We had a very cold winter one year--a great deal of snow, which froze
as it fell and lay a long time on the hard ground. We woke up one
morning in a perfectly still white world. It had snowed heavily during
the night, and the house was surrounded by a glistening white carpet
which stretched away to the "sapinette" at the top of the lawn without
a speck or flaw. There was no trace of path or road, or little low
shrubs, and even the branches of the big lime-trees were heavy with
snow. It was a bright, beautiful day--blue sky and a not too pale
winter sun. Not a vehicle of any kind had ventured out. In the middle
of the road were footprints deep in the snow where evidently the
keepers and some workmen had passed. Nothing and no one had arrived
from outside, neither postman, butcher, nor baker. The chef was in a
wild state; but I assured him we could get on with eggs and game, of
which there was always a provision for one day at any rate.
About eleven, Pauline and I started out. We thought we would go as far
as the lodge and see what was going on on the highroad. We put on
thick boots, gaiters and very short skirts, and had imagined we could
walk in the footsteps of the keepers; but, of course, we couldn't take
their long stride, and we floundered about in the snow. In some places
where it had drifted we went in over our knees.
There was nothing visible on the road--not a creature, absolute
stillness; a line of footprints in the middle where some labourer had
passed, and the long stretch of white fields, broken by lines of black
poplars running straight away to the forest.
While we were standing at the gate talking to old Antoine, who was all
muffled up with a woollen comforter tied over his cap, and socks over
his shoes, we saw a small moving object in the distance. As it came
nearer we made out it was the postman, also so muffled up as to be
hardly recognizable. He too had woollen socks over his shoes, and said
the going was something awful, the "Montagne de Marolles" a sheet of
ice; he had fallen twice, in spite of his socks and pointed stick. He
said neither butcher nor baker would come--that no horse could get up
the hill.
We sent him into the kitchen to thaw, and have his breakfast. That was
one also of the traditions of the château; the postman always
breakfasted. On Sundays, when there was no second delivery, he brought
his little girl and an accordion, and remained all the afternoon. He
often got a lift back to La Ferté, when the carriage was going in to
the station, or the chef to market in the donkey-cart. _Now_ many of
the postmen have bicycles.
We had a curious feeling of being quite cut off from the outside
world. The children, Francis and Alice, were having a fine time in the
stable-yard, where the men had made them two snow figures--man and
woman (giants)--and they were pelting them with snowballs and tumbling
headlong into the heaps of snow on each side of the gate, where a
passage had been cleared for the horses.
We thought it would be a good opportunity to do a little coasting and
inaugurate a sled we had had made with great difficulty the year
before. It was rather a long operation. The wheelwright at Marolles
had never seen anything of the kind, had no idea _what_ we wanted.
Fortunately Francis had a little sled which one of his cousins had
sent him from America; and with that as a model, and many
explanations, the wheelwright and the blacksmith produced really a
very creditable sled--quite large, a seat for two in front, and one
behind for the person who steered. Only when the sled was finished the
snow had disappeared! It rarely lasts long in France.
We had the sled brought out--the runners needed a little
repairing--and the next day made our first attempt. There was not much
danger of meeting anything. A sort of passage had been cleared, and
gravel sprinkled in the middle of the road; but very few vehicles had
passed, and the snow was as hard as ice. All the establishment
"assisted" at the first trial, and the stable-boy accompanied us with
the donkey who was to pull the sled up the hill.
We had some little difficulty in starting, Pauline and I in front,
Francis behind; but as soon as we got fairly on the slope the thing
flew. Pauline was frightened to death, screaming, and wanted to get
off; but I held her tight, and we landed in the ditch near the foot of
the hill. Half-way down (the hill is steep but straight, one sees a
great distance) Francis saw the diligence arriving; and as he was not
quite sure of his steering-gear, he thought it was better to take no
risks, and steered us straight into the ditch as hard as we could go.
The sled upset; we all rolled off into the deep soft snow, lost our
hats, and emerged quite white from head to foot.
The diligence had stopped at the foot of the hill. There were only two
men in it besides the driver, the old Père Jacques, who was
dumbfounded when he recognized Madame Waddington. It seems they
couldn't think what had happened. As they got to the foot of the hill,
they saw a good many people at the gate of the château; then suddenly
something detached itself from the group and rushed wildly down the
hill. They thought it was an accident, some part of a carriage broken,
and before they had time to collect their senses the whole thing
collapsed in the ditch. The poor old man was quite disturbed--couldn't
think we were not hurt, and begged us to get into the diligence and
not trust ourselves again to such a dangerous vehicle. However we
reassured him, and all walked up the hill together, the donkey pulling
the sled, which was tied to him with a very primitive arrangement of
ropes, the sled constantly swinging round and hitting him on the legs,
which he naturally resented and kicked viciously.
We amused ourselves very much as long as the snow lasted, about ten
days--coasted often, and made excursions to the neighbouring villages
with the sled and the donkey. We wanted to skate, but that was not
easy to arrange, as the ponds and "tourbières" near us were very deep,
and I was afraid to venture with the children. I told Hubert, the
coachman, who knew the country well, to see what he could find. He
said there was a very good pond in the park of the château of La
Ferté, and he was sure the proprietor, an old man who lived there by
himself, would be quite pleased to let us come there.
The old gentleman was most amiable--begged we would come as often as
we liked--merely making one condition, that we should have a man on
the bank (the pond was only about a foot deep) with a rope in case of
accidents.... We went there nearly every afternoon, and made quite a
comfortable "installation" on the bank: a fire, rugs, chairs and a
very good little goûter, the grocer's daughter bringing us hot wine
and biscuits from the town.
It was a perfect sight for La Ferté. The whole town came to look at
us, and the carters stopped their teams on the road to look on--one
day particularly when one of our cousins, Maurice de Bunsen,[3] was
staying with us. He skated beautifully, doing all sorts of figures,
and his double eights and initials astounded the simple country folk.
For some time after they spoke of "l'Anglais" who did such wonderful
things on the ice.
[3] To-day British Embassador at Madrid.
They were bad days for the poor. We used to meet all the children
coming back from school when we went home. The poor little things
toiled up the steep, slippery hill, with often a cold wind that must
have gone through the thin worn-out jackets and shawls they had for
all covering, carrying their satchels and remnants of dinner. Those
that came from a distance always brought their dinner with them,
generally a good hunk of bread and a piece of chocolate, the poorer
ones bread alone, very often only a stale hard crust that couldn't
have been very nourishing. They were a very poor lot at our little
village, St. Quentin, and we did all we could in the way of warm
stockings and garments; but the pale, pinched faces rather haunted me,
and Henrietta and I thought we would try and arrange with the school
mistress who was wife of one of the keepers, to give them a hot plate
of soup every day during the winter months. W., who knew his people
well, rather discouraged us--said they all had a certain sort of
pride, notwithstanding their poverty, and might perhaps be offended at
being treated like tramps or beggars; but we could try if we liked.
We got a big kettle at La Ferté, and the good Mère Cécile of the Asile
lent us the tin bowls, also telling us we wouldn't be able to carry
out our plan. She had tried at the Asile, but it didn't go; the
children didn't care about the soup--liked the bread and chocolate
better. It was really a curious experience. I am still astonished when
I think of it. The soup was made at the head-keeper's cottage,
standing on the edge of the woods.
We went over the first day about eleven o'clock--a cold, clear day, a
biting wind blowing down the valley. The children were all assembled,
waiting impatiently for us to come. The soup was smoking in a big pot
hung high over the fire. We, of course, tasted it, borrowing two bowls
from the children and asking Madame Labbey to cut us two pieces of
bread, the children all giggling and rather shy. The soup was very
good, and we were quite pleased to think that the poor little things
should have something warm in their stomachs. The first depressing
remark was made by our own coachman on the way home. His little
daughter was living at the keeper's. I said to him, "I did not see
Celine with the other children." "Oh, no, Madame; she wasn't there. We
pay for the food at Labbey's; she doesn't need charity."
The next day, equally cold, about half the children came (there were
only twenty-seven in the school); the third, five or six, rather
shamefaced; the fourth, not one; and at the end of the week the
keeper's wife begged us to stop the distribution; all the parents were
hurt at the idea of their children receiving _public_ charity from
Madame Waddington. She had thought some of the very old people of the
village might like what was left; but no one came except some tramps
and rough-looking men who had heard there was food to be had, and they
made her very nervous prowling around the house when she was alone,
her husband away all day in the woods.
W. was amused--not at all surprised--said he was quite sure we
shouldn't succeed, but it was just as well to make our own experience.
We took our bowls back sadly to the Asile, where the good sister shook
her head, saying, "Madame verra comme c'est difficile de faire du bien
dans ce paysci; on ne pense qu'à s'amuser." And yet we saw the
miserable little crusts of hard bread, and some of the boys in linen
jackets over their skin, no shirt, and looking as if they had never
had a good square meal in their lives.
I had one other curious experience, and after that I gave up trying
anything that was a novelty or that they hadn't seen all their lives.
The French peasant is really conservative; and if left to himself,
with no cheap political papers or socialist orators haranguing in the
cafes on the eternal topic of the rich and the poor, he would be quite
content to go on leading the life he and his fathers have always
led--would never want to destroy or change anything.
I was staying one year with Lady Derby at Knowsley, in Christmas week,
and I was present one afternoon when she was making her annual
distribution of clothes to the village children. I was much pleased
with some ulsters and some red cloaks she had for the girls. They were
so pleased, too--broad smiles on their faces when they were called up
and the cloaks put on their shoulders. They looked so warm and
comfortable, when the little band trudged home across the snow. I had
instantly visions of my school children attired in these cloaks,
climbing our steep hills in the dark winter days.
I had a long consultation with Lady Margaret Cecil, Lady Derby's
daughter--a perfect saint, who spent all her life helping other
people--and she gave me the catalogue of "Price Jones," a well-known
Welsh shop whose "spécialité" was all sorts of clothes for country
people, schools, workmen's families, etc. I ordered a large collection
of red cloaks, ulsters, and flannel shirts at a very reasonable price,
and they promised to send them in the late summer, so that we should
find them when we went back to France.
We found two large cases when we got home, and were quite pleased at
all the nice warm cloaks we had in store for the winter.
As soon as the first real cold days began, about the end of November,
the women used to appear at the château asking for warm clothes for
the children. The first one to come was the wife of the "garde de
Borny"--a slight, pale woman, the mother of nine small children
(several of them were members of the school at St. Quentin, who had
declined our soup, and I rather had _their_ little pinched, bloodless
faces in my mind when I first thought about it). She had three with
her--a baby in her arms, a boy and a girl of six and seven, both
bare-legged, the boy in an old worn-out jersey pulled over his chest,
the girl in a ragged blue and white apron, a knitted shawl over her
head and shoulders. The baby had a cloak. I don't believe there was
much on underneath, and the mother was literally a bundle of rags, her
skirt so patched one could hardly make out the original colour, and a
wonderful cloak all frayed at the ends and with holes in every
direction. However, they were all clean.
The baby and the boy were soon provided for. The boy was much pleased
with his flannel shirt. Then we produced the red cloak for the girl.
The woman's face fell: "Oh, no, Madame, I couldn't take that; my
little girl couldn't wear it." I, astounded: "But you don't see what
it is--a good, thick cloak that will cover her all up and keep her
warm." "Oh, no, Madame, she couldn't wear that; all the people on the
road would laugh at her! Cela ne se porte pas dans notre pays" (that
is not worn in our country).
I explained that I had several, and that she would see all the other
little girls with the same cloaks; but I got only the same answer,
adding that Madame would see--no child would wear such a cloak. I was
much disgusted--thought the woman was capricious; but she was
perfectly right; not a single mother, and Heaven knows they were poor
enough, would take a red cloak, and they all had to be transformed
into red flannel petticoats. Every woman made me the same answer:
"Every one on the road would laugh at them."
I was not much luckier with the ulsters. What I had ordered for big
girls of nine and ten would just go on girls of six and seven. Either
French children are much stouter than English, or they wear thicker
things underneath. Here again there was work to do--all the sleeves
were much too long; my maids had to alter and shorten them, which they
did with rather a bad grace.
A most interesting operation that very cold year was taking ice out of
the big pond at the foot of the hill. The ice was several inches
thick, and beautifully clear in the middle of the pond; toward the
edges the reeds and long grass had all got frozen into it, and it was
rather difficult to get the big blocks out. We had one of the farm
carts with a pair of strong horses, and three or four men with axes
and a long pointed stick. It was so solid that we all stood on the
pond while the men were cutting their first square hole in the middle.
It was funny to see the fish swimming about under the ice.
The whole village of course looked on, and the children were much
excited, and wanted to come and slide on the ice, but I got nervous as
the hole got bigger and the ice at the edges thinner, so we all
adjourned to the road and watched operations from there.
There were plenty of fish in the pond, and once a year it was
thoroughly drained and cleaned--the water drawn off, and the bottom of
the pond, which got choked up with mud and weeds, cleared out. They
made a fine haul of fish on those occasions from the small pools that
were left on each side while the cleaning was going on.
Our ice-house was a godsend to all the countryside. Whenever any one
was ill, and ice was wanted, they always came to the château. Our good
old doctor was not at all in the movement as regarded fresh air and
cold water, but ice he often wanted. He was a rough, kindly old man,
quite the type of the country practitioner--a type that is also
disappearing, like everything else. Everybody knew his cabriolet (with
a box at the back where he kept his medicine chest and instruments),
with a strong brown horse that trotted all day and all night up and
down the steep hills in all weathers. A very small boy was always with
him to hold the horse while he made his visits.
Our doctor was very kind to the poor, and never refused to go out at
night. It was funny to see him arrive on a cold day, enveloped in so
many cloaks and woollen comforters that it took him some time to get
out of his wraps. He had a gruff voice, and heavy black overhanging
eyebrows which frightened people at first, but they soon found out
what a kind heart there was beneath such a rough exterior, and the
children loved him. He had always a box of liquorice lozenges in his
waistcoat pocket which he distributed freely to the small ones.
The country doctors about us now are a very different type--much
younger men, many foreigners. There are two Russians and a Greek in
some of the small villages near us. I believe they are very good. I
met the Greek one day at the keeper's cottage. He was looking after
the keeper's wife, who was very ill. It seemed funny to see a Greek,
with one of those long Greek names ending in "popolo," in a poor
little French village almost lost in the woods; but he made a very
good impression on me--was very quiet, didn't give too much medicine
(apothecaries' bills are always such a terror to the poor), and spoke
kindly to the woman. He comes still in a cabriolet, but his Russian
colleague has an automobile--indeed so have now many of the young
French doctors. I think there is a little rivalry between the
Frenchmen and the foreigners, but the latter certainly make their way.
What is very serious now is the open warfare between the curé and the
school-master. When I first married, the school-masters and mistresses
took their children to church, always sat with them and kept them in
order. The school-mistress sometimes played the organ. Now they not
only don't go to church themselves, but they try to prevent the
children from going. The result is that half the children don't go
either to the church or to the catechism.
I had a really annoying instance of this state of things one year when
we wanted to make a Christmas tree and distribution of warm clothes at
Montigny, a lonely little village not far from us. We talked it over
with the curé and the school-master. They gave us the names and ages
of all the children, and were both much pleased to have a fête in
their quiet little corner. I didn't suggest a service in the church,
as I thought that might perhaps be a difficulty for the school-master.
Two days before the fête I had a visit from the curé of Montigny, who
looked embarrassed and awkward; had evidently something on his mind,
and finally blurted out that he was very sorry he couldn't be present
at the Christmas tree, as he was obliged to go to Reims that day. I,
much surprised and decidedly put out: "You are going to Reims the one
day in the year when we come and make a fête in your village? It is
most extraordinary, and surprises me extremely. The date has been
fixed for weeks, and I hold very much to your being there."
He still persisted, looking very miserable and uncomfortable, and
finally said he was going away on purpose, so as not to be at the
school-house. He liked the school-master very much, got on with him
perfectly; he was intelligent and taught the children very well; but
all school-masters who had anything to do with the Church or the curé
were "malnotés." The mayor of Montigny was a violent radical; and
surely if he heard that the curé was present at our fête in the
school-house, the school-master would be dismissed the next day. The
man was over thirty, with wife and children; it would be difficult for
him to find any other employment; and he himself would regret him, as
his successor might be much worse and fill the children's heads with
impossible ideas.
I was really very much vexed, and told him I would talk it over with
my son and see what we could do. The poor little curé was much
disappointed, but begged me not to insist upon his presence.
A little later the school-master arrived, also very much embarrassed,
saying practically the same thing--that he liked the curé very much.
He never talked politics, nor interfered in any way with his
parishioners. Whenever any one was ill or in trouble, he was always
the first person to come forward and nurse and help. But he saw him
very little. If I held to the curé being present at the Christmas
tree, of course he could say nothing; but he would certainly be
dismissed the next day. He was married--had nothing but his salary; it
would be a terrible blow to him.
I was very much perplexed, particularly as the time was short and I
couldn't get hold of the mayor. So we called a family council--Henrietta
and Francis were both at home--and decided that we must let our fête
take place without the curé. The school-master was very grateful, and
said he would take my letter to the post-office. I had to write to the
curé to tell him what we had decided, and that he might go to Reims.
One of our great amusements in the winter was the hunting. We knew
very well the two gentlemen, Comtes de B. and de L., who hunted the
Villers-Cotterets forest, and often rode with them. It was beautiful
riding country--stretches of grass alongside the hard highroad, where
one could have a capital canter, the only difficulty being the
quantity of broad, low ditches made for the water to run off. Once the
horses knew them they took them quite easily in their stride, but they
were a little awkward to manage at first. The riding was very
different from the Roman Campagna, which was my only experience. There
was very little to jump; long straight alleys, with sometimes a big
tree across the road, occasionally ditches; nothing like the very
stiff fences and stone walls one meets in the Campagna, or the
slippery bits of earth (tufa) where the horses used to slide sometimes
in the most uncomfortable way. One could gallop for miles in the
Villers-Cotterets forest with a loose rein. It was disagreeable
sometimes when we left the broad alleys and took little paths in and
out of the trees. When the wood was thick and the branches low, I was
always afraid one would knock me off the saddle or come into my eyes.
Some of the meets were most picturesque; sometimes in the heart of the
forest at a great carrefour, alleys stretching off in every direction,
hemmed in by long straight lines of winter trees on each side, with a
thick, high undergrowth of ferns, and a broad-leaved plant I didn't
know, which remained green almost all winter. It was pretty to see the
people arriving from all sides, in every description of
vehicle--breaks, dog-carts, victorias, farmer's gigs--grooms with led
horses, hunting men in green or red coats, making warm bits of colour
in the rather severe landscape. The pack of hounds, white with brown
spots, big, powerful animals, gave the valets de chiens plenty to do.
Apparently they knew all their names, as we heard frequent admonitions
to Comtesse, Diane (a very favourite name for hunting dogs in France),
La Grise, etc., to keep quiet, and not make little excursions into the
woods. As the words were usually accompanied by a cut of the whip, the
dogs understood quite well, and remained a compact mass on the side of
the road. There was the usual following of boys, tramps, and stray
bûcherons (woodmen), and when the day was fine, and the meet not too
far, a few people would come from the neighbouring villages, or one or
two carriages from the livery stables of Villers-Cotterets, filled
with strangers who had been attracted by the show and the prospect of
spending an afternoon in the forest. A favourite meet was at the
pretty little village of Ivors, standing just on the edge of the
forest not far from us. It consisted of one long street, a church, and
a château at one end. The château had been a fine one, but was fast
going to ruin, uninhabited, paint and plaster falling off, roof and
walls remaining, and showing splendid proportions, but had an air of
decay and neglect that was sad to see in such a fine place. The owner
never lived there; had several other places. An agent came down
occasionally, and looked after the farm and woods. There was a fine
double court-yard and enormous "communs," a large field only
separating the kitchen garden from the forest. A high wall in fairly
good condition surrounded the garden and small park. On a hunting
morning the little place quite waked up, and it was pretty to see the
dogs and horses grouped under the walls of the old château, and the
hunting men in their bright coats moving about among the peasants and
carters in their dark-blue smocks.
The start was very pretty--one rode straight into the forest, the
riders spreading in all directions. The field was never very
large--about thirty--I the only lady. The cor de chasse was a
delightful novelty to me, and I soon learned all the calls--the
débouché, the vue and the hallali, when the poor beast is at the last
gasp. The first time I saw the stag taken I was quite miserable. We
had had a splendid gallop. I was piloted by one of the old stagers,
who knew every inch of the forest, and who promised I should be in at
the death, if I would follow him, "mais il faut me suivre partout,
avez-vous peur?" As he was very stout, and not particularly well
mounted, and I had a capital English mare, I was quite sure I could
pass wherever he could. He took me through all sorts of queer little
paths, the branches sometimes so low that it didn't seem possible to
get through, but we managed it. Sometimes we lost sight of the hunt
entirely, but he always guided himself by the sound of the horns,
which one hears at a great distance. Once a stag bounded across the
road just in front of us, making our horses shy violently, but he said
that was not the one we were after. I wondered how he knew, but didn't
ask any questions. Once or twice we stopped in the thick of the woods,
having apparently lost ourselves entirely, not hearing a sound, and
then in the distance there would be the faint sound of the horn,
enough for him to distinguish the vue, which meant that they were
still running. Suddenly, very near, we heard the great burst of the
hallali--horses, dogs, riders, all joining in; and pushing through the
brushwood we found ourselves on the edge of a big pond, almost a lake.
The stag, a fine one, was swimming about, nearly finished, his eyes
starting out of his head, and his breast shaken with great sobs. The
whole pack of dogs was swimming after him, the hunters all swarming
down to the edge, sounding their horns, and the master of hounds
following in a small flatboat, waiting to give the coup de grâce with
his carbine when the poor beast should attempt to get up the bank. It
was a sickening sight. I couldn't stand it, and retreated (we had all
dismounted) back into the woods, much to the surprise and disgust of
my companion, who was very proud and pleased at having brought me in
at the death among the very first. Of course, one gets hardened, and a
stag at bay is a fine sight. In the forest they usually make their
last stand against a big tree, and sell their lives dearly. The dogs
sometimes get an ugly blow. I was really very glad always when the
stag got away. I had all the pleasure and excitement of the hunt
without having my feelings lacerated at the end of the day. The sound
of the horns and the unwonted stir in the country had brought out all
the neighbourhood, and the inhabitants of the little village,
including the curé and the châtelaine of the small château near, soon
appeared upon the scene. The curé, a nice, kindly faced old man, with
white hair and florid complexion, was much interested in all the
details of the hunt. It seems the stag is often taken in these ponds,
les étangs de la ramée, which are quite a feature in the country, and
one of the sights of the Villers-Cotterets forest, where strangers are
always brought. They are very picturesque; the trees slope down to the
edge of the ponds, and when the bright autumn foliage is reflected in
the water the effect is quite charming.
Mme. de M., the châtelaine, was the type of the grande dame Française,
fine, clear-cut features, black eyes, and perfectly white hair, very
well arranged. She was no longer young, but walked with a quick, light
step, a cane in her hand. She, too, was much interested, such an
influx of people, horses, dogs, and carriages (for in some mysterious
way the various vehicles always seemed to find their way to the
finish). It was an event in the quiet little village. She admired my
mare very much, which instantly won my affections. She asked us to
come back with her to the château--it was only about a quarter of an
hour's walk--to have some refreshment after our long day; so I held up
my skirt as well as I could, and we walked along together. The château
is not very large, standing close to the road in a small park, really
more of a manor house than a château. She took us into the
drawing-room just as stiff and bare as all the others I had seen, a
polished parquet floor, straight-backed, hard chairs against the wall
(the old lady herself looked as if she had sat up straight on a hard
chair all her life). In the middle of the room was an enormous
palm-tree going straight up to the ceiling. She said it had been there
for years and always remained when she went to Paris in the spring.
She was a widow, lived alone in the château with the old servants. Her
daughter and grandchildren came occasionally to stay with her. She
gave us wine and cake, and was most agreeable. I saw her often
afterward, both in the country and Paris, and loved to hear her talk.
She had remained absolutely ancien régime, couldn't understand modern
life and ways at all. One of the things that shocked her beyond words
was to see her granddaughters and their young friends playing tennis
with young men in flannels. In her day a young man in bras de chemise
would have been ashamed to appear before ladies in such attire. We
didn't stay very long that day, as we were far from home, and the
afternoon was shortening fast. The retraite was sometimes long when we
had miles of hard road before us, until we arrived at the farm or
village where the carriage was waiting. When we could walk our horses
it was bearable, but sometimes when they broke into a jog-trot, which
nothing apparently could make them change, it was very fatiguing after
a long day.
Sometimes, when we had people staying with us, we followed the hunt in
the carriage. We put one of the keepers of the Villers-Cotterets
forest on the box, and it was wonderful how much we could see. The
meet was always amusing, but when once the hunt had moved off, and the
last stragglers disappeared in the forest, it didn't seem as if there
was any possibility of catching them; and sometimes we would drive in
a perfectly opposite direction, but the old keeper knew all about the
stags and their haunts when they would break out and cross the road,
and when they would double and go back into the woods. We were waiting
one day in the heart of the forest, at one of the carrefours, miles
away apparently from everything, and an absolute stillness around us.
Suddenly there came a rush and noise of galloping horses, baying
hounds and horns, and a flash of red and green coats dashed by,
disappearing in an instant in the thick woods before we had time to
realize what it was. It was over in a moment--seemed an hallucination.
We saw and heard nothing more, and the same intense stillness
surrounded us. We had the same sight, the stag taken in the water,
some years later, when we were alone at the château. Mme. A. was dead,
and her husband had gone to Paris to live. We were sitting in the
gallery one day after breakfast, finishing our coffee, and making
plans for the day, when suddenly we saw red spots and moving figures
in the distance, on the hills opposite, across the canal. Before we
had time to get glasses and see what was happening, the children came
rushing in to say the hunt was in the woods opposite, the horns
sounding the hallali, and the stag probably in the canal. With the
glasses we made out the riders quite distinctly, and soon heard faint
echoes of the horn. We all made a rush for hats and coats, and started
off to the canal. We had to go down a steep, slippery path which was
always muddy in all weathers, and across a rather rickety narrow
plank, also very slippery. As we got nearer, we heard the horns very
well, and the dogs yelping. By the time we got to the bridge, which was
open to let a barge go through, everything had disappeared--horses,
dogs, followers, and not a sound of horn or hoof. One solitary
horseman only, who had evidently lost the hunt and didn't know which
way to go. We lingered a little, much disgusted, but still hoping we
might see something, when suddenly we heard again distant sounds of
horns and yelping dogs. The man on the other side waved his cap
wildly, pointed to the woods, and started off full gallop. In a few
minutes the hill slope was alive with hunters coming up from all
sides. We were nearly mad with impatience, but couldn't swim across
the canal, the bridge was still open, the barge lumbering through. The
children with their Fräulein and some of the party crossed a little
lower down on a crazy little plank, which I certainly shouldn't have
dared attempt, and at last the bargeman took pity on us and put us
across. We raced along the bank as fast as we could, but the canal
turns a great deal, and a bend prevented our seeing the stag, with the
hounds at his heels, galloping down the slope and finally jumping
into the canal, just where it widens out and makes a sort of lake
between our hamlet of Bourneville and Marolles. It was a pretty sight,
all the hunters dismounted, walking along the edge of the water,
sounding their hallali, the entire population of Bourneville and
Marolles and all our household arriving in hot haste, and groups of
led horses and valets de chiens in their green coats half-way up the
slope. The stag, a very fine one, was swimming round and round, every
now and then making an effort to get up the bank, and falling back
heavily--he was nearly done, half his body sinking in the water, and
his great eyes looking around to see if any one would help him. I went
back to the barge (they had stayed, too, to see the sight), and the
woman, a nice, clean, motherly body with two babies clinging to her,
was much excited over the cruelty of the thing.
[Illustration: I suggested that the whole chasse should adjourn to the
château.]
"Madame trouve que c'est bien de tourmenter une pauvre bête qui ne
fait de mal à personne, pour s'amuser?" Madame found that rather
difficult to answer, and turned the conversation to her life on the
barge. The minute little cabin looked clean, with several pots of red
geraniums, clean muslin curtains, a canary bird, and a nondescript
sort of dog, who, she told me, was very useful, taking care of the
children and keeping them from falling into the water when she was
obliged to leave them on the boat while she went on shore to get her
provisions. I asked: "_How_ does he keep them from falling into the
water--does he take hold of their clothes?" "No, I leave them in the
cabin, when I am obliged to go ashore, and he stands at the door and
barks and won't let them come out." While I was talking to her I heard
a shot, and realised that the poor stag had been finished at last. It
was early in the afternoon--three o'clock, and I suggested that the
whole chasse should adjourn to the château for goûter. This they
promptly accepted, and started off to find their horses. Then I had
some misgivings as to what I could give them for goûter. We were a
small party, mostly women and children. W. was away, and I thought
that probably the chef, who was a sportsman as well as a cook, was
shooting (he had hired a small chasse not far from us); I had told him
there was nothing until dinner. I had visions of twenty or thirty
hungry men and an ordinary tea-table, with some thin bread and butter,
a pot of damson jam, and some sables, so I sent off Francis's tutor,
the stable-boy, and the gardener's boy to the château as fast as their
legs could carry them, to find somebody, anybody, to prepare us as
much food as they could, and to sacrifice the dinner at once, to make
sandwiches--tea and chocolate, of course, were easily provided.
We all started back to the house up the steep, muddy path, some of the
men with us leading their horses, some riding round by Marolles to
give orders to the breaks and various carriages to come to the
château. The big gates were open, Hubert there to arrange at once for
the accommodation of so many horses and equipages, and the billiard
and dining-rooms, with great wood-fires, looking most comfortable. The
chasseurs begged not to come into the drawing-room, as they were
covered with mud, so they brushed off what they could in the hall, and
we went at once to the goûter. It was funny to see our quiet
dining-room invaded by such a crowd of men, some red-coated, some
green, all with breeches and high muddy boots. The master of hounds,
M. Menier, proposed to make the curée on the lawn after tea, which I
was delighted to accept. We had an English cousin staying with us who
knew all about hunting in her own country, but had never seen a French
chasse à courre, and she was most keen about it. The goûter was very
creditable. It seems that they had just caught the chef, who had been
attracted by the unusual sounds and bustle on the hillside, and who
had also come down to see the show. He promptly grasped the situation,
hurried back to the house, and produced beef and mayonnaise
sandwiches, and a splendid savarin with whipped cream in the middle
(so we naturally didn't have any dessert--but nobody minded), tea,
chocolate, and whiskey, of course. As soon as it began to get dark we
all adjourned to the lawn. All the carriages, the big breaks with four
horses, various lighter vehicles, grooms and led horses were massed at
the top of the lawn, just where it rises slightly to meet the woods. A
little lower down was Hubert, the huntsman (a cousin of our coachman,
Hubert, who was very pleased to do the honours of his stable-yard),
with one or two valets de chiens, the pack of dogs, and a great whip,
which was very necessary to keep the pack back until he allowed them
to spring upon the carcass of the stag. He managed them beautifully.
Two men held up the stag--the head had already been taken off; it was
a fine one, with broad, high antlers, a dix cors. Twice Hubert led his
pack up, all yelping and their eyes starting out of their heads, and
twice drove them back, but the third time he let them spring on the
carcass. It was an ugly sight, the compact mass of dogs, all snarling
and struggling, noses down and tails up. In a few minutes nothing was
left of the poor beast but bones, and not many of them. Violet had les
honneurs du pied (the hoof of one of the hind legs of the stag), which
is equivalent to the "brush" one gives in fox-hunting. She thanked M.
M., the master of hounds, very prettily and said she would have it
arranged and hang it up in the hall of her English home, in
remembrance of a lovely winter afternoon, and her first experience of
what still remains of the old French vénerie. The horns sounded again
the curée and the depart, and the whole company gradually dispersed,
making quite a cortège as they moved down the avenue, horses and
riders disappearing in the gray mist that was creeping up from the
canal, and the noise of wheels and hoofs dying away in the distance.
[Illustration: Some red-coated, some green, all with breeches and high
muddy boots.]
* * * * *
We were pottering about in our woods one day, waiting for Labbez (the
keeper) to come and decide about some trees that must be cut down,
when a most miserable group emerged from one of the side alleys and
slipped by so quickly and quietly that we couldn't speak to them. A
woman past middle age, lame, unclothed really--neither shoes nor
stockings, not even a chemise--two sacks of coarse stuff, one tied
around her waist half covering her bare legs, one over her shoulders;
two children with her, a big overgrown girl of about twelve, equally
without clothing, an old black bodice gaping open over her bare skin,
held together by one button, a short skirt so dirty and torn that one
wondered what kept it on, no shoes nor stockings, black hair falling
straight down over her forehead and eyes; the boy, about six, in a
dirty apron, also over his bare skin. I was horrified, tried to make
them turn and speak to me, but they disappeared under the brushwood as
quickly as they could, "evidently up to no good," said W. In a few
moments the keeper appeared, red and breathless, having been running
after poachers--a woman the worst of the lot. We described the party
we had just seen, and he was wildly excited, wanted to start again in
pursuit, said they were just the ones he was looking for. The woman
belonged to a band of poachers and vagabonds they could not get hold
of. They could trace her progress sometimes by the blood on the grass
where the thorns and sharp stones had torn her feet. It seems they
were quite a band, living anywhere in the woods, in old
charcoal-burners' huts or under the trees, never staying two nights in
the same place. There are women, and children, and babies, who appear
and disappear, in the most extraordinary manner. Many of them have
been condemned, and have had two weeks or a month of prison. One
family is employed by one of the small farmers near, who lets them
live in a tumbledown hut in the midst of his woods, and that is their
centre. We passed by there two or three days later, when we were
riding across the fields, and anything so miserable I never saw; the
house half falling to pieces, no panes of glass, dirty rags stuffed in
the windows, no door at all, bundles of dirty straw inside, a pond of
filthy water at one side of the house, two or three dirty children
playing in it, and inside at the opening, where the door should have
been, the same lame woman in her two sacks. She glowered at us,
standing defiantly at the opening to prevent our going in, in case we
had any such intention. I suppose she had various rabbits and hares
hung up inside she couldn't have accounted for. There was no other
habitation anywhere near; no cart or vehicle of any kind could have
got there. We followed a narrow path, hardly visible in the long
grass, and the horses had to pick their way--one couldn't imagine a
more convenient trysting-place for vagabonds and tramps. It seems
incredible that such things should go on at our doors, so to speak,
but it is very difficult to get at them. Our keepers and M. de M.,
whose property touches ours, have had various members of the gang
arrested, but they always begin again. The promiscuity of living is
something awful, girls and young men squatting and sleeping in the
same room on heaps of dirty rags. There have been some arrests for
infanticide, when a baby's appearance and disappearance was too
flagrant, but the girls don't care. They do their time of prison, come
out quite untamed by prison discipline, and begin again their wild,
free life. One doesn't quite understand the farmer who gives any
shelter to such a bad lot, but I fancy there is a tacit understanding
that his hares and rabbits must be left unmolested.
It is amusing to see the keepers when they suspect poachers are in
their woods. When the leaves are off they can see at a great distance,
and with their keen, trained eyes make out quite well when a moving
object is a hare, or a roebuck, or a person on all fours, creeping
stealthily along. They have powerful glasses, too, which help them
very much. They, too, have their various tricks, like the poachers. As
the gun-barrel is seen at a great distance when the sun strikes it,
they cover it with a green stuff that takes the general tint of the
leaves and the woods, and post themselves, half hidden in the bushes,
near some of the quarries, where the poachers generally come. Then
they give a gun to an under-strapper, telling him to stand in some
prominent part of the woods, _his_ gun well in sight. That, of course,
the poachers see at once, so they make straight for the other side,
and often fall upon the keepers who are lying in wait for them. As a
general rule, they don't make much resistance, as they know the
keepers will shoot--not to kill them, but a shot in the ankle or leg
that will disable them for some time. I had rather a weakness for one
poaching family. The man was young, good-looking, and I don't really
believe a bad lot, but he had been unfortunate, had naturally a high
temper, and couldn't stand being howled at and sworn at when things
didn't go exactly as the patron wanted; consequently he never stayed
in any place, tried to get some other work, but was only fit for the
woods, where he knew every tree and root and the habits and haunts of
all the animals. He had a pretty young wife and two children, who had
also lived in the woods all their lives, and could do nothing else.
The wife came to see me one day to ask for some clothes for herself
and the children, which I gave, of course, and then tried mildly to
speak to her about her husband, who spent half his time in prison, and
was so sullen and scowling when he came out that everybody gave him a
wide berth. The poor thing burst into a passion of tears and
incoherent defence of her husband. Everybody had been so hard with
him. When he had done his best, been up all night looking after the
game, and then was rated and sworn at by his master before every one
because un des Parisiens didn't know what to do with a gun when he had
one in his hand, and couldn't shoot a hare that came and sat down in
front of him, it was impossible not to answer un peu vivement
peut-être, and it was hard to be discharged at once without a chance
of finding anything else, etc., and at last winding up with the
admission that he did take hares and rabbits occasionally; but when
there was nothing to eat in the house and the children were crying
with hunger, what was he to do? Madame would never have known or
missed the rabbits, and after all, le Bon Dieu made them for
everybody. I tried to persuade W. to take him as a workman in the
woods, with the hope of getting back as under-keeper, but he would not
hear of it, said the man was perfectly unruly and violent-tempered,
and would demoralize all the rest. They remained some time in the
country, and the woman came sometimes to see me, but she had grown
hard, evidently thought I could have done something for her husband,
and couldn't understand that as long as he went on snaring game no one
would have anything to do with him--always repeating the same thing,
that a Bon Dieu had made the animals pour tout le monde. Of course it
must be an awful temptation for a man who has starving children at
home, and who knows that he has only to walk a few yards in the woods
to find rabbits in plenty; and one can understand the feeling that le
Bon Dieu provided food for all his children, and didn't mean some to
starve, while others lived on the fat of the land.
It was a long time before I could get accustomed to seeing women work
in the fields (which I had never seen in America). In the cold autumn
days, when they were picking the betterave (a big beet root) that is
used to make sugar in France, it made me quite miserable to see them.
Bending all day over the long rows of beets, which required quite an
effort to pull out of the hard earth, their hands red and chapped,
sometimes a cold wind whistling over the fields that no warm garment
could keep out, and they never had any really warm garment. We met an
old woman one day quite far from any habitation, who was toiling home,
dragging her feet, in wretched, half-worn shoes, over the muddy
country roads, who stopped and asked us if we hadn't a warm petticoat
to give her. She knew me, called me by name, and said she lived in the
little hamlet near the château. She looked miserably cold and tired. I
asked where she came from, and what she had been doing all day.
"Scaring the crows in M. A.'s fields," was the answer. "What does your
work consist of?" I asked. "Oh, I just sit there and make a
noise--beat the top of an old tin kettle with sticks and shake a bit
of red stuff in the air." Poor old woman, she looked half paralyzed
with cold and fatigue, and I was really almost ashamed to be seated so
warmly and comfortably in the carriage, well wrapped up in furs and
rugs, and should have quite understood if she had poured out a torrent
of abuse. It must rouse such bitter and angry feeling when these poor
creatures, half frozen and half starved, see carriages rolling past
with every appliance of wealth and luxury. I suppose what saves us is
that they are so accustomed to their lives, the long days of hard
work, the wretched, sordid homes, the insufficient meals, the
quantities of children clamouring for food and warmth. Their parents
and grandparents have lived the same lives, and anything else would
seem as unattainable as the moon, or some fairy tale. There has been
one enormous change in all the little cottages--the petroleum lamp.
All have got one--petroleum is cheap and gives much more light and
heat than the old-fashioned oil lamp. In the long winter afternoons,
when one must have light for work of any kind, the petroleum lamp is a
godsend. We often noticed the difference coming home late. The
smallest hamlets looked quite cheerful with the bright lights shining
through the cracks and windows. I can't speak much from _personal_
experience of the _inside_ of the cottages--I was never much given to
visiting among the poor. I suppose I did not take it in the right
spirit, but I could never see the poetry, the beautiful, patient
lives, the resignation to their humble lot. I only saw the dirt, and
smelt all the bad smells, and heard how bad most of the young ones
were to all the poor old people. "Cela mange comme quatre, et cela
n'est plus bon à rien," I heard one woman remark casually to her poor
old father sitting huddled up in a heap near the fire. I don't know,
either, whether they liked to have us come. What suited them best was
to send the children to the château. They always got a meal and a warm
jacket and petticoat.
[Illustration: Peasant women.]
V