VienneCASTLE AVANTON, VIENNE.[Page 112.
CASTLE AVANTON, VIENNE.
[Page 112.
In our hotel, every evening, regularly attable d'hôte, appeared a genuine old specimen of thehaute-noblesse. He was all one had ever dreamed of as an old marquis of an extinctrégime! A sour, disappointed expression, (which he fed by drinking quantities of lemon-juice,) dominated his face, though through this could be seen an air of faded dignity which set him apart from the common herd who sat to right and left of him. Somehow or other, he conveyed to that noisysalle-à-mangerthe subtle atmosphere of some old castle in other days. One saw the splendid old panelled room in which he might have sat among the family portraits of many generations around him. Surrounding him many signs and tokens of ancient nobility, and that great army of unseen retainers that fenced him about wherever he went-his traditions. It was true he had to sit cheek by jowl with thecommis voyageur, thebourgeois, the Cook's tourist, andseemedto be of them, but in reality he lived in another atmosphere.And as all the world knows, nothing separates one man from another so completely, so finally, as a certain essence of spiritual atmosphere.
Along the line from Poitiers to Rouen were trees of flaming tawny and russet tints. The effect of the snow which had fallen over the fields the previous night, was that of beaten white of egg having settled itself flat, and having been forked over in a regular pattern. The cabbages looked pinched and shrunken with the curl all out of their plumage. The whole landscape was backed by a deep lilac flush over the rising woodlands on the horizon. There is something in the straight, unswerving upward growth of the poplar which relieves the plains from their otherwise dead level monotony. This is the secret of all life. It must have contrast. It is not like to like which saves in the crucial moment of crisis, it is rather the power of the sudden, startling contrast.
After passing Orléans we came upon trees only partly despoiled of their leaves, which looked gorgeous in their new livery of whiteand gold, for the snow had fallen only upon the bare boughs. As the afternoon grew darker, the cold white glare of the fields shone more and more vividly, broken only by the whirl of the succeeding furrows, and the little copses of violet brown brushwood as the train raced along. Then, later, came a long sombre belt of pines, the light shewing dimly between the trunks. Anon, a chalk cutting, now a winking flare from the lights of some passing wayside station.
As we neared Rouen, we could see the Seine flowing close below the line of rail. It was moonlight, and the trees which lined its banks shone reflected clear and delicately outlined in the swirling water below. Every now and then a ripple caught the dazzling, steely glitter, and blazed up, as if the facets of a diamond had flashed them back, as the waves rose and fell. To the right, in the middle distance, long lines of undulating hills lay gloomy and sombre. Then—the train slowed into the vast city of innumerable traditions, and mediæval romance—Rouen.
To me Rouen is like no other city. The effect it makes on one is immediate, indescribable, bewildering. It speaks to one out of its vast antiquity. It has a thousand mediæval voices sounding solemnly in the ears of those who can recognise them; it has stories of adventure and daring; of bloodshed and tragedy; of calm stoicism and undeterred resolve; of plagues and burnings; that would fill many and many a thick volume. And it has its modern side, which flares blatantly and noisily across the other. The effect, for instance, of the modern electric tram in the midst of a city like Rouen is nothing less than extraordinary.
LA GROSSE HORLOGELA GROSSE HORLOGE, 1902[Page 117.
LA GROSSE HORLOGE, 1902
[Page 117.
We took "our ease at" an "inn," which faced one of the chief streets appropriated by this blustering modern mode of progression,and I shall never forget the effect it had on me. The persistent, reiterated strumming, as it were, with one finger on its one high note, as it came tearing along up the street every three minutes, hurriedly, fussily, with loose disjointed jolt, humming always with a deep whirr in its voice, (often the octave of its much-used high note), or anon singing up the scale, with a burr on every note, was the most absolute contrast to the Other Side of Rouen; the "other side" of the deep, quiet, wonderful past. The tram was like some enormous bee flying restlessly, tiresomely, out of one's reach with incessant buzz: a buzz which seemed, after a time, to have got literally inside one's head.
I defy anyone to find a more complete contrast in noise anywhere than could be found between the great, deep, ponderous boom of the many-a-decade-year-old bell of the Cathedral de Notre Dame and the fussy, flurried, treble ping-ping of the electric tram. It was a perfect representation of "Dignityand Impudence," as illustrated in sound.
The next evening I was reminded of this again while standing in the square facing the cathedral of Our Lady. A group of students strode cheerfully and briskly up the street under its shadow, which lay like a great, dark mass lined off by the moonlight, shining white on the cobbles. As they walked along, one of them struck into a song, which had, at the end of each stanza, a peculiarly inspiriting refrain, which was taken up in turns by students across the street, crossing it, and far ahead. When all this had died away, a passingfiacre, rolling over the stones, broke the silence again, and then the clocks began to strike the hour.
Rouen[From Collection of Mr Gustavus A. Sieveking.CATHEDRAL NOTRE DAME.ROUEN, 1842.[Page 118.
[From Collection of Mr Gustavus A. Sieveking.
CATHEDRAL NOTRE DAME.ROUEN, 1842.
[Page 118.
As the sweet, mellow, solemn bell of the cathedral sounded, and before it had struck three notes, a blatant tin kettle of a clock, from a hotel near by, raspingly announced its own rendering of the time. Then here, then there, from all quarters, came shrill, discordant editions of the same fact, and the great thrilling,arresting reminder of the dignified past was silenced. So have I sometimes seen a modern, fashionable woman, decked out in all the tinsel fripperies of Paris, outshine some quiet, delicate, other-world beauty in a crowded room, so that the latter was, to all intents and purposes, completely shelved, so to speak. She needed her own environment, her own quiet background before her personal note could be heard; before she could shine in people's eyes, as she should have shone.
What is it that makes foreign churches a living centre of daily concern? That they are so, can hardly be disputed. Why they should be so is another matter, and reasons are bandied about. But whether they have a reasonable basis, is questionable. The reason chiefly given, of course, is the influence of the priest, and the background he can produce at will to the home life picture, if his suggestion in daily life are not carried out. But it remains to be proved if this reason can carry the weight that is laid upon its back by its supporters.
One afternoon about two o'clock I waited in the square opposite the cathedral for forty minutes, in order to see what manner of men and women were constrained to go through the little swinging door underneath one of those splendid archways. Every other moment, for the whole of that forty minutes, some one passed in and out: well-dressed women; countrywomen in white frilled cap, apron and sabots; hatless peasants; beggars; "sisters;" infirm people, healthy people; old people, young people, children. Some would come out slowly, stiffly; some with mackintosh flying behind; some accompanied, some unaccompanied.
There was no service; (for I went inside myself, to see, and found a quiet church—no one about but those who had come for a quiet "think," or a quiet prayer); it was evidently done simply to satisfy a need—a need that affected equally all sorts and conditions of men and women. Just as someone, during a sudden pause in the middle of theday's business, takes a quiet quarter of an hour aside for a chat with some chosen comrade; just as a mother, perhaps, during the "noisy years" of her children's lives, steals a quiet ten minutes of solitude to restore the balance of her thoughts, which have been unsettled by the quarrels and disputes of baby tongues. It is the time when the soul puts off the official robe of pressing business for a few short minutes and takes a deep drink at "the things that endure;" the time when the soul can stretch its tired, cramped spiritual limbs, and take a long breath; the hour when the burden that each of us carries is slipped for a time, and shrinks in stature. To bring the spiritual and the material to speaking terms has always been a crucial point of difficulty. England, to-day, belongs pre-eminently to a materialistic age, and it is full of people who are trying—some of them fairly successfully—to persuade themselves—knowing how difficult a matter it is to combine the spiritualelement and the material,—that it is safest and happiest to divorce them as completely as possible. Where in this country does one see the compelling necessity at work with all classes on a week day, to go aside into some quiet, empty church, and draw from spiritual stores? One may safely affirm that this occurs somewhat rarely, out of London.
There was a good deal of garden drapery at our hotel, (a good deal of drapery too, as to prices, but this we did not find out until the last day of our stay!) Every night white tablecloths were spread over the beds of heather and chrysanthemums in the front garden. Every morning a very curious effect was caused by the snow, which had fallen during the night, having made deep folds in their sides and middles, so that at first sight it looked as if some enormous hats had been deposited there in the night. One evening, between eight and nine o'clock, while sitting quietly at thetable d'hôte, which was presided over by a youthful master of ceremonies, who walked up and down in goloshes, (his invariable, though unexplainable, custom) there came the distant but rousing sound of bugles. Instantly chairs were pushed back, diners rose hastily, and presently the whole room emptied, and a shifting population tumultuously made its way across the hall, and through into the garden where the table-clothed flowers slept in their night wrappers,—and away to the gates. As we reached them the dark street was raggedly lit up by the flickering jerk of the red glare from moving torches: there was a sudden stir of music in the air: the bugles came nearer, accompanied by the quick tramp past of many feet: the rattle of the drums worked up the tune to its climax: then the call of the bugle again, exciting, questioning, hurrying: a moment later, the music dancing and edging off by rapid paces, till all the awakened emotion and excitement, stirred to vivid life of the passing, trenchant movement, sank—as it seemed, finally—quite suddenly, to a flickerin the socket, and ceased. The street in front of us grew emptier; and, the requirement of the inner man and inner woman again beginning to re-assert themselves, the garden witnessed the return to the desertedtable d'hôte, of most of the crowd, who had, some minutes earlier, started up to follow the drum.
But I still waited on at the gate. The whole scene, but just enacted, had put me back many, many years, to a night long ago in very early childhood; when the torches and tar-barrels of a certain fifth of November celebration at St. Leonards, had flashed as startlingly, as brilliantly, an arrestingly on the panes of our sitting-room; and I, a little child playing quietly by myself on the floor, had been roused suddenly to instant attention by the glare and fantastic dancing reflections on the wall as the procession of shouting torch bearers came striding up the street to the stirring sound of the bugle. The whole incident had made an ineffaceable impression on my mind, and I hadoften recalled to myself the dark window, the sudden flickering glare, the roar of the flaming tar-barrels, the whole scene swaying ruddily up the street outside, the excited sense of something strange and new happening; but never till this evening, had I been taken right back, and my feet, as it were, planted once again on the same spot of the old sensation, from which the push of so many passing years had displaced the "me" of those days when the spring of life's year was but just beginning.
In the Rue des Ours there is a little humble restaurant to which I went again and again. It stands in a narrow, cobbled street, with old black timbered houses opposite it and beside it. It is itself of no mean age. Most of the more well-to-do restaurants in Rouen have indeedcartesfixed up in prominent places outside, but they arecarteswithout the horse of "Prix fixe" harnessed to them.
But if you once know your restaurant, then the thing to do is, in this case not to "find outmen's wants and meet them there," but to "find out" what particular dish it is really good at cooking and "meet it there" by coming regularly for that very dish, not venturing out into the unknown, and often greasy, waters of a stew, ahors d'œuvre, orentremet. This is knowledge acquired by experience, for I have, in the craving that sometimes beseiges one for variety, gone much farther and—fared much worse, so now I am content to stay where I fare fairly well, if plainly, at moderate expenditure. One can pass a very happy hour at the little restaurant in the Rue des Ours; they can fry kippers to a turn, and one or two other simple things. Some people I know wouldn't care to come in and have kippers forsecond déjeuner: all I can say is, then they can stay out—go somewhere else and make greater demands on their trouser pockets.
But for those who can appreciate plain fare, the little restaurant in the Rue des Ours will answer well their midday needs. There are few things more difficult to get than plainthings done to perfection at a restaurant which thinks great guns—I mean greatentrées—of itself. The most appetising breakfast dish I have ever had in my life—even now my lips long to make a certain appreciative sound in memory of it!—consisted of certain slices of bacon cooked at a little fire on an island, during a camping-out excursion on the river near Marlow some years ago. I may as well add that I had no share in the cooking of it, only in the eating of it.
Everybody sits at the little, narrow, long tables which are set at intervals over the little room with its sanded floor, at my restaurant, with the exception of those who sit at marble ones, which are there also, only in less numbers. I remember one special day when a paper had provided great food for excitement for two men who sat smoking in a corner and discussing matters of state over two cups of black coffee, which had been aided and abetted by two liqueurs. The woman, who was the middle-woman between the cook—or manufacturer—and the consumer, went to and fro rapidly, shouting from time to time, "Plats!" with the names of those required, with an added and imperative "Vite! Vite!"
From time to time a burning match from the pipes of the two conspirators fell as softly on the sanded floor as, on a November night, a shooting star sinks, and is extinguished on the dark sky. Presently, a bustling little man in a wide-awake entered with a huge pile of pink and yellow advertisement leaflets, it recommended somehorloges, which had but recently swum "into the ken" of the inhabitants who live on the outskirts of Rue des Ours.
Immediately on entering, he saluted with confident and easy grace, and handed round with characteristic aplomb and dignity, the leaflets with which he identified himself for the time, though having no connection with the business with which they were concerned, save that of a purely temporary one. No Englishman could deliver leaflets like that. He would never take the trouble to attemptunfamiliar "airs and graces" to push someone else's concern. He would deliver simply and baldly, and would consider that good measure for his pay.
But the Frenchman's is "good measure running over," and his manner in doing it is half the battle, though the Englishman cannot understand how this can be so. I remember in this connection, an Englishwoman, who had lived much in France, saying to me the other day,à proposof Frenchwomen:
"They make charming speeches and compliments which one likes exceedingly to hear, until you find suddenly in some practical matter, some emergency, that they really mean nothing at all by them,—well then, when I recognised that, I just felt as if I'd no ground to go on at all, and I didn't care any longer for any of their professions.
"There is no real courtesy in the streets of Paris. Men jostle women right and left, it being at the passenger's own risk thatthe crossing of the street is performed.
"I never felt that I was a woman till I came to Paris: and there it is forced on one daily. The Parisian's view of a woman is not an ideal one."
To the diner, whose purse is light and whose needs are heavy and not satisfied by the fare of the restaurant in Rue des Ours, I would suggest the restaurant which is cheek by jowl with "Grosse Horloge." There, simplicity is more fully mated to variety, for you can depend upon threeplats, and, unless one is a slave to luxury, theseplats, well cooked even if plain, are amply sufficient to satisfy the cravings which begin below the belt, and end—in a good square meal. By the way, many waiters in these restaurants go upon some co-operative system, and all the "tips" that they receive at restaurants are put into a common box, which is placed on the desk of thechargé d'affaires. As each table empties, the waiter, in passing, drops hisdouceurthrough the narrow slit. My convictionis, that the workmen who are givenpourboiresdo the same thing in the way of co-operation.
Over the little restaurant of which I have been speaking is the old gateway and tower of La Grosse Horloge. The bell here, called "Rouvel," dating back more than six centuries, has not been rung now for eight months, owing to its having become cracked. It weighs 1,500 kilogrammes. We went once into the belfry where the poor old bell, in its dotage, still hangs. Here in the draughty shuttered twilight, which is its constant environment, sounds unceasingly through each day and night, its mechanical heart-beats of "Teck-took"—"Teck-took"—"Teck—took," solemnly, slowly, unmelodiously.
Here in the half-lights, with stray gusts of wind blowing in through the interstices of the shutters which shut in the belfry, it has rung for ages on end, the warningcouvre feu, the solemn message of the passing hours. The only sounds which came filtering in to one's ears from the world far below are thedistant shriek of the engine, and the rattle of the carriages. Below is a chamber where the weight of the clock rising and falling is the only object between a wilderness of dark timbers and the planks of the stairs.
Here, at the first news of fire in the city, is sounded the fire-alarm. If the fire is at a great distance the alarm is prolonged.
Right at the top of the tower is a grand view of the hills standing round about the city;—(when I was there)—brown, befogged, misty,—the broad river lying clear cut and silvery in the middle distance; while nearer in, one could see old decrepit, black-timbered houses which abutted on to the flagged courts below them, on whose surface the hail dripped whitely, and leapt merrily. Two hundred steps lead up to the top of the tower through a winding, twisting stone stairway.
The gateway below, in the street, is the same age as the tower: but the age of the outer gilt clock, which faces the street, is not more than the sixteenth century.
In a straight line from the Rue Grosse-Horloge, it is not five minutes to thevieux marchéwhere St. Jeanne d'Arc was martyred.
There is nothing to mark the spot but a tablet let in on the path, and the words:
Jeanne d'Arc30 Mai1431.
Nothing else.
Beside it on one of the huge market halls hang many dirty, artificial wreaths, and under them a marble tablet, with these words inscribed on it:—
"Sur cette place s'éléva le bûcher de Jeanne d'Arc.
"Les cendres de la glorieuse victoire furent jetées à la Seine."
And below it is a map of old Rouen (1431)shewing that thepiloiwas close to the spot where Joan of Arc was burnt, as was also the Church of St. Saviour (which has completely disappeared). The square now is surrounded almost entirely by modern buildings and hotels, and the two large iron market halls take up nearly all the space.
I cannot imagine a greater demand on one's powers of imagination than is required of one who stands, under these modern conditions, and tries to conceive the scene that took place there six centuries ago.
The woman who dared much, ventured much, and suffered much, for the sake of that which is "not seen, only believed," standing there in the midst of the fire, her eyes on that Other Figure which, under the form of the uplifted crucifix, was present with her, unseen by the rabble; the English bishops who only wanted to get to their dinner; the coarse crowd who came to gloat over her sufferings; the whole brutal scene which was to be the last which should meet her eyes before thedoor into the spirit-world should open.
Conditions of life, points of view, are so completely, so absolutely changed, that one cannot realise the tragedy which was acted out to its grim finish on that spot. And one looks again at the dirty, begrimed tablet at one's feet:
Jeanne d'Arc,30 Mai1431,
and yet onecannotrealise it all, cannot mentally see it happening.
Nevertheless it did take place, and it remains for ever a stained page in the volume of the deeds of England: a stained page of blackest ingratitude in the annals of France.
I stood by that stone a long time. For there, on that very spot, is sacred ground. There, six hundred years ago, a human soul dared death in its most terrible aspect, for—the sake of an Idea. There are very few to-day, men or women, who would dare so muchfor the sake of an idea: even when that idea is backed by faith, as hers was. And yet there is nothing greater, nothing more powerful, if one could see it in its true light, than an idea of the kind that was hers.
A little side street leading out of the Place de Vieux Marché brings one into the quiet little Place de la Pucelle. Here, there is a statue (not in the least inspiring, however) to St. Jeanne d'Arc, hung round with the inevitable artificial wreaths, so dear to the French, in honour of her memory. The statue itself is blackened and covered with a soft mantle of green from much wreath-bearing. There is also a Latin inscription. The square itself is diamond-shaped, and only one black-timbered house remains to it of all that graced it in Joan's days. There is, it is true, standing back in its own courtyard, that wonderful Hotel Bourgtheroulde, (which was begun in the sixteenth century,) but this is not easily seen if you enter the square from the further end.
RouenFONTAINE DE ST. CROIX, ROUEN.[Page 137.
FONTAINE DE ST. CROIX, ROUEN.
[Page 137.
I saw it at dusk. The quiet figure rising dark against the twilight sky; some white-capped peasants crossing the street quietly; the distant cries and laughter of children playing about the fountain in the midst; the windows of the houses gleaming redly against the cobbled pavement; steep roofs rising all round, standing out in the half light distinct and sharp, made an impression on one's memory not easily to be wiped out.
Rouen is the happy hunting-ground of the antiquary: the old houses are almost inexhaustible. Streets upon streets of them, untouched in all their splendid picturesqueness. One strikes up some narrow, cobbled passage between timbered houses, rising high on either side, a narrow strip of blue sky shewing far above, and one comes suddenly upon lovely old corbels, exquisite bits of old sculpture, by some corner across which strikes the soft shine from the blue lilac slate of some steep roof immediately above it. At one's foot is the inevitable little border to almostevery old street—the trickling stream gleaming where the sun slants down on it.
The only sound that breaks on one's ear in these old streets is the clatter of sabots, and the sedate, slow-pacedcarillonfrom the cathedral bells close by. Sometimes in one's wanderings one comes upon one or other of the numerous old carved stone fountains which stand here and there at street corners in Rouen—sculptured, but generally much discoloured and defaced.
Quite unexpectedly, again, one chances on flagged courtyards, the houses round having magnificent, old black oak staircases giving on to them. One street was especially full of characteristic corners. I remember once passing down it when the whole place seemed asleep: and the only sounds that struck on one's ear were the plaintive, soft lament of an unseen dove, and the distant wail of a violin from some projecting upper story of a gabled house.
Beside a panelled door, hanging loosely onits hinges, hopped a tame rook, rather out at elbows as touching its wing plumage, pecking at the rain-water which had dripped into an old silver plate of quaint design which lay tilted against the kerb stone. Further up was a house with a bulging front, as of someone who has lived too well and attained thereby his corporation. In some streets the houses are slated down the entire frontage, and only the ground floor timbered. Many of the houses are labelled "Ancienne Maison," and the name beneath, and some—but only some, alas!—have the date over the door. There are some exceedingly quaint dedications over one or two of the shops in Rouen. One, which specially arrested our attention, was over a shop in the Rue Grosse-Horloge, and ran thus:—"Au pauvre diable et à St. Herbland réunis!" Another was to "Father Adam"; another to "Petit St. Herbland,"; another to "St. Antoine de Padue:" this last was a very favourite dedication, and one came across it in allparts of the city. Though, when one saw how often he was the patron saint of "Robes and Modes," I must say one wondered what the connection was between the saint and a milliner's shop. Was it a reminder of that one of his temptations in which three beautiful maidens, scantily attired, appeared and danced before him? Only, if so, surely thedouble entendresuggested by the dedication would act as a deterrent, if it acted at all, on those who were tempted by the chiffons,draperies et soieries, displayed in the shop window, to go within. One could see that there was a singular fitness in "Father Adam" being the patron of an eating shop, as was the case in one street.
At midday the street leading into the cathedral square is a scene of multitudinous interests. A little boys' school, marshalled solemnly by a master—spectacled and sticked—the boys all stiff-capped and starched looking; a square, closed-in cart, with neatly packedrows of those appetising long loaves lying cosily side by side; a huge cart,messageries Parisiennes, drawn by splendid cart-horses, five bells on each side of their splendid collars—collars edged with brass nails, and brass facings with pink background—the peasant conducting it, wearing the high-crowned black hat and loose, navy-blue blouse reaching to knee, and opening wide at collar; a barrow of some sweet-smelling stuff pushed over the cobbles by a costermonger who, as he passed, stretched out a disengaged hand to re-arrange his truck of oranges to make the vacant places of those gone before seem less deserted and more enticing to a possible customer. The stream beside the way was swinging merrily along in a succession of weirs, forming itself into different patterns as it went along, owing to its course being over rough, uneven cobbles. Here, as it turned a corner, the sun shone full on it, and from being a stream of doubtful reputation—being in most instances thereceptacle of the castaway Flotsam and Jetsam of many a household—it straightway became a river of pure molten steel.
Then, down another street as I accompanied it, its tide turned—the tide which is swelled by many pailfuls from the doors that lie beside its route—and like the bottle imp, it dwindled into a tiny thing, and flowed along weakly—creased and lined.
The Guide-book urges one on from Rouen, to Caudebec-en-Caux. But I found so much to see in the way of old streets and old buildings in Rouen itself, that I postponed our day's journey to Caudebec till just before we were leaving. Then our choice fell on a day when the powers of the weather fought against us in our courses, and it rained almost continuously for the whole day long. But there are special beauties which are abroad in these times, which those who have seen them once, recognise at their true value, and would not forego.
In this case there was a driving white scudof rain slanting across the meadows. It swept over steep slopes redly orange with fallen leaves lying thick in layers everywhere. The tree trunks stood, yellow in contrast, over streams in which the rain made spear pricks, which swiftly became pin-point centres of ever widening circles. Cows moving lazily on, in their grazing, stepped in the squelching gravel of the deeply-rutted roads, shining up dully, in dark slate colour. Here and there, but not often, black-timbered barns came into sight, sparsely covered with vivid green moss.
Then would come a field with mangy patches of colourless grass, the trees standing sharply outlined in all shades of vivid emerald green: an orchard of gnarled branches of the very palest green imaginable—a sort of etherealized mildew, backed by a fine old slated farm-house. Close beside it a farmyard, the ground literally dotted all over with black hens, busy over remunerative pickings. A little further on was another orchard, thistime filled with whitened skeletons of trees, their bark all being stripped from off the trunks. The hedgerows were crowned with quick successions of briary—the grey hair of the dying year—and at the end of one of them was an avenue of gnarled dwarf willows bordered by a winding stream; their rounded heads shewing soft purple against the green meadow.
At Duclair it was evidently market-day. The train was ushered in by a clatter and jabber of voices, shrill and hoarse mixed: all shouting at the top of their voices. The platform was littered with various coloured sacks, well filled out; market baskets in all positions, and little wooden barred cages for the poor cramped domestic fowl. Beyond Duclair the trees look like brooms the wrong way up: as if grown on the principle of the received tradition in London markets as to the correct complexion of asparagus—long bare trunks and only at the latter end a little bit of spread green to shew that it was the business end.
These trees were presently merged in a dark belt of forest, standing clear against a soft grey lilac horizon of distant land shouldering the sky. Deep-roofed cottages, velveted with moss and lichen; an oldchâteauwith steep slate gables; alternate green and red brown meadow, picked out in places with sombrely dark brushwood, with delicate, incisive, clear cut edge against the softer foliaged trees. Then a broad band of glittering steel encircling the hills which rose abruptly behind it.
Most of the cottages here have a sort of hem of arabesque ornamentation from the flowers which grow freely all along the tops of the roofs. The Seine, like the Jordan of old, overflowed its banks pretty considerably this autumn, to judge by the look of the land in this district. Just before the train slowed into the little primitive terminus of Caudebec, the rain, which had held up for half an hour or so, came on again, whipping the river's surface into long weals.
Caudebec itself is on the banks of the river, with rising ground almost surrounding it. Were it not for the modern element which has, as usual, played ducks and drakes with the picturesque element, Caudebec would be unique.
Indeed, not so very long ago it evidently did possess an individuality in ancient buildings, which set it quite apart by itself. Butnous avons changé tout cela; and now, though it has three charming old streets with black-timbered houses and a mill stream racing beneath them, and a little bridge, its features are considerably altered. Here again, as everywhere else where I went, with the exception of Gujan-Mestras, the same absence of costumes was a keen disappointment. They are not forgotten, it is true; the numerous photographs of them prevent that, but they themselves are an unknown quantity.
Coming away from Caudebec, there was a temporary cessation from showers, and a brilliant, narrow strip of sunshine fell acrossthe hillocky, spattered surface of the river, which a freshening wind was driving before it. It shone fitfully through the straight, close-clipped line of poplars which lined the river bank on the farther side. A few moments later and the sun was setting in a flare of yellow light, and a flood of misty radiance lay full on the dancing ripples.
At Rouen the pavement was all a medley of colour: red, soft green, yellow, and dull grey, so that the flags beneath one's feet shone like a tesselated flow of many colours. Overhead the blue, lurid flashes of lightning from the electric wires shot up and died away every now and then. The light from the arc lights made the wet asphalt shine like a crinkled sea under the moonlight. We went to bed that night with the soft pattering of the rain upon our window panes: now hesitating, now hurried, now in triplets, that suggested to one's mind gentle strumming on an old spinet.
As I said, I think, before, the country between Rouen and Dieppe is not striking. But yet it is, in its way, full of picturesqueness; of beautiful little miniatures; of delicate etchings, exquisite as to colour and form; and all this is visible even to the traveller passing rapidly through by train.
There broods over the quiet meadows, over the stiff lines of poplars, over the cool soft-toned colours in blouse, skirt, or apron, the true spiritual atmosphere of the heart of the land, if one may so call it,—its deep simplicity, its own interpretation of life. The peasants seem to belong to the land upon which their hard-working days are spent, and, in working, to drink in, in effect, the divine secret of the earth, which only men possessed of true inner perceptions, like Jean François Millet, R. L. Stevenson and others like themin mental calibre, can apprehend.
Nearer Dieppe we came upon numerous farm-houses, many of which are built upon trestles, and all of which are covered with the usual soft green embroidery of moss and nestling cosily in the midst of beautiful orchards, or clustering vineyards.
In Normandy the street cries seem to be all in the major key. I noticed this especially at Rouen, and here again at Dieppe; the minor key is absent in them. They are, too, a distinctly musical sentence in themselves. A sweet little melody was being sung up one street in Dieppe along which I was passing, by two fish-women carrying a basket of fish between them. One man who came along playing bagpipes, from time to time, to notify the approach of his wares, paused to cry out in a loud tone what sounded like: "I have not got it to-day, but I shall have it to-morrow!"
Dieppe has the same sort of blank-Casino-stare-of-sightless eyes, as had Arcachon; only the former place, being a town on its ownfoundation, as it were, and not brought into prominence by the parasitical growth in its midst, of the Casino, is not so dominated by it. The two venerable round towers, with their conical, red-tiled peaks stand alone, unaffected by the modern hotels and buildings on the front, which surround them. Somehow, though, I could never understand exactly why they should so insistently suggest Tweedledum and Tweedledee, yet they did again and again bring those worthies into my mind whenever I looked at them. They stand at some little distance from the grand old castle which has seen the things that they have also seen in those far-away bygone ages. The castle, stands greyly aloof and apart, high on its hill, banked up by serrated chalk cliffs and grey expanse of wall.
The hotel at which we put up in the town was a charming old panelled house, dating two or three hundred years back; perhaps longer even than that. The ceilings slanted, and the walls contained those delightful deep cupboards which are such a joy to those whopossess them. Also there were the little steps up and down leading from one room into another; steps which project the unwary into the future, sometimes too soon for their comfort.
Opening out of the first floor was an outside promenade, with balcony which led one out among a perfect wilderness of roofs; steep roofs of ancient, well-worn red tiles, whereon the soft velvet feet of the moss climb down step by step to the edge of sudden precipitous gables, crowned with white pinnacles, all backed by a venerable-looking red brick wall which had lost a tooth here and there of its first row, and never had others to fill the holes. Then, further along, through a gap in the wall, one caught sight of the splendid, deep, wavy red brick roof of the house opposite, with three little holes pierced above, two tiny dormer windows, and, below these, two larger ones. Below them, again, the soft yellow-cream cob wall.
It was quite an ideal spot in which to dream on a hot summer's day; but though to admire, yet not to linger in during a November one.
The town crier here is a wonderful personage. He is dressed in official black cape and square cap, and he beats an imperative tattoo, as a summons to the citizens, on a big drum which is slung round his neck. But when that was performed and when, presumably, he had gained their attention, he only mumbled a few indistinct words and then hurried on, or rather more correctly, shambled on into the next street.
The market at Dieppe is one of the most picturesque affairs I have ever seen in France, barring that at Poitiers, which was quite unsurpassable in its varied pageantry of colour. The peasants at the Dieppe market all stand on the pathway of the principal street, their baskets in front of them on the curb. The unfortunate animals for sale, as usual, I saw over and over again taken up, with no regard to their feelings, or as to which side up they were in the habit of living, and dangled, or swung, head downwardsad lib. Then bounced—literally bounced—up and down by intending purchasers (who dumped themdown to test their weight), and by doubtful purchasers also. One woman held a number of fowls in one hand—their legs all tied together—as unconcernedly as if they were some parcel out of a milliner's shop. It is not an inspiring sight. People's stomachs pitted against their hearts, and winning by an easy length in each case. In one instance it was not a case of the lion lying down with the lamb, but of the hen being forced to lie down with the duck, who, profiting by her propinquity to the other, curled her long neck and pillowed it on the hen's shoulder.
In the afternoons the merry-go-round was in full swing just in front of the church, but instead of our predominant and wearisome fog-horn effect, it was soft, and with a hint of brass instruments in the distance, and the tinkling "rat-tat-tat," of the drum was distinctly realistic.
One of the prettiest little incidents that I have seen for a long while occurred when I was passing through one part of the market here. An old shrivelled, but apple-cheeked,market woman came by, and as she turned the corner of a stall she found herself face to face with a Sister. The latter, instantly recognising her, gave her the most courteous bow and smile I have ever seen, and I shall never forget the pleased, elated expression on the old woman's face as she passed on, after receiving the salutation. Once before, I saw courtesy and respect shewn as unmistakeably, and that was in England.
I was on the top of a city omnibus, and as another omnibus was just passing us, our driver—an old, red-faced, weather-beaten man—lifted his hat and swept it low, with such a profound air of reverence—such an unusual thing to see now-a-days—that I turned hastily to see who was the recipient of this obeisance. It was a hospital nurse; and I caught sight of the pleasant smile with which she greeted, as I supposed, one of her former patients. A minute or two later my conjecture was confirmed, and I heard our driver relating to his left-hand neighbour the story of how splendidlyshe had nursed him through a serious illness.
On Sunday afternoon we went to the catechising in church, and were treated to a long dissertation, of quite an hour's duration, on the early divisions and heresies of the church. Through all this recital, the "world" outside was infinitely distracting. Bursts of "Carmen," or some popular waltz, came in alluringly from the windows in gusts of melody, enough to interfere very seriously with the thread of so dry and stiff an argument as was M. le Curé's, even had his congregation been composed of grown-up people; much more so in the case of children.
But these children, one and all, were irreproachable in their behaviour. Not a movement, not a fidget, not a sound broke the perfect quietude with which they faced him. There were but three or four Sisters in charge of them and these sat facing their respective classes. Perhaps one of the secrets of their absorbed attention and utter alienation from the distracting sounds from without, may have been that each child—even the little tinies—had a notebook and pencil and was busily engaged, from the beginning of the disquisition to the very end of it, in taking down word for word the preacher's lecture (for after meditation?) Yes, even to the jaw-breaking names of some of the heretics, which were spelt over carefully and slowly once or twice, as they occurred, by M. le Curé.
And when at last the long discourse was ended, there was no music, no singing of hymns to assist in lifting up their hearts after the past depressing hour! Each class filed out of church, sedately, quietly, composedly; first the girls, and then the boys. These last had a mind to start a little before their time for filing out had arrived, but their idea was promptly sat upon, and squashed, by one short severe word from the figure in the pulpit, which stood solemn and upright until the last boy had left the church.
It struck me, in connection with this service, that we English might possibly find one of the plans in this catechising at the churchin Dieppe, useful in our own children's services. Everyone who knows anything at all of children knows well how keenly most of them enjoy the simple fact of writing down notes in a notebook. Why should not we use that aid to attention in our services? Something to do with their fingers is a wonderful preservative of attention for children, and even if the notes are not of very much use afterwards, (as might very possibly be the case with the younger children!), still it would be an interest to all. For the very handling of pencil and book, would certainly take away a very remunerative employment from someone who is reputed to be always ready with graduated mischief suitable for small hands that are folded aimlessly on the lap.
Later on in the day we met a Sister escorting out a battalion of boys who, tired of going tramp-tramp regularly and in order along the road, had broken step and were careering all over the place after their hats, which a gust of wind had just whisked off. I saw, a minutelater, that the joy of each boy was to lay the hat when rescued from the gutter, or wherever it had chanced to light, very lightly and gingerly on his head, to court the gusts in the hope—not altogether vain—that the gusts would catch—the hats, and thus inaugurate of course, a fresh chase along the road. This went on until the poor Sister was almost distracted, and at her wits' end; for the facts were equally undeniable, that the hats must be recovered, and that the gusts of wind could not be prevented. After vainly endeavouring to collect the forces at her command—which consisted, I am sorry to say, of only three or four of the steadier boys—she changed her tactics, and instead of pursuing her way up the street, she sounded a recall and retraced her steps down a less gusty street, followed, after some delay, by the rest of the boys.
On the beach, after some rough gales, we found crowds of men and women picking up huge black stones, and putting them all together in the large chip baskets which thepeasants carry. These baskets are pointed at the bottom and, when filled, are slung over their shoulders, being strapped under the arm. Before they filled them we could see the men placing them about at intervals on the beach, each on a sort of easel. I found out that the town authorities give about twenty-five centimes for each basket of these stones—galéesas Madame at our hotel informed me they were called.
Talking about Madame reminds me that I have never mentioned how small was the size of the very diminutive water jug which we were given in our bedroom here. When I first saw it, it brought vividly back the story of an old friend's experience in an out-of-the-way town in Germany of many years ago, when, finding in the bedrooms water jugs the size of a fair sized tea-cup, inquired if a bath was procurable and was met with amazed and blank countenances. They had never even heard of such a thing. Tea cups had always amply satisfied their own requirements. Dirt did not settle so readilyupon them as it apparently did on the skin of Englishmen. But they could perhaps have it made at the expense of the Englishman, and so a drawing was given of the sized bath required, and eventually, after many searchings of heart, this implement of water warfare was constructed.
Our water jug, it is true, was larger than a tea cup, but it stood not so very much higher than my sponge.
The last glimpse of France that one carries away with one, when the land grows ever dimmer and dimmer from one's standpoint on board ship, as one leans over the taffrail, are three landmarks—the domed spire of St. Jacques, the castellated tower of St. Remy, and, further to the north, the old castle, standing apart and grey, towering above its ramparts. Finally, even these fade away into a soft mystery of grey-blue haze, and one regretfully realises that one is severed from the land of sunshine and fair vineyards.
THE END
The Anchor Press, Ltd., Tiptree, Essex.