some in the form of a cross,—hung up. On asking thefemme de chambre, who brought in oursecond déjeunerat the little old inn near this gate, she told me that on every festival of St. Jean, the people go to church in large numbers, pass up the aisle carrying these little bunches, and the priest blesses them as they go by, and then on the return home they are hung up over the door of each household, to remain there for the whole of the year until the festival comes round again. To the French, the Idea is everything. To us, it is too often only reverenced according to its money value.
Some of the vines at St. Emilion are on banks, on rising ground, flanked by two stone pillars at one end, with an iron gate and aflight of steps, generally deeply mossed, leading up to the vines. Here and there a vivid touch of colour from some fallen leaf, mauve or yellow, lay in strong contrast on the sandy path. There was the flaring yellow of the marigolds, too, which grew plentifully in the banks between the espaliers. A hollowed piece of limestone, for the water to drain off from the vineyards, marked the bank at regular intervals the whole way along. Red and white valerian hung in clustering branches over the edges of the rocks.
We spent a long time in theplace du marché, under the lee of the high earthwork, with holes like burrows set in it at regular intervals on which the superstructure of the newer church is built over the ancient subterranean one. This latter is only opened, we were informed, once a year.
The market place, which the modern church overshadows, is a quiet, dreamy, tranquil little square. An acacia was meditatively shedding its garments, in the shapeof leaves, on to the little green strip of turf in the middle. Underneath its branches lay already a soft heap of yellow, from its previous exertions.
Two travelling pedlars—a man and a woman—were plying on this little lawn a cheerful trade. He was mending the flotsams and jetsams of St. Emilion household crockery and unwarily drinking water from the flowing stream that descends from the tap's mouth. As he mended, he sang snatches of some of those little jaunty, gay,roulade-ysongs which the French peasant loves: "Je marche à soir," "Ah! tirez de votre poche un sous!" were bits that caught my ear most often; perhaps they were meant to be, in a sense, topical songs, with an eye (or a voice) to the main chance.
An old woman hobbled across the square bringing an old brown jug to be riveted, and he besought her, as she was going away, to "cassez une autre."
We did not leave St. Emilion until twilight had fallen, and there was no light to see anything else. Then there was a little loitering about to be done, while we waited for the local omnibus which plied between Libourne and St. Emilion. There was very little room inside when we at last boarded it, but we presently overtook, a belated and garrulousvoyageur, a weather-beaten countryman who talked to me without cessation during the whole journey. I was not sitting next to him, but that did not seem to deter him in the least; he talked insistently, loudly and urgently, leaning across the lap of the man who sat between us. He insisted on taking for granted that all the other passengers were near relations of mine, and asked questions as to ages, names, place of residence, etc., in strident tones, till the man beside me was convulsed with laughter. I have never known a conversation all on one side (for, after the first, none of us attempted to put in a word) kept up, intermittently, for forty minutes on end, as thiswas! Once before, I own, I succeeded in conversing for ten whole minutes entirely off my own bat, with no assistance from the opposite side, with a young Hawaiian friend of my uncle's who was dining at the house in which I was staying, but that was really in self-defence, because I dared not venture with him across the borders of the English language, having heard specimens of his conversation before, and never having been able to distinguish his nouns from his verbs, or his adverbs from his interjections! But though mutual understanding was difficult, there was yet between us that curious tacit sympathy which is independent of any words.
At last we reached Libourne, with a minute to spare for catching our train, and happily succeeded in boarding it. Just outside Libourne we could see great bunches of yellow bananas hanging up outside the cottage walls. The trees here were the softest carmine, mixed with others of burnt sienna, while some resembled nothing somuch as a new door-mat. After Luxé begin the little low walls of loose stones separating meadow from meadow and then, later, a flat, dull-coloured stretch of country. On Ruffec platform the garment which the men here seemed most to affect was a sort of dark puce loose coat, with little pleats down the front. The women wore a sort of close lace cap, with streamers floating over their shoulders.
Out in the open again we came upon alternate dark green of broom and cloth of gold of foliage everywhere. The curtain of heavy cloud had lifted a little, and beneath shone a gorgeous flame sunset low over meadows of red-brown soil, the darker brick-red of dying bracken over the cold grey of the cottages, and the white gleam of the twisting stream winding in and out between the meadows.
One cannot but regret that in most parts of France to-day, the picturesque costumes of the peasants are almost a thing of the past. In out-of-the-way districts, it is true, they still linger here and there, but they have to be searched for, as a rule, to be seen.
"Ah! ces jolies costumes sont perdues," said the manageress of our hotel at Poitiers, and she assured us they were only now to be found far away in the country. However, we discovered a few examples at market time in the city. Some of the caps fit close to the head, and have a frill round the face. The opportunity for a little individuality in pattern occurs at the back, where is the fullness and body of the cap. Some again consist only of a plain fold of linen, and boast two long streamers at the back; while others have the added dignityof a high peak (as given in picture,) which always confers a certain air upon its wearer, "an air of distinguishment" which impresses itself always upon the beholder.
The long, striped, navy-blue blouses which the men affect here, reach to below the knees, and are loose and open at the neck. Over them they wear, in bad weather, the invariable loose black cape with pointed hood drawn over the head. I saw one or two blouses of soft lilac silk, fastened at the neck with quaintly shaped little silver buckles.
A French market is the purgatory of the innocent.
This was ruthlessly shewn forth on market day at Poitiers. The squealing, the clucking, the squawking are unceasing and insistent everywhere. No one can fail to hear them. But it requires the quiet, observant, sympathetic eye to see the other, less evident, forms of distress. By means of this last, however, one sees the mute suffering in the eyes of the turkeys, for instance. Sometimes aturkey would be blinking hard with one eye, while the lid of the other rose miserably every now and again. While I was standing by, some passing boy, with fiendish cruelty, set his dog at a pair of turkeys lying close at his feet, helpless and terrified, their feet tied tightly together. At a little distance off I could see one of these unhappy creatures hanging head downwards, its poor limp wing being brushed roughly and jerked carelessly by all who passed that way.
Then there were the rabbits. What words could describe the excruciating panic to which they are subjected, when one remembers their timidity and nervousness in a wild state. No worse misery could be devised for them than the prodding and punching and tossing up and down which they receive on all hands as they await, amidst the babel of noise around them, their last fate. The only members of the dumb creation who seemed fairly indifferent to their surroundings, and indeed to regard them with a certain grim humour, were theducks. Everyone is aware that there exists in France the equivalent of our Society for Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, but my experience convinced me that it is notnearlyso energetic as is our own society.
Many of the men were shouting their loudest at the stalls over which they presided. One, I noticed, who offered for sale a curious little collection of odds and ends was proclaiming their value thus:—
"Voila! toute la service—Toute la Séminée! Tous les articles! Tous les articles!"
Another was crying out, "Toute la soir!" as he lifted on high a bundle of coloured measures.
The "coloured end" of the market was undeniably the fruit and vegetable stalls. There, side by side, everywhere one's eye roamed, lay long sticks of celery, cooked brown pears, little flat straw baskets full of neat little, bright green broccoli; the soft olive green of the heart shaped leaves of the fig throwing into vivid contrast the delicate peach and tawny brown of thedéneufles(medlars).Here, the deep flaring orange of the slicedcitronnewould jostle the cool white, veined, and unobtrusive green of a neighbouring leek, its long, trailing roots lying on the counter like unravelled string. There, would be thecéleri ravewith its round, bulgy, cream-coloured stumps exchanging contrasts with the deep myrtle tint of the crinkled leaves, puckered and rugged, of a certain species of broccoli.
All around reigned a pandemonium of sound. Upon a cart close to the grey old church of Notre Dame, stood a woman singing "Des Chants Républicans," to the accompaniment of a concertina. Her audience was mixed, and somewhat inattentive. It consisted of soldiers, market women, children, all jabbering, jostling, laughing, and singing little catchy bits of the song. Overhead was a gigantic, brilliant red umbrella. The whole scene was fenced by market carts of all sizes and shapes whose coverings presented to the eye every variety of green linen.
The Church of Notre Dame has threemagnificent doorways, full of the most exquisite design and moulding, in perfect preservation. Indeed the whole outward presentment of the church is exceedingly fine, so that one is sensible of keen disappointment, when, on going inside, one is confronted with painted pillars and tawdry, artificial flowers flaunting everywhere. The singing here is very inferior to that which we heard in the churches of Bordeaux; and in neither Notre Dame, nor the cathedral, was the great organ used at High Mass, nor at Vespers.
During the service of Vespers at which I was present, one of the priests played the harmonium, surrounded by a number of choir boys. Whenever it seemed to him that some boy was not attending, he would strike a note, reiteratingly, until he managed to catch that boy's eye, when he frowned in reproof. It was a case of the many suffering because of the misdoings of the one! One of the oldest of the smaller churches at Poitiers is that of St. Parchaise. This church, I found, is kept openall night, and a stove kept burning during the winter months, for the sake of the aged and infirm poor, who have no other refuge.
When I went in at five in the afternoon, it was already growing dark, and a priest was just lighting the lamps; the stove had already comfortably warmed the building, and I could see sitting about in obscure corners, old peasant women. Others were standing quietly before some pictures, or kneeling before a side altar.
By far the most interesting building to the antiquary in Poitiers, is the curious old Baptistery de St. Jean, dating back to the fourth century. It is filled with old stone tombs of the seventh or eighth century, and some as early as the sixth. Upon one of the latter is the inscription: "Ferro cinetus filius launone." On another was: "Aeternalis et servilla vivatisiendo." I noticed a curious double tomb for a man and a woman: in length about five feet. Père Camille de la Croix discovered this baptistery, and wasinstrumental in having it preserved, and the tombs carefully examined.
Père Camille himself is one of those striking personalities at whose presence the great dead past lights its torch, and once more stands, a living power, before the eyes of the present. Such a personality breathes upon the dry bones beside our path to-day, and they rise from silent oblivion and lay their arresting hands upon our sleeves.
He is a splendid-looking old man, with long white beard and eyes that are living fires of energy and enthusiasm. When I first met him, he was sitting cataloguing MSS at a side table, in themusée, in a very minute, neat handwriting, sombrero on head. I stayed talking to him for some little time, and amongst other things, he said rather bitterly, "The monuments and baptistery belonged to France; if they had belonged to Poitiers they'd have been destroyed long ago." I had made a few little rough sketches of the tombs, and as he turned over the leavesof my sketch-book to tell me the probable dates of each, he gave vent to a resounding "Hurr—!" and pursed his lips together. When I mentioned that I had been told by someone that he spoke three languages, he said decisively and emphatically, "Il dit faux."
He lives in a curious, high, narrow house by the river, with small windows and iron gates; and the greater part of his time is given up to the deciphering of old manuscripts, and writing records of them; records which will be an invaluable gift to posterity.
Poitiers abounds in antiquities of one kind or another; and there is a great variety and originality in its old buildings. Old stone doorways and steep conical roofs are to be seen, specially in Pilory Square. Hemming them in were purple-tinted trees, which made a fringe of delicate embroidery against the cold slate of the houses. Under one of the houses in Rue Cloche Perse were magnificent cellars, or caves, with massive round arches, and the ceiling of rough masonry blackened with age. The men who showed me the place declared the "caillouc" was known to be Roman work, and the door above to be thirteenth century, or earlier. Some of the old houses are tiled all down their frontage, and the effect on the eye is a soft violet of diagonal pattern. Some are square, some pointed. The house to which St. Jeanne d'Arccame in 1428 is one of the latter. Over the door is the inscription: "Ne hope, ne fear, Safe in mid-stream;" and these words placed there byLa Société des Antiquaires de l'Ouest, Mars, 1892.
Ici étaitl'hôtellerie de la Rose,Jeanne d'Arc y logeaen Mars, 1429 (sic)Elle en partit, pour alier délivrerOrléansAssiégé par les Anglais.
It is evident that formerly there was some crest affixed to the frontage. Inside the old black fireplace in one of the front rooms had been a statue in days gone by. The house of Diane de Poitiers is roofed in greyish lilac slates, alternating with red tiles.
One cannot come to Poitiers without being insistently aware of thecharbonnier—the minstrel of the street. The shrill characteristic "Root-toot-toot-toot-toot-toot-toot-toot-TOO—!" of his little brass trumpet every three minutes during most parts of the day, sometimescrescendo, sometimesdiminuendoaccording to its distance are special features of the streets of Poitiers. He is accompanied by his little covered cart, with its flapping green curtains, in which sit Madame, and his stock of charcoal.
Most of the street cries here are in the minor key—are in fact exactly like the first part of a Gregorian chant, and sound very melodiously on one's ear when heard at a little distance. I met a woman pushing a barrow once, containing a little of everything: fish, endive, apples, sweets, and little odds and ends, so to speak, waifs and strays of food. She was singing to a little melody of her own, "Des pe ... tites choses! des pe ... tites choses!"
Round about Poitiers are many charming oldchâteaux, each one so distinctly French in character and individuality, that they could, by no possibility, have their nationality mistaken. At Neuville-de-Poitou are some curious old monumental stones: "Dolmen de la Pierre-Levée."