Village _fêtes_--The first of May--The religious festivals--The
_Fête Dieu_--Appearance of the streets--The altars erected in
them--Procession from the church--Country fairs--The book-stalls at
them--Pictures of the Roman Catholic Church--Before the
_Vendange_--Proprietors' hopes and fears--Shooting in the
vineyards--The first day of the _Vendange_--Appearance of the
country--Influx of visitors at this season--The
consequences--Herminie--Her sad history--Le Morvan--Recommended to
the English traveller--Lord Brougham and Cannes--Contrast between
it and Le Morvan.
One of the happiest and most useful customs established by our
ancestors, was, without doubt, the village _fête_--the periodical
festival that takes place in every hamlet, and at which the inhabitants
of the adjoining _communes_ assemble on a specified day to foot it gaily
in the dance and drink each other's health glass to glass in brimming
bumpers. These joyous _fêtes_, a kind of fraternal and social
invitation, which are given and accepted by the rural population when
spring and verdure made their appearance, are held all over France, and
rejoice every heart. In our day, though much shorn of its ancient
revelry, and neglected, _la fête du village_ is still kept up, for it
is, so to speak, indigenous,--a part of our social habits, and like
everything which carries within it a generous sentiment, is loved and
cherished by the people. As the day approaches every village is suitably
decorated, the women are all on the tip toe of excitement to see and be
seen, the peasant throws dull care behind him, and the artizans in the
nearest town work with renewed energy in order that they may do honour
to the occasion. Every one, in short, makes his way to the rendezvous, a
merry laugh on his lip and joy in his heart, and, lost in the tumult and
general gaiety that prevail, all forget, for some few hours, their hard
work and privations.
These festivals offer to each either profit or amusement; the peasants
find in them a refreshing and salutary rest from toil, the tradesman
fails not to fill his pockets with their hard earnings, the clown shows
off his summersets, the young men are touched with the tender passion,
and the young girls, with their white teeth and sparkling eyes, await
with feigned indifference the proposals of their admirers. The village
_fête_ forms a bright epoch in rustic life, and the gay hours passed at
them are the happiest, the most joyous, and the most enchanting of the
year.
Our ancestors, who knew and more thoroughly understood these matters
than we do, who loved a laugh, the dance, and the merry outpourings of
the heart, endeavoured by every means in their power to multiply them,
and, after having seized upon the name of every saint in paradise, they
managed to appropriate, and always for the same motive, all the various
occupations known in the cultivation of the fields as a good excuse for
holding more of these saturnalia. The season for sowing was one, the
hay-harvest another, the wheat-harvest, the period of felling the oaks
in the forest were excellent opportunities for establishing a new
_fête_, and consequently buying a new coat, singing a carol, drinking to
France, and skipping _des Rigodons_. For, be it said, one really does
amuse oneself in my beautiful country; yes, one amuses oneself, perhaps,
much more than one works; there are more Casinos built than acres
grubbed up, and is not this partly the reason why the land is so badly
tilled and produces only one half of what it should. But what signifies
it, after all, if this half is sufficient for us. England, they say, is
more opulent and better cultivated; be it so,--she is richer, she
manufactures more; but is she happier?
Independently of these _fêtes_, the number of which is infinite, but
which occur only, in each locality, once a year, there exist also those
merry meetings, which, like the Sunday, are understood by the peasantry
as a general holiday. Amongst these, the most animated and attractive,
and more usually marked by happy incidents, is that of the first of May.
At the earliest dawn of day, the tones of the bagpipe may be
distinguished in the distance, coming up the principal street of the
village. He who has heard this rustic sound in the happy days of his
childhood, under the shade of the elms, will always love the unmusical
and melancholy wailing of the bagpipe. The strain has scarcely died away
when all the village is alive, every one is up and dressed in his
best--the children, with enormous nosegays in each little hand, go and
present them to their delighted parents, and wish them "_un doux mois de
Mai_."
Each house, perfumed like a parterre of flowers, opens its doors, and,
during the live long day, it is between friends and acquaintance a
series of happy smiles, and a mutual exchange of nosegays and hearty
shaking of hands. Then in the evening, when the moon has risen in the
west over the fir woods, the young lads and lasses, with their fathers
and mothers, saunter along the streets arm in arm. At short distances,
on the roofs of the houses, are seen, elevated in the air, gigantic
chaplets of flowers, illuminated by large torches of rosin. Within these
chaplets are others of smaller size. A dance, _grand rond_, is formed by
the young lovers that have carried the May to their sweethearts, who,
rising before the dawn, had already gathered the mysterious declaration
of love, perfumed and still covered with the tears of night. In this
large circle is formed another of children, about ten years of age, and
within this again, a third of quite little things; small human garlands
within the greater one. And the bagpipe plays, and all the world dance,
and every one is happy, and the evening breeze shaking the large
chaplets above showers of lilac and hawthorn bloom fall on the dancers
and rustic ballroom beneath.
To these village _fêtes_ must be added, to complete the list of our
popular holidays--the religious festivals, established by the Roman
Catholic church, which, in the eyes of our rural population, are the
most imposing and magnificent ceremonies of the year. These _fêtes_ are
very little known in Protestant countries; a few details, therefore, of
one of them, taken at hazard, may please, or at least offer some point
of interest to the reader.
In the month of June, when the heavens are all azure, when the sun
smiles on us here below, and the summer flowers are all in bloom, the
long-expected _fête_, the _Fête Dieu_, _la fête des Roses_, the feast of
Corpus Christi, one of the most brilliant festivals of the Roman
Catholic church takes place.
Several days before, all the houses appear in a new toilette, decked out
with evergreens and branches of the vine and tamarisk, festoons of which
are suspended from window to window. All the streets of the village are
washed and swept, like a drawing-room. On the preceding evening every
garden is opened, the borders are ravaged, baskets-full of roses,
armfulls of jasmine, bunches of gilly-flowers and sweet-pea fall under a
little army of scissars and white hands. The camellias complain, the
heliotropes murmur, all the tribe of tulips are in low spirits, for each
family gathers in a perfect harvest of flowers--every one remarks to the
other--"To-morrow is the _fête Dieu_, the feast of roses--the favourite
festival of the year." And when aurora, pale with watching, rises in the
cloudless sky, when the cock, herald of the morn, proclaims the birth of
another day, when the first golden ray, traversing space, lights the
eastern casement, behind which many a lovely bosom heaves, with
anticipated conquest and excitement, the bells of the village church
are heard, and at this merry signal every one is up and soon busily
engaged superintending the preparations for the day.
The streets, as if by enchantment, are carpeted with verdure; the pine,
the oak, and the birch, from the neighbouring forest, contribute their
young shoots and leaves; the prickly broom its yellow flowers. The
façades of the houses are hidden under their various hangings, the rich
suspend from their windows their splendid carpets; the poor, sheets as
white as driven snow. All ornament them, here and there, with roses,
pinks, and carnations. Then, at short distances down the principal
street, the young _demoiselles_ of the village erect what are termed
_reposoirs_, a kind of chapel or altar, improvised for the occasion,
which lead to an emulation and an animated rivalry perfectly terrible.
It is whose shall be the largest, best, and most elegantly decorated,
and these young nymphs, usually so reserved and so easily frightened,
become, for this week, as bold and free as so many dragoons. They enter
the house, without being announced, open the drawers, visit the
secretaries, ransack the cupboards. Pirates, with taper fingers, they
put into their baskets and reticules all the valuables they can lay
their hands on. Objects of art they are sure to seize, more especially
if they are made of the precious metals. It is who shall adorn her
_reposoir_ with gold and bronze vases, with enamelled cups, pictures,
and rich crucifixes. Important meetings are held, in some secret spot,
to determine of what form the altar shall be; if the dominating colour
shall be blue, purple, or lilac. Then there is a consultation whether
the drapery, that is to cover this temporary chapel, shall be with or
without a fringe,--a discussion which becomes more entangled with
difficulties than those in the Parliamentary Club of the Rue des
Pyramides, as to the continued existence or demise of our poor
constitution. Silk, satin, and velvet ornament the interior of the
elegant edifice; the most delicate perfumes burn in each of its corners,
and, in order further to embellish the altar on which the Holy Eucharist
is to rest for a few minutes, there is a perfect coquetting with
chaplets, festoons of gauze, crystal lamps of various colours, and
transparencies through which the subdued rays of the sun shed their
softened light.
And, when everything is ready, when the mass has been said, when the
moment has arrived for the procession to move through the streets, the
bells ring a still merrier peal, the great folding-doors of the
principal entrance of the church are thrown open, and emerging from
thence one sees beneath the vaulted arch, first, the great silver
cross, then the banner of the blessed Virgin, carried by a beautiful
young girl, dressed in a robe of spotless white; after her come several
little children with flaxen heads, their hair parted and flowing on
their shoulders, carrying in their hands baskets ornamented with lace,
and full of poppies and corn-flowers; behind them are the children of
the choir, with their silver-chased incense burners; then two deacons,
one carrying on a silver plate the bloom of the vine, the other a head
of corn; then four men supporting a large shield, on which are twelve
loaves and a lamb, symbolical of the day; and lastly, under a canopy
enriched with gold lace and fringe, the old priest, calm and grave, who
carries in his hands the Holy Eucharist, followed by a long line of his
faithful parishioners, with the mammas and young girls two and two,
singing psalms and canticles. In this order they move along the crowded
streets, which are strewn with fennel, green branches, and leaves.
From time to time the whole procession halts before some _reposoir_--the
little girls drop three curtsies before the beautiful altar, and scatter
high in the air handfuls of broken flowers, which shed a delicious
fragrance around; the children of the choir wave their censers to and
fro, the old priest blesses the crowd who kneel before him, and the
smoke of the incense, and the perfume of the roses, ascend towards
heaven as the adorations and prayers of all present ascend to God. This,
the holiest and most imposing _fête_ of our rural districts, is also the
one the most loved. Pity not the peasant, pity not those who are from
necessity obliged to live in these retired spots. They have their
_fêtes_ as well as the rich, happier and much more magnificent, at which
they can be present and form part without paying anything. Nature, too,
source of so many marvels, whether she covers the earth with a robe of
verdure, or fields of golden corn, or that she shelters it under a
mantle of snow, presents to the husbandman some interesting scene. Have
they not also the shade and silence of the forest, the eternal freshness
of the fountains?
It is true the peasants know nothing of Beethoven's symphony in C, they
are not familiar with the melodies of Rossini, Madame Grisi has never in
her terrible finale "_Qual cor tradisti_" made them weep, nor has the
orchestra of Monsieur Jullien made them deaf. But what are these
splendid wonders of the town to them? Have they not a melodious choir of
birds to arouse them each morning from their slumbers? have they not as
scenes, the woods, the bubbling waters, verdant valleys, real sunrises
and sunsets? Can they not, seated on the summit of some hill, round
which the breeze of evening plays, gaze upon the glorious sky above them
spangled with stars, those unfading flowers of Heaven? Say, reader, is
not this hill a charming pit-stall, and much preferable to the narrow
crimson section of the bench at the Opera? These are some of their
enjoyments; then how could they with any degree of pleasure stick
themselves up like logs of wood or trusses of hay before a row of lurid
lamps, to admire some painted men and women mincing up and down the
stage, or peer through two telescopes at forests of painted calico and
moons cut out of pasteboard, or listen to hackneyed airs which have been
sung and resung a hundred times--worn up, in short, like an old rope?
The peasant farmer or yeoman of France, who in the midst of the most
pleasing circumstances, never forgets his own interests, has also found
it desirable for the advancement of his worldly prosperity, to establish
fairs, at which he can sell his hemp and beasts, his wine and his crops;
purchase clothes for his family, and coulters for his ploughs.
These fairs, which are held once in each month in all the towns of
Burgundy and large villages of Le Morvan, attract a great concourse of
people, and as there is much variety in the costumes, head-dresses and
colours, the effect is highly picturesque. The mountaineer brings with
him for sale wild boar and venison, wood and wild fruits of the forest;
the inhabitant of the plain, the thousand productions of the
neighbouring manufactories. Second-rate jewellers arrive with their
boxes full of gold crosses and buckles, holy chaplets blessed at some
favourite shrine, and silver rings.
Book-stalls are also to be seen, kept by Jesuits in disguise, the
shelves of which are loaded with inferior literature, with a perfect
deluge of breviaries, almanacks, abridgments of the Lives of the Saints,
with "Letters fallen from Heaven," in which, "Ladies and gentlemen,"
shouts the proprietor, "you will read the details, truthful and
historical, of the last miracle at Rimini; also a new and marvellous
account, equally authentic, of several pictures of Christ that have shed
tears of blood. Buy, ladies and gentlemen, buy the history of these
astonishing miracles--only a penny, ladies, for which you will have into
the bargain the invaluable signature of our Holy Father the Pope, and
the benediction of our Lord the Bishop."
But ought one to be surprised at such announcements, at such a traffic,
or that in these so-called enlightened days, not only auditors but
purchasers should be found?--that there should, in fact, be a sale for
these printed mystifications, when officers of the government and
officers of the armed force, attest on their honour the truth of these
impudent impositions upon the credulity of mankind, affirm the accuracy
and _bonâ fide_ character of these winking, blinking, blasphemous,
lachrymal representations?
Yes--a sub-prefect, a mayor, and an officer of the _gendarmerie_, have
signed a document stating that they had seen a picture of Christ
shedding tears of blood!
When archbishops order public prayers and thanksgivings for the renewal
of these pasquinades, this ridiculous mockery, can one be astonished, I
say, at the state of religious ignorance and blindness of our peasantry?
Such, with a few wretched prints representing Napoleon passing the Alps
seated on an eagle; Poniatowsky and his white horse attempting to cross
the Oder; Cambronne, with imperial moustachios, on his knees repeating
the celebrated _mot_ which he never said: "_La garde meurt et ne se rend
pas_," &c.,--such, I am grieved to confess, is the miserable
intellectual food, the wretched mental and moral stock of human and
religious knowledge that supplies the literary and artistic wants of
the greater portion of the peasants of our departments.
At these fairs all the farm servants are engaged; those who wish to try
a change of masters, or hire themselves merely for the harvest, assemble
in the open space near the church, and then offer to those who require
them, their brawny arms, and their farming acquirements. The most
celebrated of these fairs is that held on the First of September, to
which whole hamlets send all their able-bodied men and women, who hire
themselves to the great proprietors for the _vendange_--for this in
Burgundy and Le Morvan is the great work, the chief event of the year;
it is on the _vendange_ that depend the commerce, the tranquillity and
happiness of the country.
Monsieur B.... is ruined if the sun is obscured by clouds. Monsieur
D.... who has cunningly laid his hands upon all the barrels within
thirty miles round, will put a pistol to his head if he cannot sell his
army of hogsheads. This one relies upon his vineyard for paying his
debts--another cannot marry unless he makes three hundred tierces of
wine. Eight out of twelve, in short, reckon upon the produce of their
vines to buy a new carriage or to be saved from prison; and the agonised
mariners of the wrecked _Medusa_ never cast their eyes with more
intense anxiety towards the horizon than do these proprietors of our
vineyards every morning before the vintage.
If it looks like rain no sunflower is more yellow than their
countenances; if the cold is unusual every face is pale, and should a
frost appear imminent, those whose affairs are the most compromised,
pack up their effects and make ready for a start. But on the other hand,
if the sky is serene and the wind warm, husbands are actually seen
embracing their wives, and promising them any toilette they may fancy.
Should the heat become Bengalic and insupportable oh! then all Burgundy
is dancing and running to the vineyards,--all the Morvinians fly to the
hills to enjoy the cool breezes and admire the luxuriant panorama
beneath and around them.
But for some months previous to the _vendange_, no one but a proprietor
has the right to enter a vineyard; at this period a perfect calm and
silence reigns, and they become an asylum, a veritable land of Goshen,
an oasis for all the partridges, hares, and rabbits of the
neighbourhood. In order to prevent gentlemen and professional poachers
from cruising in these delightful latitudes, killing the game and
injuring the vines, a number of _gardes champêtres_, generally old
soldiers, are chosen, who armed with an old sabre, post themselves on
some height which commands the vineyard, ready to lay violent hands on
any delinquent that may make his appearance. But in spite of the _garde
champêtre_, his long sabre, their interminable cut and thrust, and his
eternal _de par la loi, arretez!_ there is a sport in the early morning,
called _à la traulée_, which is not without its charms.
The vineyards of Burgundy are for the most part divided into sections,
that is to say, at from two to three hundred paces the contiguity of the
vines is interrupted, and a small road, which serves during the
_vendange_ to facilitate the communication and transport of the grapes,
is cut in the vineyard. At daylight, therefore, before the sun is above
the horizon, or the white fog hanging in the valleys has been dispersed
by his rays, and the fashionable gentleman of the town is on the point
of going to bed, the sportsman, always keen and on the alert, arrives,
walks slowly and carefully along the roads I have just mentioned,
looking cautiously right and left, and between the intervals of the
vines on either side of him.
The rabbits hopping under the leaves, the covey of partridges bathing
amidst the dew, the hares gravely discussing among themselves the
respective merits of the heath and wild thyme, are thus surprised in
their matutinal occupations, and become the prey of the delighted
sportsman. But the moment approaches when the comparative calm and
protection which the poor animals enjoy will cease--their days of fun
and festival are numbered; their enemies up to this period have been
few--the rich proprietors, the privileged, but now the masses are
preparing, they are cleaning up their clumsy blunderbusses, and
to-morrow "the million" will take the field and assail and pop at them
from every road and pathway--for the mayor, after due consultation with
the principal personages in the village, has sent his drummer, his
Mercury, his crier, to beat a tattoo in all the public places, and
crossways, and announce in front of the _cabarets_ that the grapes being
ripe the _vendange_ is opened.
The following day, when the last star in the heavens is disappearing,
when the doors of morning are scarcely opened, every road is covered
with long lines of waggons drawn by oxen, and a cavalcade of horses and
mules, and great asses carrying panniers may be seen galloping along in
all directions. Voices, shouts, squeaking wheels, and neighing horses
are also heard on every side, and parties of _vendangeurs_ and
_vendangeuses_, arm in arm, with baskets on their backs, and grape
knives in their belts, their broad-brimmed hats encircled with ribbons
and flowers, are seen marching along, singing many a Bacchanalian chorus
in honour of the occasion. They are on their way to the vineyards, and
like so many fauns and Bacchantes, only well draped, are with joyous
hearts ready to gather in the harvest of the ruby grape.
In advance of this delighted and merry crowd, and always like the lark,
the first on the wing, the sportsman is already at his post,--for the
first day of the _vendange_ is, as Navarre used to say, a day of powder,
the _fête du fusil_. And now is formed a line of sometimes three hundred
_vendangeurs_ and _vendangeuses_ who starting at the same moment, ascend
the hill-side cutting the grapes, filling and emptying their baskets.
The young men strike up some jovial song in praise of wine, the girls
reply; and before this soul-stirring chorus, this burst of gay and
animated feeling, the game, astounded at the concert, break and retire
before them. Then is the moment for the sportsman, who, concealed in a
large thicket and comfortably seated at the summit of the hill, listens
and laughs in his sleeve as he hears the affrighted partridge call, and
the timid hare rushing through the vines towards him; they approach, are
within range of his gun, and ere long the shot-bag is emptied, and the
sportsman is in that rare but agreeable dilemma of not knowing what to
do with his game or his gun.
In a wine country the _vendange_ is certainly the most exciting and
merriest season of the year--it is a succession of delightful _fêtes_ in
the open air, of repasts amongst the vines and under the shade of the
peach-trees, riding-parties in the forest, whose echoes are awakened by
the melancholy notes of the horn, water-parties on the lakes, dances in
the field and round the wine-press, &c.
Every _château_ is full to overflowing in Le Morvan during the month of
August,--bands of Parisians, Picards, and Normans, acquaintances
scarcely made, friends, friends'-friends, with their wives, children,
dogs, nurses, and luggage arrive each hour and by every road. Every
family is invaded, beds are doubled, plates are not to be found,--there
is only one glass for two, one knife for three; the servants, stupified
and astonished, know not how to reply or which way to turn themselves;
the cooks, half-roasted and lost amidst an army of sauce-pans, know not
what they are doing; they put mustard into the _méringues_, cruets of
vinegar in the soup--every one is on the laugh, except however the heads
of families, who rendered almost crazy by this tide of human beings
always rising, by the bell of the _porte cochère_ always ringing, pass
on from one to the other the new arrivals, with a note as follows:
"Mons. de G.... presents his compliments to Mons. de V...., and has the
honour to inform him that not possessing in his house one bed or one
arm-chair that is not occupied, he has the pleasure of sending him two
Normans and three Parisians."
P.S. "The two Normans are first-rate waltzers, the Parisians perfect
singers." The reply will perhaps be couched in the following strain:
"Mons. de V.... presents his compliments to Mons. de G...., and has the
honour to inform him that being himself under the necessity of sleeping
in his cellar, he cannot, though most anxious to oblige him, receive the
two Norman dancers and the three Parisian warblers." Thus it sometimes
happens that very charming, elegant, and sensitive gentlemen, who under
ordinary circumstances would be very difficult to please, are obliged
to sleep in a barn or loft, on a very nice bed of clean straw, with a
dark lantern to light them there, and the luxury of a truss of hay for a
pillow.
The peasants, generally speaking, do not witness the arrival of these
visitors with much pleasure,--the dandies more especially, who shod in
varnished leather, always over-dressed, musked, and starched, attract,
so they think, too much the attention of the young girls. Fathers,
mothers, and, above all, lovers, are at once on the look out. They
mistrust these fine gentlemen, whom they always designate by the
appellation of "gilded serpents."
My friends from other departments often remarked the looks of aversion
with which the natives sometimes met them; and not comprehending the
reason, have asked me for an explanation. Do you observe, I said, that
little white house, half-hidden yonder in the poplars--there, on the
banks of the Cure? That house, a few years ago, was the abiding-place of
a happy and honest family,--a father, and his three daughters.
The father, who in his youth was in very good circumstances, was ruined
by bad harvests, an epidemic disease in his cattle, and by other
disasters that cause the downfall of many farmers. Nevertheless, and
though his losses were great, he lived happy and even contented with his
children, who, all three of irreproachable conduct and character, and
excellent needlewomen, did their utmost to ameliorate his position. They
made dresses for the ladies in the town, worked by the day, and
sometimes, when they found their earnings during the summer months fall
short of what they thought sufficient to meet the expenses of the coming
winter, they hired themselves to some proprietor during the period of
the _vendange_.
The youngest of the three,--Herminie, she might be about sixteen,--was a
charming girl, a true child of Nature, fresh as a wild flower, awaking
and rising every day of the year from her peaceful happy couch with the
birds of heaven, always smiling and singing. Herminie was the joy, the
favourite of the old man,--she was the linnet, the darling, and the life
of the house. One autumnal day, (the period at which, as I have before
remarked, our province abounds with strangers,) her figure attracted the
attention of one of those cursed beings, with a false heart and lying
lips, that the great cities send into our rural districts, carrying with
them desolation and mourning. I know not in what manner it occurred,
what falsehoods, what arts he used, or what traps he laid,--but he
succeeded too well in his base purpose. The poor girl was deceived.
Easily convinced,--she was too pure, too young to doubt; and her mother,
who would have been there to watch over her, was alas! sleeping in the
very churchyard in which, in the shade of the evening, she first met her
seducer. Enough,--the heartless man of the world obtained the love of
the poor and simple Herminie,--and his whim, his heartless selfish whim
gratified,--he disappeared.
The fault, the fault of confiding woman, soon became public. Abandoned
and betrayed, the poor girl sought death as a refuge in her distress,
and threw herself into the river; but her father, who watched every
action of his daughter, was near, and saved her. A man of unusual
intelligence, and an excellent heart, his maledictions fell entirely
upon the head of him who had wronged her; for his child he had only
tears and consolation. Herminie became a mother; her sisters and friends
were earnest and devoted in their attentions, and anticipated her every
thought; but broken-hearted, she bent her head like some beautiful lily,
which has at the parent root some corroding worm. Her gaiety fled, her
songs ceased; pale and silent, she might be seen standing on some rock,
listening to the howling of the storm, or, her little boy on her lap,
seated for hours at her father's cottage door, picking some faded rose
to pieces leaf by leaf, and looking vacantly on the fragments as they
lay at her feet.
But at the bottom of her cup of grief was still one more bitter
drop,--oh! how much more bitter than the rest! Her child, as if
inheriting the melancholy of its mother, ceased to prattle, to smile; it
did not thrive, it sickened; and in spite of all her care and watchings,
of whole nights passed in prayers to the Virgin, to her patron Saint,
and God, in spite of many an hour of repentant and sorrowing tears,--it
died! Bowed to the earth by this fresh, this overwhelming misfortune,
Herminie complained not, but she became more pale: she was sometimes
found plunged in silent but profound grief, looking towards heaven as if
seeking there the little precious being the Almighty had taken from her;
as if she was anxious to follow,--to be at rest, united with her baby
boy again.
The _vendange_ returned once more; but the perfumed gentleman, the
villain from the capital, came not again. Herminie was desirous of
assisting in the labours of the season. "I am," said she, "strong
enough;" and though her sisters endeavoured to dissuade her, she
persisted in accompanying them to the vineyard, but there she found her
strength was unequal to the task, a smile to one, and a kind answer to
another, was all that she could give,--nevertheless it was remarked,
during the course of the day that she spoke several times out loud, as
if conversing with some invisible being. Evening arrived, and the
waggons carried off their ripe and luscious loads, leaving the young men
and girls racing up and down the pathways, and amongst the vines,
endeavouring to smear each other's faces with the purple fruit.
Behind these laughing groups came Herminie, the expression of her dark
blue eye floating in space, and, like the flight of the swallow, resting
on nothing. Onward she slowly stepped, idly pushing before her the first
faded leaves of autumn, withered by the hoar frost; and, instead of the
intoxicating grape, she carried in her hand a _bouquet_ of the arbutus
and the _alize_, fruits without perfume, like her own heart, now without
hope or love. Night came: every eye weary with toil was closed,--the
chimes alone telling the hours of the night vibrated on the air. Towards
morning a startling cry of horror was heard from a cottage on the banks
of the Cure--Herminie was dead! that is to say, her face was paler than
usual in her sleep; but she awoke no more! I shall ever remember that
beautiful face, for I had never till then contemplated the countenance
of one whose spirit had taken its way to that country from which no
traveller returns.
A few days, and the withered rose-leaves which the poor girl had pulled
at the cottage door were scattered by the wind; a few more, and the poor
old father followed his favourite child; and his surviving daughters,
half-crazed with grief and sorrow, left the neighbourhood. As to him who
was the original cause of this domestic tragedy,--rich, happy, perhaps a
deputy and making laws himself,--he lives, and is probably respected. We
call ourselves a civilized people; we throw into prison a man who
strikes another,--and we do not punish, we do not cast from society, we
do not even reproach the base hypocrite, who, with a smile on his lips,
and for the infamous gratification of his bad, ungovernable, selfish
passions, becomes the murderer of a whole family. Bad and rotten are the
laws which permit such infamous practices. Unworthy of trust are the
legislators who dream not--who never think of preventing these impure
and festering diseases of our social system. My friends, who had
listened attentively to the sad tale, turned from me to inspect more
closely the white cottage by the Cure, and no longer expressed any
astonishment at the severe countenances of the peasants.
But how does it happen, will the reader say, that so delightful a
province of France as that of Le Morvan should have remained for
nineteen centuries unknown to England,--that nation of travellers who
are to be found in every corner of the globe inhabitable and
uninhabitable? How is it that such a pearl,--a sporting country
too,--should have remained buried for so long a period as it were under
the dark mantle of indifference? And is it to be credited that in a
district in which are to be found simultaneously wolves and health, wild
boar and simplicity, the best wines in the world, and all the
theological virtues, should have remained up to this day hidden--lost in
the deep shadows of its woods and the solitude of its mountains?
In the first place, then, I must remind you that in order to reach Le
Morvan it is not necessary to traverse either the Indian Archipelago or
the Cordilleras, or black or ferocious populations. Those who have by
accident passed through it, have not been induced by its appearance to
inscribe its name in their note-books. But Le Morvan is close at hand;
Le Morvan, so to speak, touches England,--a sufficient reason, as every
one knows, for taking no interest in it.
Every year caravans of tourists leave for Italy and the East; they go to
gaze upon the remains of what was once the palace of the famous Zenobia,
Queen of Palmyra, or to kill the lizards on the steps of the mouldering
Coliseum; one invites the scorpions of Greece to bite his leg; another
seeks the yellow fever in the Brazils; a third prefers being robbed in
Calabria, or dying of thirst in the Deserts of Lybia;--the more distant
and perilous the journey, the greater the pleasure of accomplishing it.
Such is English taste.
Yet Le Morvan is a charming and picturesque country--a lovely region,
clad with verdure, flowers, and forest-trees, and watered by fresh,
sparkling, and silvery streams, which every one can reach without
fatigue, much expense, and without the slightest chance of danger, but
perhaps, as I have before said, its proximity is its misfortune.
Should any one after perusing this volume desire to visit Le Morvan, he
should be aware that to do so with any degree of pleasure or profit it
is absolutely necessary to speak French fluently,--for half our
peasants are not in the least aware the earth is round, and that on it
there are other nations besides their own. To see its thousand beauties,
to fish its rivers and enter into its delightful, exciting and perilous
sports, to plunge without hesitation into the depths of its forests, the
traveller should also be accompanied by an experienced guide, and
piloted by a friendly hand.
Le Morvan, unknown to all to-day, would come forth quickly from the
shell of obscurity in which it lies concealed, if some man of rank in
England, led thither by hazard or caprice, were to spend a few weeks
amidst its glades and vineyards, its mountains and its streams.
What was Cannes twenty years since? who ever mentioned it in England,
who knew its beauties? Nobody. Lord Brougham passes there, stops,
selects a hill, crowns its top with a white _château_, scatters the gold
from his purse, and sheds over the little town the lustre of the renown
won by his versatile genius--Cannes immediately becomes the
vogue--Cannes is charming, magnificent! Cannes, certainly, with her
fields of jasmine and roses, her groves of orange-trees, her burning
sun, blue skies and sea, and her warm pine-woods, is a delightful
spot;--but Cannes is also a place of languor and sloth, a lavender-water
country. If you have the gout, if you are old and rich, if you have
delicate lungs, go to Cannes, your life will be agreeable but
enervating.
But Le Morvan is certainly not a country for a _petit-mâitre_ or a
delicate lady to live in; to enjoy yourself there you must have the fire
and energy of youth in your veins, a stout heart, the lungs of a
mountaineer, and a sinewy frame. You must love a forester's life, the
hound and the rifle; you must be a Gordon Cumming in a small way. To the
English invalid, I would recommend the ex-Chancellor's retreat; but to
him who in the full sense of the term is a sporting man, or a lover of
nature, I would say: Go--explore Le Morvan!
LIFE OF BEAU BRUMMELL.
A FEW COPIES OF THIS WORK ARE STILL ON HAND.
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A NEW AND VERY EASY METHOD
OF ASCERTAINING
THE GENDER OF FRENCH NOUNS,
Translated from the Manuscript in French
OF THE
LATE MONS. FOUCAULT,
MEMBER OF THE INSTITUTE OF FRANCE,
BY
CAPTAIN JESSE,
AUTHOR OF "NOTES OF A HALFPAY;" "LIFE OF BRUMMELL;"
"MURRAY'S HAND-BOOK FOR RUSSIA," ETC., ETC.