GUINGAMP
On the way to Guingamp we travelled second-class. In the first-class
carriages one sits in solitary state, with never a chance of studying
the people of the country. Half-way on our journey the train stopped,
and I was amused by the excitement and perturbation of the passengers.
They flew to the windows, and heaped imprecations on the guard, the
engine-driver, and the railway company. As the train remained
stationary for several minutes, their remarks became facetious. They
inquired if _un peu de charbon_ would be useful. Should they provide
the porter with a blade of straw wherewith to light the engines? They
even offered their services in pushing the train. One fat, red-faced
commercial traveller, who, by way of being witty, declared that he was
something of an engineer himself, descended the steep steps of the
carriage in order to assist the officials. The French are born
comedians--there is no doubt about it. They manage to make themselves
extremely ridiculous. This man's behaviour was like that of a clown in
the circus. In attempting to unlock a carriage he got in the way of
everyone. The wait was long and tedious.
'Il faut coucher sur la montagne ce soir, mademoiselle,' said an old
Breton who was puffing contentedly at a clay pipe in the corner of the
carriage. He was very fat, and smothered up to his chin in a loose
blue blouse; but he had a classic head. It was like that of some Roman
Emperor carved in bronze. His eyes were of cerulean blue. His was the
head of a man born to command. There was something almost imperial in
the pose and set of it. Nevertheless, this peasant lived, no doubt, in
the depth of the country, probably in some hovel of a cottage, with a
slovenly yellow-faced wife (women in the wilds of Brittany grow old
and plain very early), dirty children, and a few pigs and cows. He had
been attending a market, and he spoke with great importance of his
purchases there. He descended at a minute station on the line, and I
watched him as he started on his fifteen-mile drive in a ramshackle
wooden cart.
[Illustration: LA VIEILLESSE]
We were cold and sleepy when we arrived at Guingamp, so much so that
we forgot to be nervous as we crossed the line with our many bags
and bandboxes. When you arrive at a station in Brittany, you are met
by a bevy of men in gold-lace caps, who instantly set up a noisy
chatter. You assume that they must be advertising various hotels; but
it is quite impossible to distinguish. Travellers, especially the
English, are rarities at this season. As a rule I carefully chose the
omnibus which was cleanest, and the driver who was most respectful, in
spite of many persuasions to the contrary; but on this occasion I was
so limp and tired that I allowed my traps to be snatched from my hands
and followed our guide meekly. It might have been the dirtiest hovel
of an inn towards which we were going rapidly over the cobbled stones
of the town--it was all one to me.
By great good luck we happened to chance on the Hôtel de France, where
we were greeted by the _maîtresse d'hôtel_, a kindly woman, and
without further delay, although it sounds somewhat _gourmande_ to say
so, sat down to one of the best dinners it has ever been my lot to
eat. The kitchen was exactly opposite the _salle à manger_, the door
of which was open for all to see within. There we could observe the
chef, rotund and rosy-cheeked, in spotless white cap and apron, busy
among multitudinous pots and pans which shone like gold. His
assistants, boys in butcher-blue cotton, flew hither and thither at
his command, busily chopping this and whipping up that. The various
dishes I do not remember distinctly; I only know that each one (I once
heard an epicure speak thus) was a 'poem.' Of all that glorious menu,
only the _escalopes de veau_ stands out clearly, laurel-wreathed, in
my memory. At the table there were the usual commercial travellers.
Also there were several glum, hard-featured Englishwomen and one man.
How is it that one dislikes one's own countrymen abroad so much? It is
unpatriotic to say so, but I really think that the Continental
travelling portion of Britishers must be a race apart, a different
species; for a more unpleasant, impolite, plain, and badly-dressed set
of people it has never been my lot to meet elsewhere. The word
'English' at this rate will soon become an epithet. All the women
resemble the worst type of schoolmistress, and all the men retired
tradesmen.
Guingamp, by the light of day, is a pretty town, with nothing
particularly imposing or attractive, although at one time it was an
important city of the Duchy of Penthièvre. Its only remnant of ancient
glory consists in the church of Nôtre Dame de Bon Secours, a bizarre
and irregular monument, dating from the fifteenth century. In the cool
of the evening the environs of Guingamp are very beautiful. It is
delightful to lean over some bridge spanning the dark river. Only the
sound of washerwomen beating their linen, and the splash of clothes
rinsed in the water, disturb the quiet.
The scenery is soft and silvery in tone, like the landscape of a
Corot. Slim, bare silver birches overhang the blackened water, and on
either side of the river grow long grasses, waving backwards and
forwards in the wind, now purple, now gray. Down a broad yellow road
troops of black and red cows are being driven, and horses with their
blue wooden harness are drawing a cart laden with trunks of trees, led
by a man in a blue blouse, with many an encouraging deep-voiced 'Hoop
loo!' Everyone is bringing home cows, or wood, or cider apples. The
sky is broad and gray, with faint purple clouds. Three dear little
girls, pictures every one of them, are walking along the road, taking
up the whole breadth of it, and carrying carefully between them two
large round baskets full to overflowing with red and green apples.
Each little maid wears on her baby head a tight white lace cap
through which the glossy black hair shines, a bunchy broad cloth
skirt, a scarlet cross-over shawl, and heavy sabots. They are
miniatures of their mothers. They look like old women cut short, as
they come toddling leisurely along the road, a large heavy basket
suspended between them, singing a pretty Breton ballad in shrill
trebles:
'J'ai mangé des cerises avec mon petit cousin,
J'ai mangé des cerises, des cerises du voisin.'
I caught the words as they passed, and remembered the melody. I had as
a child known the ballad in my old convent. When they were past they
tried to look back at the _demoiselle Anglaise_, and, unheeding,
tripped over a large heap of stones in the roadway. Down tumbled
children, baskets, and all. What a busy quarter of an hour we all
spent, on our knees in the dust, rubbing up and replacing the apples,
lest mother should guess they had been dropped! Finally, we journeyed
on into Guingamp in company.
[Illustration: A BEGGAR]