BELLE ISLE
As a rule, a country becomes more interesting as one draws near to the
sea; the colouring is more beautiful and the people are more
picturesque. It is strange that the salt air should have such a
mellowing effect upon a town and its inhabitants; but there is no
doubt that it has. This seemed especially remarkable to us, coming
straight from Carnac, that flat, gray, treeless country where the
people are sad and stolid, and one's only interest is in the dolmens
and menhirs scattered over the landscape--strange blocks of stone
about which one knows little, but imagines much.
When you come from a country such as this, you cannot but be struck by
the warmth and wealth of colouring which the sea imparts to everything
in its vicinity. Even the men and women grouped in knots on the pier
were more picturesque, with their sun-bleached, tawny, red-gold hair,
and their blue eyes, than the people of Carnac. The men were handsome
fellows--some in brown and orange clothing, toned and stained by the
sea; others in deep-blue much bepatched coats and yellow oilskin
trousers. Their complexions had a healthy reddish tinge--a warmth of
hue such as one rarely sees in Brittany.
The colouring of the Bay of Quiberon on this particular afternoon was
a tender pale mother-of-pearl. The sky was for the most part a broad,
fair expanse of gray, with, just where the sun was setting, intervals
of eggshell blue and palest lemon-yellows breaking through the drab;
the sands were silvery; the low-lying ground was a dim gold; the water
was gray, with purple and lemon-yellow reflections. The whole scene
was broad and fair. The people on the pier and the boats on the water
formed notes of luscious colour. The fishing-boats at anchor were of a
brilliant green, with vermilion and orange sails and nets a gauzy
blue. Ahead, on the brown rocks, although it was the calmest and best
of weather, white waves were breaking and sending foam and spray high
into the air. There was everywhere a fresh smell of salt.
[Illustration: CURIOSITY]
We were anxious to go across to Belle Isle that night, and took
tickets for a small, evil-smelling boat, the cargo of which was mostly
soldiers. It was rather a rough crossing, and we lay in the
stuffy cabin longing to go on deck to see the sunset, which, by
glimpses through the portholes, we could tell to be painting sea and
sky in tones of flame. At last the spirit conquered the flesh, and,
worried with the constant opening and shutting of doors by the noisy
steward, we went on deck. A fine sight awaited us. From pearly grays
and tender tones we had emerged into the fiery glories of a sunset
sky. Behind us lay the dark gray-blue sea and the darker sky, flecked
by pale pink clouds. Before us, the sun was shooting forth broad
streaks of orange and vermilion on a ground of Venetian blue. Towards
the horizon the colouring paled to tender pinks and lemon-yellows. As
the little steamer ploughed on, Belle Isle rose into sight, a dark
purple streak with tracts of lemon-gold and rosy clouds. The nearer we
drew the lower sank the sun, until at last it set redly behind the
island, picking out every point and promontory and every pine standing
stiff against the sky.
Each moment the island loomed larger and darker, orange light shining
out here and there in the mass. We were astonished by its size, for I
had always imagined Belle Isle as being a miniature place belonging
entirely to Mme. Bernhardt. The entrance to the bay was narrow, and
lay between two piers, with lights on either end; and it was a strange
sensation leaving the grays and blues and purples, the silvery
moonlight, and the tall-masted boats behind us, and emerging into this
warmth and wealth of colouring. A wonderful orange and red light shone
behind the dark mass of the island, turning the water of the bay to
molten gold and glorifying the red-sailed fishing-boats at anchor. As
we drew near the shore, piercing shrieks came from the funnel. There
appeared to be some difficulty about landing. Many directions were
shouted by the captain and repeated by a shrill-voiced boy before we
were allowed to step on shore over a precarious plank. Once landed, we
were met by a brown-faced, sturdy woman, who picked up our trunks and
shouldered them as if they were feather-weights for a distance of half
a mile or so. She led the way to the hotel.
Next morning was dismal; but, as we had only twenty-four hours to
spend in Belle Isle, we hired a carriage to take us to the home of
Mme. Bernhardt, and faced the weather. The sky was gray; the country
flat and bare, though interesting in a melancholy fashion. The
scenery consisted of mounds of brown overturned earth laid in regular
rows in the fields, scrubby ground half-overgrown by gorse, clusters
of dark pines, and a dreary windmill here and there. Now and then, by
way of incident, we passed a group of white houses, surrounded by
sad-coloured haystacks, and a few darkly-clad figures hurrying over
the fields with umbrellas up, on their way to church. The Breton
peasants are so pious that, no matter how far away from a town or
village they may live, they attend Mass at least once on Sunday. A
small procession passed us on the road--young men in their best black
broadcloth suits, and girls in bright shawls and velvet-bound
petticoats. This was a christening procession--at least, we imagined
it to be so; for one of the girls carried a long white bundle under an
umbrella. Bretons are christened within twenty-four hours of birth.
The home of Mme. Bernhardt is a square fortress-like building, shut up
during the autumn, with a beautifully-designed terrace garden. It is
situated on a breezy promontory, and the great actress is in sole
possession of a little bay wherein the sea flows smoothly and greenly
on the yellow sands, and the massive purple rocks loom threateningly
on either side with many a craggy peak. Her dogs, large Danish
boarhounds, rushed out, barking furiously, at our approach; her sheep
and some small ponies were grazing on the scanty grass.
Our driver was taciturn. He seemed to be tuned into accord with the
desolate day, and would vouchsafe no more than a grudging 'Oui' or
'Non' to our many questions, refusing point-blank to tell us to what
places he intended driving us. At length he stopped the carriage on a
cliff almost at the edge of a precipice. Thoughts that he was perhaps
insane ran through my mind, and I stepped out hurriedly; but his
intention was only to show us some cavern below. Mother preferred to
remain above-ground; but, led by the driver, I went down some steps
cut in the solid rock, rather slippery and steep, with on one side a
sheer wall of rock, and the ocean on the other. The rock was dark
green and flaky, with here and there veins of glistening pink and
white mica. Lower and lower we descended, until it seemed as if we
were stepping straight into the sea, which foamed against the great
rocks, barring the entrance to the cavern.
[Illustration: A SOLITARY MEAL]
The cavern itself was like a colossal railway-arch towering hundreds
of feet overhead; and against this and the rocks at the entrance
the sea beat with much noise and splash, falling again with a groan in
a mass of spray. Inside the cavern the tumult was deafening; but never
have I seen anything more beautiful than those waves creaming and
foaming over the green rocks, the blood-red walls of the cave rising
sheer above, flecked with glistening mica. It was a contrast with the
tame, flat, sad scenery over which we had been driving all the
morning. This was Nature at her biggest and best, belittling
everything one had ever seen or was likely to see, making one feel
small and insignificant.
By-and-by we drove to a village away down in a hollow, a typical
Breton fishing-village with yellow and white-faced _auberges_, and
rows of boats moored to the quay, their nets and sails hauled down on
this great day of the week, the Sabbath. As there was no hotel in the
place, we entered a clean-looking _auberge_ and asked for luncheon.
The kitchen led out of the little _salle à manger_, and, as the door
was left wide open, we could watch the preparation of our food. We
were to have a very good soup; we saw the master of the house bringing
in freshly-caught fish, which were grilled at the open fireplace, and
fresh sardines; and we heard our chicken frizzling on the spit. We
saw the coffee-beans being roasted, and we were given the most
exquisite pears and apples. Small matter that our room was shared by
noisy soldiers, and that Adolphus (as we had named our driver) entered
and drank before our very eyes more cognac than was good for him or
reasonable on our bill.
Sunday afternoon in Belle Isle is a fashionable time. Between three
and four people go down to the quay, clattering over the cobble stones
in their best black sabots, to watch the steamers come in from
Quiberon. You see girls in fresh white caps and neat black dresses,
spruce soldiers, ladies _à la mode_ in extravagant headgear and loud
plaid or check dresses. On the quay they buy hot chestnuts. From our
hotel we could watch the people as they passed, and the shopkeepers
sitting and gossiping outside their doors. Opposite us was a souvenir
shop, on the steps of which sat the proprietor with his boy. Very
proud he was of the child--quite an ordinary spoiled child, much
dressed up. The father followed the boy with his eyes wherever he
went. He pretended to scold him for not getting out of the way when
people passed, to attract their attention to the child. He greeted
every remark with peals of laughter, and repeated the witticisms to
his friend the butcher next door, who did not seem to appreciate them.
Every now and then he would glance over to see if the butcher were
amused. French people, especially Bretons, are devoted to their
children.
I was much amused in watching the little _bonne_ at the hotel who
carried our luggage the night before. She was quaint, compact, sturdy.
She would carry a huge valise on her shoulder, or sometimes one in
either hand. She ordered her husband about. She dressed her child in a
shining black hat, cleaned its face with her pocket-handkerchief,
straightened its pinafore, and sent it _en promenade_ with papa, while
she herself stumped off to carry more luggage. There was apparently no
end to her strength. On her way indoors she paused on the step and
cast a loving glance over her shoulder at the back view of her husband
in his neatly-patched blue blouse and the little child in the black
_sarrau_ walking sedately down the road. She seemed so proud of the
pair that we could not resist asking the woman if the child were hers,
just to see the glad smile which lit up her face as she answered,
'Oui, mesdames!' I have often noticed how lenient Breton women are to
their children. They will speak in a big voice and frown, and a child
imagines that Mother is in a towering rage; but you will see her turn
round the next moment and smile at the bystander. If children only
knew their power, how little influence parents would have over them!
The French differ from the British in the matter of emotion. On the
steamer from Belle Isle to Quiberon there were some soldiers, about to
travel with us, who were being seen off by four or five others
standing on the quay. Slouching, unmilitary figures they looked, with
baggy red trousers tied up at the bottoms, faded blue coats, and
postmen-shaped hats, yellow, red, or blue pom-pom on top. One of the
men on shore was a special friend of a soldier who was leaving. I was
on tenter-hooks lest he should embrace him; he almost did so. He
squeezed his hand; he picked fluff off his clothes; he straightened
his hat. He repeatedly begged that his 'cher ami' would come over on
the following Sunday to Belle Isle. Tears were very near his eyes; he
was forced to bite his handkerchief to keep them back. When the boat
moved away, and they could join hands no longer, the soldiers blew
kisses over the water to one another. They opened their arms
wide, shouted affectionate messages, and called one another by
endearing terms. Altogether, they carried on as if they were neurotic
girls rather than soldiers who had their way to make and their country
to think of.
[Illustration: IN THE BOIS D'AMOUR]
There was one man superior to his fellows. He held the same rank, and
wore the same uniform; but he kept his buttons and his brass belt
bright; he wore silk socks, and carried a gold watch under his
military coat; his face was intelligent.