Le Morvan--Forests--Climate--Patriarchs and Damosels--Peasants of
the plain and the mountaineer--Jovial Curés--Their love of
Burgundy--The Doctor and the Curé.
Le Morvan, anciently Morvennium, or Pagus Morvinus, as Cæsar calls it in
his Commentaries, comprises, as we have before remarked, a portion of
the departments of the Nièvre and the Yonne, lying between vine-clad
Burgundy and the mountains of the Nivernois. Its productions are
various; in the plains are grown wheat, rye, hemp, oats, and flax: on
the mountain side the grape is largely cultivated; and in the valleys
are rich verdant meadows, where countless droves of oxen, knee-deep in
the luxuriant grass, feed and fatten in peace and abundance.
But the real and inexhaustible wealth of Le Morvan is in its forests. In
these several thousand trees are felled annually, sawn into logs,
branded and thrown by cart-loads into the neighbouring torrent, which,
on reaching a more tranquil stream, are lashed into rafts, when they
drift onwards to the Seine, and are eventually borne on the waters of
that river to the capital. The forests of the Nièvre are some of the
most extensive in France; thick and dark, and formed of ancient oaks,
maple, and spreading beech, they cover nearly 200,000 acres of ground.
Those of the Yonne are larger but of a character far less wild.
The climate of this part of France is delightful; with the exception of
occasional showers, very little rain falls; the sky is serene, and
scarcely ever is a vagabond cloud seen in the ethereal blue to throw a
shadow upon the lovely landscape beneath. For six months of the year the
sun is daily refulgent in the heavens, and sets evening after evening in
all his glorious majesty. But in the woods it is not thus; the storms
there are sometimes terrible, and, like those of the tropics, arise and
terminate with wonderful rapidity. These tempests, which purify the
atmosphere, leave behind them a delicious coolness, the trees and
shrubs, as they shake from their trembling leaves their sparkling tears,
appear so bright--the flowers which raise again their drooping heads,
load the air with such delightful odours--the whole forest, in short,
seems so refreshed and full of life, that every one hails their
approach, the toil-worn peasant breathes without complaint the sultry
air, and observes with pleasure the dark and lowering clouds gathering
in the far horizon.
From the mountains, those huge ladders of granite that God has planted
upon the earth, as if to invite ungrateful man to come nearer to him,
descend many a stream and dancing rill of pure and crystal waters. No
part of France can be said to be more salubrious. "Centenarians" are by
no means uncommon, and a patriarch of that age may be found in several
families.
When Sunday comes, always a _jour de fête_ as well as a day of prayer,
it is very pleasing to see one of these venerable men, dressed in his
best clothes, walking to church at the head of his children,
grand-children, and great grand-children. Long and of snowy whiteness is
his hair, and glossy white as threads of purest silver is his beard--his
hat, of quaker broadness in the brim, is generally encircled, in the
early days of Spring, with a wreath of the common primrose, and his dark
cloth mantle, of home-spun fabric, hangs gracefully on his shoulders,
showing underneath it the dark red sash that girds his still healthy and
vigorous frame. Tall and grave, erect and majestic as the oaks of their
native forests, these patriarchs bespeak every one's respect, and when
looking on them you might imagine they were men of another age, a
generation of by-gone years, you might fancy them some ancient Druids
that have escaped from their dusty tombs, from centuries of night, to
tread once more the pathways of this planet.
And the women, heaven and earth! how sweetly pretty, how amiable and
adorable; and such eyes, dark and lustrous!--full of witchcraft, burning
and humid as an April sun after a shower. Some there are, also, of
pensive blue, pregnant with promises, soft and almond-shaped, like the
divine eyes of the Italian Cenci. Supple as the young and slender
branches of willow, are these divinities, fresh as new opened tulips,
and brisk and gay as the golden-speckled trout in the sparkling current.
In their charms is found a terrestrial paradise, a compound of delicious
qualities which intoxicate the senses, hook the heart, and like the bite
of the Sicilian tarantella, steep the loved one in delirium.
Yes, the women of Le Morvan are lovely, ardent, and tender-hearted as
the dove, especially those who dwell within the forest districts; for
nothing contributes so much to bring forth the loving principle of the
affections as the silent melancholy of the umbrageous woods, and the
soft and perfumed breezes that pervade them. Here, in the dusk and
stillness of the summer evenings, these wood-nymphs hear in the lofty
branches of the linden, the endearing love songs of the feathered tribe,
and when night throws its charitable gloom over their blushing cheeks,
they whisper at the trysting place what they have heard and seen to
their rustic admirers.
We have just briefly sketched the two extremes, the old men of Le Morvan
and its sprightly damosels: we must now mention the inhabitants
generally, and these vary like its productions according to locality.
The peasant of the plains is civil, gentle, and industrious, but cunning
and dangerous as an old fox; and if he thinks money may be squeezed from
your pocket, be sure there will be no sleep for him till he has taken
some out of it. Full of fun, he loves above all the dance, the song, the
merry laugh, and good cheer--and the uncorking of a bottle would be for
him a supreme delight, if this excellence itself was not superseded, by
the far greater blessedness of emptying it.
The inhabitant of the mountain, on the other hand, is sober, severe and
roughly barked--clothed with silence and gravity, smiling but once a
year--the day he has cheated a good man of the plain; he does not please
so much at first sight: but if in any danger, if you are surprised by a
hurricane, surrounded with wolves; or you have lost your way, in a night
as dark as the grave itself, you call and ask his help, oh! it is then
that his sterling qualities shine forth in all their splendour. Always
ready, always on the look out, the ear for ever bent to catch the
well-known sounds of the forest, the slightest indication of distress
awakes his vigilance; it is then he comes, it is then he flies, and his
arm, gun, and eyes--his cabin, dog, and lean horse are all at your
command.
Admirable example of courage and of devotedness: money for him is
nothing; happy to be useful, he obliges for the mere pleasure of
obliging. Many, many times have I seen poachers, cottagers,
charcoal-burners, and wood-cutters, poor as Job, hardly breeched, hungry
as a whole Irish borough, leave their work, their sport, their field,
their tree half down,--abandon in the roads, under the guard of the
dogs, their carts and oxen, and go some dozen of miles, through storm
and tempest, through rush, rock, and swamp, to set a sportsman in his
right way again. Without saying a word, with steps attendant on his
weary progress, they trudge on before, making a sign for him to follow;
and when they have placed him once more on his road, a nod, a shake of
the hand, a smile, a kind word falling from his lips, pays them the full
price of all their troubles. Never have I seen one of them accept the
least pecuniary reward for such services--they do nothing but their
duty, they say; and as they are happy in the firm conviction that the
whole forest belongs to them, they think they are only doing the honours
of their green drawing-rooms. Thus it always happens, that when, by
their good care, you have escaped certain danger, it is with great
difficulty, and only after a deluge of rhetoric, that they consent to
accept for their daughters or wives a red wool dress, a gold cross, or a
row of large blue Pundaram beads; or for themselves a few dozen of iron
bullets, a bag of shot, or a flask of powder. This abnegation, this
frankness of the heart, this kind sympathy for every stranger, is
universal among the mountaineers; these benevolent and kindly feelings
are a portion of their holy traditions, and as such are most religiously
grafted by every mother into the soft wax-like hearts of her dear little
ones.
But while delighting to describe the virtues of these denizens of the
forests, these amiable fauns and jolly satyrs, I must not forget those
jovial trencher-men, the _curés_ of Le Morvan. Every sportsman
possesses, or should possess, the digestion of an ostrich; for his
appetite is generally prodigious, and the viands that fall in his way
are not always the most savoury. When, however, the venison pasty, the
truffled turkey, or the _pain de gibier_ is within his reach, no one is
so capable of enjoying and doing justice to these delicacies of the
table, of knocking off so dexterously the neck of the champagne bottle
when the corkscrew is absent, or whose legs are stretched out so
gracefully at the sight of brimming glasses and _recherché_ viands.
In these, his fallen moments, and after a good day's sport, a Morvinian
would tell you he could drink all the Burgundian cellars dry,--aye, and
those of Champagne too; and as to smoking, why, he would smoke a whole
crop of tobacco.
To all keen sportsmen, therefore, who love good eating and wine, and
intend to pay a visit to Le Morvan, I would give this piece of advice,
and I would say to them, place it in the secret drawer of your memory;
nay, carry it written, and, if necessary, painted on your knapsack or
scratched upon your gun--fail not to make the acquaintance of the _curé_
the darling _curés_. Ask who are they that love the best _cuisine_--who
dote upon the most delicious morsels--who will have the oldest, purest,
and most generous wines?--you will be answered, the _curés_. For whom
are destined the largest trout, the fattest capons, and the best parts
of the venison?--for whom the softest and most choice liqueurs, wine of
the best _bouquet_, the largest truffles, the most luscious honey, the
best vegetables, and finest fruits?--for the _curés_. And the most
clever men-cooks, the happiest receipts, and latest culinary
inventions--for whom are they? the answer is always, _for messieurs les
curés_. Forget them not, therefore, for they are really worth
remembering; besides, they have excellent hearts and are capital
fellows, boon companions, full of _bonhommie_ and good-nature: in fact,
such _curés_ it is impossible to find anywhere else.
But the great Architect of the universe has said, nothing is
perfect--everything human has its weak point. Well, it cannot be helped,
and it must be told, the _curés_ of Le Morvan have their weak points;
trifles, to be sure--mere bagatelles--but still they have them. They are
rather _too_ fond of old wine and good cheer. These two charming little
defects excepted,--you have in the Morvinian _curé_ goodness double
distilled, and the essence of generosity, and, be it said, abnegation.
This love of the bottle they imbibe from their dear colleagues of
Burgundy; for it is well known, and has never been disputed, that the
Burgundian _curés_ are the greatest exterminators, uncorkers, and
emptiers of wine-bottles in all Christendom. The first thing these
jovial clergymen think of when they open their eyes in the morning, is
an invocation to Bacchus, somewhat in the following strain: "O Bacchus!
son of Semele, divine wine-presser! O vineyards! full of the purple
grape! O wine-press! inestimable machine!" &c. Their second movement is
to extend the right arm, and clasp within their digits a flask of old
Pouilli, the contents of which they swallow without once stopping to
take breath. "An infallible remedy," say they, "against the devil and
all future indigestions."
Fortified thus with this their first orison, they throw on their
cassock, and descend to the cellar, to count the bottles, or tap and
taste the barrels of some doubtful vintage. The thorough-bred Burgundian
_curé_, particularly one who has lived and got old and fat in the
solitude of a retired presbytery,--whose rubicund nose reveals his
admiration for the vineyards of his native province, and whose three
chins tell you that with pullets, and venison, and clouted cream he has
lined his scrip,--is certainly one of the most jovial and best of men.
Ask him for indulgences, absolution, masses and prayers for the living
and the dead; he will grant them all. Ask him for his niece in marriage;
ask him to marry you, to baptize you, to bury you; he will do it
all--yes, all for nothing! It is not in his nature to refuse anything.
Ask him for his new cassock, his cane, or his hat, his black silk
stockings, or his silver buckles, and they are yours. No one so ready to
forgive an insult or forget an injury as he. But, by the blood of the
Mirabels, give him not a bottle of bad or sour wine, for he will neither
forget nor forgive it; and above all things, never give him a hint that
it would be well if he gave up his favourite fluid, for be assured, you
would forfeit his friendship for ever. Sooner would he consent to lose a
leg or all his teeth, than give up his life-loved Burgundy! Tell him he
will have an attack of apoplexy; tell him that he will be taken off
suddenly by inflammation, and that water therefore should be his
beverage; he will reply with a smack of his lips, and a castanet noise
with his fingers. "Nonsense, my boy--stuff and rubbish! Pass the wine,
my son; pass it again. Pass the ham, gentlemen. Fill a bumper. Hurrah
for old Burgundy! hurrah for her wines! Confound the pale fluid, and a
fig for the gout!" Such are the ebullitions of his heart in his jovial
moments; and the following lines, which would spoil in the translation,
give a lively picture of them:
"Pour trop bien boire un curé de Bourgogne
De son pauvre oeil se trouvait déferré,
Un docteur vint:--Voici de la besogne
Dit-il, pour plus d'un jour;--Je patienterai!
Ça vous boirez:--Eh bien! soit, je boirai!
Quatre grands mois:--Plutôt douze, mon maître.
Cette tisane!--A moi? hurla le prêtre,
_Vade retro!_ Guérir par le poison!
Non, par ma soif! perdons une fénètre,
Puisqu'il le faut, mais--_Sauvons la Maison_."