VALOGNES, August.
I seem to have got into another world, almost another century, in this
old town. I had always promised the Florians I would come and stay
with them, and was curious to see their installation in one of the
fine old hotels of the place. The journey was rather long--not
particularly interesting. We passed near Caen, getting a very good
view of the two great abbayes[13] with their towers and spires quite
sharply outlined against the clear blue sky. The train was full. At
almost every station family parties got in--crowds of children all
armed with spades, pails, butterfly nets, and rackets, all the
paraphernalia of happy, healthy childhood. For miles after Caen there
were long stretches of green pasture-lands--hundreds of cows and
horses, some of them the big Norman dray-horses resting a little
before beginning again their hard work, and quantities of long-legged
colts trotting close up alongside of their mothers, none of them
apparently minding the train. We finally arrived at the quiet little
station of Valognes. Countess de Florian was waiting for me, with
their big omnibus, and we had a short drive all through the town to
their hotel, which is quite at one end, a real country road running in
front of their house. It is an old hotel standing back from the road
and shut in with high iron gates. There is a large court-yard with a
grass-plot in the middle, enormous flower-beds on each side, and a
fine sweep of carriage road to the perron. A great double stone
staircase runs straight up to the top of the house, and glass doors
opposite the entrance lead into the garden. I had an impression of
great space and height and floods of light. I went straight into the
garden, where they gave me tea, which was most refreshing after the
long hot day. They have no house party. The dowager countess,
Florian's mother, is here, and there was a cousin, a naval officer,
who went off to Cherbourg directly after dinner. The ground-floor is
charming; on one side of the hall there are three or four salons, and
a billiard-room running directly across the house from the garden to
the court-yard; on the other, a good dining-room and two or three
guests' rooms; the family all live upstairs.
[13] Abbaye aux Hommes, Abbaye aux Dames.
It is a delightful house. My room is on the ground-floor, opening from
the corridor, which is large and bright, paved with flagstones. My
windows look out on the entrance court, so that I see all that goes on.
As soon as my maid has opened the windows and brought in my petit
déjeuner, I hear a tap at the door and the countess's maid appears to
ask, with madame's compliments, if I have all I want, if I have had a
good night, and to bring me the morning paper. The first person to move
is the dowager countess, who goes to early mass every morning. She is a
type of the old-fashioned French Faubourg St. Germain lady; a straight,
slender figure, always dressed in black, devoted to her children and to
all her own family, with the courteous, high-bred manner one always
finds in French women of the old school. She doesn't take much interest
in the outside world, nor in anything that goes on in other countries,
but is too polite to show that when she talks to me, for instance, who
have knocked about so much. She doesn't understand the modern life, so
sans gêne and agitated, and it is funny to hear her say when talking of
people she doesn't quite approve of, "Ils ne sont pas de notre monde."
[Illustration: Entrance to hotel of the Comte de Florian.]
Then comes the young countess, very energetic and smiling, with her
short skirt and a bag on her arm, going to market. She sees me at the
window and stops to know if I am going out. Will I join her at the
market? All the ladies of Valognes do their own marketing and some of
the well-known fishwomen and farmers' wives who come in from the
country with poultry would be quite hurt if Madame la Comtesse didn't
come herself to give her orders and have a little talk. This morning I
have been to market with Countess Florian. The women looked so nice
and clean in their short, black, heavily plaited skirts, high white
caps, and handkerchiefs pinned over their bodices. The little stalls
went all down the narrow main street and spread out on the big square
before the church. The church is large, with a square tower and fine
dome--nothing very interesting as to architecture. Some of the stalls
were very tempting and the smiling, red-cheeked old women, sitting up
behind their wares, were so civil and anxious to sell us something.
The fish-market was most inviting--quantities of flat white turbots,
shining silver mackerel, and fresh crevettes piled high on a marble
slab with water running over them. Four or five short-skirted,
bare-legged fisher girls were standing at the door with baskets of
fish on their heads. Florian joined us there and seemed on the best of
terms with these young women. He made all kinds of jokes with them, to
which they responded with giggles and a funny little half-courtesy,
half-nod. Both Florians spoke so nicely to all the market people as we
passed from stall to stall. The poultry looked very good--such fat
ducks and chickens. It was funny to see the bourgeoises of Valognes
all armed with a large basket doing their marketing; they looked at
the chickens, poked them, lifted them so as to be sure of their
weight, and evidently knew to a centime what they had to pay. I fancy
the Norman ménagère is a pretty sharp customer and knows exactly what
she must pay for everything. The vegetable stalls were very well
arranged--the most enormous cabbages I ever saw. I think the old
ladies who presided there were doing a flourishing business. I did not
find much to buy--some gray knitted stockings that I thought would be
good for my Mareuil[14] boys and some blue linen blouses with white
embroidery, that all the carters wear, and which the Paris dressmakers
transform into very pretty summer costumes. I bought for myself a
paper bag full of cherries for a few sous, then left the Florians, and
wandered about the streets a little alone. They are generally narrow,
badly paved, with grass growing in the very quiet ones. There are many
large hotels standing well back, entre cour et jardin, the big doors
and gate-ways generally heavy and much ornamented--a great deal of
carving on the façades and cornices, queer heads and beasts. Valognes
has not always been the quiet, dull, little provincial town it is
to-day. It has had its brilliant moment, when all the hotels were
occupied by grands seigneurs, handsome equipages rolled through the
streets, and its society prided itself on its exclusiveness and grand
manner. It used to be said that to rouler carrosse at Valognes was a
titre de noblesse, and the inhabitants considered their town a "petit
Paris." In one of the plays of the time, a marquis, very fashionable
and a well-known courtier, was made to say: "Il faut trois mois de
Valognes pour achever un homme de cour." One can quite imagine "la
grande vie d'autrefois" in the hotel of the Florians. Their garden is
enchanting--quantities of flowers, roses particularly. They have made
two great borders of tall pink rose-bushes, with dwarf palms from
Bordighera planted between, just giving the note of stiffness which
one would expect to find in an old-fashioned garden. On one side is a
large terrace with marble steps and balustrade, and beyond that, half
hidden by a row of fruit-trees, a very good tennis court. We just see
the church-tower at one end of the garden; and it is so quiet one
would never dream there was a town near. The country in every
direction is beautiful--real English lanes, the roads low, high banks
on each side, with hawthorn bushes on top--one drives between thick
green walls. We have made some lovely excursions. They have a big
omnibus with a banquette on top which seats four people, also a place
by the coachman, and two great Norman posters, who go along at a good
steady trot, taking a little gallop occasionally up and down the
hills.
[14] Mareuil is the name of the village near our place in France.
Countess de Nadaillac, Countess Florian's sister-in-law, arrived to-day
with her daughter for a short visit. We had a pleasant evening with
music, billiards, and dominoes (a favorite game in this country). The
dowager countess always plays two games, and precisely at half-past nine
her old man-servant appears and escorts her to her rooms. We all break
up early; the ten o'clock bell is usually the signal. It rings every
night, just as it has done for hundreds of years. The town lights are
put out and the inhabitants understand that the authorities are not
responsible for anything that may happen in the streets of Valognes
after such a dangerous hour of the night.
... There are some fine places in the neighborhood. We went to-day to
Chiffevast, a large château which had belonged to the Darus, but has
been bought recently by a rich couple, Valognes people, who have made a
large fortune in cheese and butter. It seems their great market is
London.
They send over quantities via Cherbourg, which is only twenty minutes
off by rail. It is a splendid place--with a fine approach by a great
avenue with beautiful old trees. The château is a large, square
house--looks imposing as one drives up. We didn't see the master of the
house--he was away--but madame received us in all her best clothes. She
was much better dressed than we were, evidently by one of the good Paris
houses. Countess Florian had written to ask if we might come, so she was
under arms. She was a little nervous at first, talked a great deal, very
fast, but when she got accustomed to us it went more easily, and she
showed us the house with much pride. There was some good furniture and
one beautiful coverlet of old lace and embroidery, which she had found
somewhere upstairs in an old chest of drawers. They have no
children--such a pity, as they are improving and beautifying the place
all the time. The drive home was delightful, facing the sunset. I was
amused with the Florians' old coachman. He is a curiosity--knows
everybody in the country. He was much interested in our visit and asked
if we had seen "la patronne"--said he knew her well, had often seen her
on a market day at Valognes, sitting in her little cart in the midst of
her cheeses and butter; said she was a brave femme. How strange it must
seem to people like that, just out of their hard-working peasant
life--and it _is_ hard work in France--to find themselves owners of a
splendid château and estate, receiving the great people of the country.
I dare say in ten or twelve years they will be like any one else, and if
there were sons or daughters the young men would get into parliament or
the diplomatic career, the daughters would marry some impoverished scion
of a noble family, and cheeses and butter would be forgotten.
We had one delightful day at Cherbourg. The Préfet Maritime invited us
to breakfast with him at his hotel. We went by rail to Cherbourg, about
half an hour, and found the admiral's carriage waiting for us. The
prefecture is a nice, old-fashioned house, in the centre of the town,
with a big garden. We took off our coats in a large, handsome room
upstairs. The walls were covered with red damask and there were pictures
of Queen Victoria and Louis Napoleon. It seems the Queen slept in that
room one night when she came over to France to make her visit to Louis
Philippe at the Château d'Eu. We found quite a party assembled--all the
men in uniform and the women generally in white. We breakfasted in a
large dining-room with glass doors opening into the garden, which was
charming, a blaze of bright summer flowers. We adjourned there for
coffee after breakfast. The trees were big, made a good shade, and the
little groups, seated about in the various bosquets, looked pretty and
gay. When coffee and liqueurs were finished we drove down to the quay,
where the admiral's launch was waiting, and had a delightful afternoon
steaming about the harbour. It is enormous, long jetties and breakwaters
stretching far out, almost closing it in. There was every description of
craft--big Atlantic liners, yachts, fishing boats, ironclads, torpedoes,
and once we very nearly ran over a curious dark object floating on the
surface of the water, which they told us was a submarine. It did not
look comfortable as a means of transportation, but the young officers
told us it was delightful.
[Illustration: Market women. Valognes.]
We got back to Valognes to a late dinner, having invited a large party
to come over for tennis and dinner the next day. The Florians are a
godsend to Cherbourg. They are most hospitable, and with automobiles the
distance is nothing, and one is quite independent of trains. Yesterday
four of our party went off to Cherbourg to make a cruise in a
torpedo-boat. The ladies were warned that they must put on clothes which
would not mind sea-water, but I should think bathing dresses would be
the only suitable garments for such an expedition. They were remarkable
objects when they came home, Mademoiselle de Nadaillac's hat a
curiosity, also her white blouse, where the red of her hat-ribbons and
cravat had run. However, they had enjoyed themselves immensely--at least
the girl. Countess de Nadaillac was not quite so enthusiastic. They got
into dry clothes and played tennis vigorously all the afternoon.
We had a pleasant family evening. Mademoiselle de Nadaillac has a pretty
voice and sang well. Florian and I played some duets. I joined in the
dowager's game of dominoes, which I don't seem to have mastered, as I
lose regularly, and after she left us, escorted by her faithful old
butler (a light shawl over his arm to put on her shoulders when she
passed through the corridors), we had rather an interesting conversation
about ways and manners in different countries, particularly the way
young people are brought up. I said we were a large family and that
mother would never let us read in the drawing-room after dinner. If we
were all absorbed in our books, conversation was impossible. We were all
musical, so the piano and singing helped us through. Madame de Florian,
whose father, Marquis de Nadaillac, is quite of the old school, said
they were not even allowed to work or look at pictures in the _salon_
after dinner! Her father considered it disrespectful if any of his
children did anything but listen when he talked. They might join in the
conversation if they had anything intelligent to say. She told us, too,
of some of the quite old-fashioned châteaux that she stayed in as a
girl, and even a young married woman. There was one fire and one lamp in
the drawing-room. Any one who wanted to be warm, or to work, was obliged
to come into that room. No fires nor lamps allowed anywhere else in the
house; a cup of tea in the afternoon an unheard-of luxury. If you were
ill, a doctor was sent for and he ordered a tisane; if you were merely
tired or cold, you waited until dinner-time.
We have also made a charming expedition to Quinéville, a small seaside
place about an hour and a half's drive, always through the same green
country, our Norman posters galloping up all the hills. We passed
through various little villages, each one with a pretty little gray,
square-towered church. There was plenty of passing, as it was market
day. We met a good many peasant women carrying milk in those curious old
brass bowls one sees everywhere here. Some of them are very handsome,
polished until they shine like mirrors, with a delicate pattern lightly
traced running around the bowl. They balance them perfectly on their
heads and walk along at a good swinging pace. They all look prosperous,
their skirts (generally black), shoes, and stockings in good condition,
and their white caps and handkerchiefs as clean as possible. Quinéville
is a very quiet little place, no hotel, and rows of ugly little houses
well back from the sea, but there is a beautiful stretch of firm white
sand. To-day it was dead low tide. The sea looked miles away, a long
line of dark sea-weed marking the water's edge. There were plenty of
people about; women and girls with stout bare legs, and a primitive sort
of tool, half pitchfork, half shovel, were piling the sea-weed into the
carts which were waiting on the shore. Children were paddling about in
the numerous little pools and making themselves wreaths and necklaces
out of the berries of the sea-weed--some of them quite bright-coloured,
pink and yellow. We wandered about on the beach, sitting sometimes on
the side of a boat, and walking through the little pools and streams. It
was a lonely bit of water. We didn't see a sail. The sea looked like a
great blue plain meeting the sky--nothing to break the monotony. We got
some very bad coffee at the restaurant--didn't attempt tea. They would
certainly have _said_ they had it, and would have made it probably out
of hay from the barn. The drive home was delicious, almost too cool, as
we went at a good pace, the horses knowing as well as we did that the
end of their day was coming.... We have been again to market this
morning. It was much more amusing than the first time, as it was horse
day, and men and beasts were congregated in the middle of the Cathedral
Square. There was a fair show--splendid big carthorses and good cobs and
ponies--here and there a nice saddle-horse. There were a good many women
driving themselves, and almost all had good, stout little horses. They
know just as much about it as the men and were much interested in the
sales. They told me the landlady of the hotel was the best judge of a
horse and a _man_ in Normandy. She was standing at the entrance of her
court-yard as we passed the hotel on our way home, a comely, buxom
figure, dressed like all the rest in a short black skirt and sabots. She
was exchanging smiling greetings and jokes with every one who passed and
keeping order with the crowds of farmers, drivers, and horse-dealers who
were jostling through the big open doors and clamoring for food for
themselves and their animals. She was the type of the hard-working,
capable Frenchwoman of whom there are thousands in France.
Some years ago I was on the committee for a great sale we had in our
arrondissement in Paris for the benefit of "L'Assistance par le
Travail," an excellent work which we are all much interested in. I was
in charge of the buffet, and thought it better to apply at once to one
of the great caterers, Potel and Chabot, and see what they could do for
us. We made an appointment, and Mme. de B. and I drove down to the
place. The manager was out, but they told us that Madame was waiting for
us in the back shop. We found rather a pretty woman, very well dressed
in velvet, with diamond earrings, and I was put out at first--thought
that didn't look like business. However, we talked a few minutes; she
said her husband was obliged to go to the country, but would certainly
come and see me the next day. Then she stepped up to her desk, where
there was a big book open, said she understood we wished to give an
order for a buffet for a charity sale, and was at once absorbed in
sandwiches, tea and coffee, orangeade, and all the requirements for such
an occasion. She was perfectly practical and gave us some very useful
hints--said she supposed we wanted some of their maîtres d'hôtel. We
thought not--our own would do. That, she said, would be a great mistake.
They weren't accustomed to that sort of thing and wouldn't know how to
do it. One thing, for instance--they would certainly fill all the
glasses of orangeade and punch much too full and would waste a great
deal. Their men never filled a glass entirely, and consequently gained
two on every dozen. She told us how much we wanted, made out the
estimate at once, and ended by asking if we would allow them to present
the tea as their contribution to the charity. It didn't take more than
twenty minutes--the whole thing. She then shut up her book, went to the
door with us, thanked us for giving them the order, and hoped we would
be satisfied. That business capability and thriftiness runs through
almost all Frenchwomen of a certain class, and when I hear, as of course
I often do, the frivolous, butterfly, pleasure-loving Frenchwoman spoken
of, that energetic, hard-working bourgeoise comes into my mind. We all
who live in France know the type well.
The whole nation is frugal. During the Franco-German War, my husband,
who had spent all the dreary months of the invasion at his château in
the country, was elected a member of the Assemblée Nationale, which met
at Bordeaux. They were entirely cut off from Paris, surrounded by
Prussian troops on all sides, and he couldn't get any money. Whatever he
had had at the beginning of the war had been spent--sending off recruits
for one of the great army corps near his place. It was impossible to
communicate with his banker or any friends in Paris, and yet he couldn't
start without funds. He applied to the notary of La Ferté-Milon, the
little town nearest the château. He asked how much he wanted. W. said
about 10,000 francs. The notary said, "Give me two days and I will get
it for you." He appeared three days afterward, bringing the 10,000
francs--a great deal of it in large silver five-franc pieces, very
difficult to carry. He had collected the whole sum from small farmers
and peasants in the neighbourhood--the five-franc pieces coming always
from the peasants, sometimes fifty sewed up in a mattress or in the
woman's thick, wadded Sunday skirt. He said he could get as much more if
W. wanted it. It seems impossible for the peasant to part with his money
or invest it. He must keep it well hidden, but in his possession.
... We had a pretty drive this afternoon to one of Florian's farms, down
a little green lane, some distance from the high-road and so hidden by
the big trees that we saw nothing until we got close to the gate. It was
late--all the cows coming home, the great Norman horses drinking at the
trough, two girls with bare legs and high caps calling all the fowl to
supper, and the farmer's wife, with a baby in her arms and another
child, almost a baby, pulling at her skirts, seated on a stone bench
underneath a big apple-tree, its branches heavy with fruit. She was
superintending the work of the farm-yard and seeing that the two girls
didn't waste a minute of their time, nor a grain of the seed with which
they were feeding the chickens. A little clear, sparkling stream was
meandering through the meadows, tall poplars on each side, and quite
at the end of the stretch of green fields there was the low blue line of
the sea. The farmhouse is a large, old-fashioned building with one or
two good rooms. It had evidently been a small manor house. One of the
rooms is charming, with handsome panels of dark carved wood. It seemed a
pity to leave them there, and almost a pity, that the Florians could not
have made their home in such a lovely green spot, but they would have
been obliged to add to the house enormously, and it would have
complicated their lives, being so far away from everything.
[Illustration: Old gate-way. Valogues.]
... We have had a last walk and flânerie this morning. We went to the
Hospice, formerly a Benedictine convent, where there is a fine gate-way
and court-yard with most extraordinary carving over the doors and
gate--monstrous heads and beasts and emblems alongside of cherubs and
beautiful saints and angels. One wonders what ideas those old artists
had; it seems now such distorted imagination. We walked through some of
the oldest streets and past what had been fine hotels, but they are
quite uninhabited now. Sometimes a bric-à-brac shop on the ground-floor,
and some sort of society on the upper story, but they are all neglected
and half tumbling down. There is still splendid carving on some of the
old gate-ways and cornices, but bits of stone and plaster are falling
off, grass is growing between the paving stones of the court-yards, and
there is an air of poverty and neglect which is a curious contrast to
the prosperous look of the country all around--all the little farms and
villages look so thriving. The people are smiling and well fed; their
animals, too--horses, cows, donkeys--all in good condition.
I have played my last game of dominoes in this fine old hotel and had my
last cup of tea in the stiff, stately garden, with the delicious salt
sea-breeze always coming at four o'clock, and the cathedral chimes
sounding high and clear over our heads. I leave to-morrow night for
London, via Cherbourg and Southampton.
X