[Illustration]
The sitting-room in our hotel at Pauillac was discovered and annexed by
us on the afternoon of our first day in the Médoc. It was a large room
and a pleasant, and, so far as we were aware, had never before been
trodden by the foot of man; certainly none trod it once we had taken
possession. The sandy bootmarks that we distributed about its polished
red floor remained there during the whole of our stay at Pauillac
undisturbed by a brush, and unmingled with the footprint of the
_négociant en vins_. The two big plaited maize-straw arm-chairs stood at
attention by the table just as they were left; and, most wonderful of
all, we could open the windows and know they would not be shut the
moment our backs were turned. Apparently the other people in the hotel
had no time to spend in the sitting-room. The wine merchants went forth
in loud companies every morning, but--like the Irish lady who was said
to be ‘the most thronging woman ever you seen; sure, she’d go out o’ the
house twenty times for the once she’d come in’--they never seemed to
return, and, whatever may have happened to them, the _salon_ remained
undisturbedly ours.
It was while sitting at tea at the large admirable table belonging to
this room, on the afternoon of our first experience in the _cuviers_,
that we became conscious of the eye of the Kodak regarding us from
behind our eighteenpenny teapot with a cold reproach. As yet the gardens
on the Thames Embankment reigned in lonely beauty in the recesses of the
machinery; nothing French had been given to the mysterious custody of
the black box, though we had carried it, at considerable inconvenience,
to the _cuvier_ of St. Lambert in the morning. The right moment never
seemed to come; the sun was where it ought not to be, or we were afraid
that the suitable peasant might be offended, and we had besides a latent
disbelief in the Kodak’s willingness to deal with southern sunshine and
a foreign sky tingling with light.
‘It has the surly English turn in it somewhere,’ my cousin had said,
with Galway arrogance. But it was now saying ‘_Ici on parle Français_’
with all the power of its sunken eye; and as soon as we had thrown the
tea-leaves out of the window, and hidden the jug of cold boiled milk
behind the stuffed fox on the side-table, we went down and ordered a
wagonette for the next morning from a livery stable, and felt that we
were going to do our duty seriously by the Kodak.
The weather certainly did its part of the business to perfection. The
sun blazed upon our departure, as we emerged from the hotel in the
morning, and the heat came through the cool wind in streaks, as the
vanille biscuit intersects the aching monotony of the lemon ice. Under
the awning outside the coffee-room windows sat Madame, filling out her
straw chair in magnificent meditation. Ours had been the last of the
_petits déjeuners_, so that there was no longer any need for her to
watch over the expenditure of red embers and _café au lait_ in the
kitchen, and she could now exhibit her elegant leisure and her blue
cloth slippers to the loungers of Pauillac for an hour or so. We wished,
for her sake, that the wagonette was larger and had two horses, and that
the Kodak’s resemblance to a box of ‘samples’ had not given us so much
the effect of commercial travellers; but she gave us a ‘_bonne
promenade_,’ and a wave of the hand, that showed she had a heart that
did not despise the humble.
Before we had got clear of the town, our _cocher_ had begun to betray
symptoms of intelligence. Our directions as to where we wished to go had
been but vague, and, twisting himself round on his seat, he
cross-questioned us until he had grasped the situation. ‘These
demoiselles wished to see vineyards and vintagers at work in them,
_voyons_!’--he twisted up the ends of his little black moustache, and
grinned at us with unutterable comprehension, till his fat cheeks must
have impeded his vision. ‘And they wish to make the _photographie_? _Eh,
bien!_ It is I who know where to conduct them. _Allons_, I will make
them to see Château Latour!’ His black eyes beamed delightedly upon us,
and his horse crawled unmolested down the hill, while a series of
apparently agreeable ideas displayed themselves on its driver’s face. He
resumed his usual position on the box, cracked his whip, and frightened
the horse into a canter by saying ‘_Huë!_’ in a soprano voice.
It was very satisfactory. We told each other that we had indeed lighted
upon a treasure--a man who understood what photography was, and who
seemed to know the sort of things we wanted to photograph. We did not
know that his mind was occupied in mapping out conveniently those of his
friends whom he wished to visit, to photograph, to impress generally
with his position of ‘Cicero’ (as a county Cork paper has classically
expressed this office); but we realised all these things afterwards.
We drove for a while through the broad stretches
[Illustration: THE FIRST GROUP OF VENDANGEURS.]
of the vineyards, where the myriad low vines stood with their octopus
arms drooping untidily over the supporting wire, and the grapes hung
heavy and ripe, taking their last look of the sun before their plunge
into the seething night of the _cuves_. No one but the ardent _négociant
en vins_ could, we think, call the Médoc a beautiful land. Even at its
gayest and greenest time these long slopes require all the romance and
richness and mystery of the grapes to give them an interest, and the
much-vaunted fact that the land was annually worth anything from £250 to
£800 per acre cannot give it the sympathy that lies in an Irish hillside
of furze and rock, whose price is adjusted in shillings and pence by
Sub-Commissioners of the Land Court.
The vintage had hardly begun. We had to drive for some distance before
we saw the first group of _vendangeurs_, standing waist-deep in the
vines, snipping off the bunches and putting them into square wooden
baskets, eating grapes by handfuls, and talking in a penetrating,
incessant gabble that was as strident on the quiet vineyard slope as
were the dazzling white sun-bonnets and kerchiefs and blue blouses in
the toneless expanse of green. The Treasure pulled up, informing us that
here was a suitable subject for photography, and we docilely got the
Kodak into position. The vintagers turned as one man to stare at us, and
we tried to isolate some half-dozen in the little focussing mirror,
while the Treasure leaped from his box, and, circulating among the
crowd, explained to them his position of proprietor of the entertainment
with a sense of its humour that was only kept within bounds by the still
stronger sense of self-importance. My cousin balanced the Kodak on her
arm with all care, and said, ‘_Maintenant très tranquille, s’il vous
plaît!_’ to the mirrored half-dozen, who with one accord shrieked with
delight, put their arms round each other, did their hair, and otherwise
prepared themselves for the ordeal.
‘How fortunate it is that they don’t object to being photographed!’ said
my cousin. ‘Now, you pull the bobbin--I mean the button--and I will
press the other thing.’
There followed a disintegrating click from the heart of the Kodak.
‘The photograph is taken,’ said my cousin, not as confidently as could
have been wished. ‘What _did_ the book say we were to do next?’
‘Put a penny in the slot,’ I suggested.
‘Idiot!’ replied my cousin, searching in my sketching wallet on the
earthquake principle--that is, to go at once to the lowest depths, and
then to burst upwards and outwards through all resisting elements.
‘_Here_ is the book! It says we are now to turn this handle and replace
the cap.’
The handle was turned, and it was then discovered that the cap was
irretrievably lost. It was not on the floor of the wagonette, it was not
in our pockets, it was not in the hood of my cousin’s cloak, or in her
hand, or anywhere that it might reasonably have been. We said that we
would hold a hat over the thing instead, and on going to the front for
this purpose I became aware that the black cap was nestling in its
usual place in front of the lens. It was one of the bitterest points of
the incident that at this moment the group at whom the Kodak’s sightless
eye had been directed, advanced upon us to see results, doubtless
expecting that each of its six members would receive on the spot a
picture on glass with a brass frame.
It was so surpassingly difficult to explain the accident and the general
peculiarities of the Kodak, and the disappointment and scorn were so
unconcealed when the faltering photographers finally made themselves
understood, that as a possible, though doubtful method of consolation, I
plunged among the vines and began a pencil sketch of the disappointed
ones. In an instant the _cocher_ was at my shoulder, summoning all the
others with a wave of his hand to come and see the show. It is scarcely
necessary to add that they came, and for the next five minutes I and my
models were the centre of a hollow square, which was, so to speak, lined
and canopied with billowy vapours of garlic.
The sketch was finished with unexampled speed, and in the teeth of the
most scathing criticism, the critics showing an artistic intelligence
that was almost unearthly, and for which an experience of the Irish
peasant was no sort of preparation. I broke my way forth from the
square, amidst shrill bursts of laughter and shrieks of ‘_Ciel! Que je
suis vilaine!’ ‘Mais regarde moi un peu le chapeau de Jeanne!’ ‘Eh!
Dieu! C’est pas moi ça! Ouf! C’est vilaine!_’ and, having collected my
cousin from red-handed gluttony in the background, we succeeded in
driving away in time to prevent the sketch-book being torn bodily out of
my hand.
We ventured after a few minutes to ask the Treasure where he was now
taking us, and after a long and meditative grin at each of us in turn,
he condescended to tell us that we were going to see the vintagers at
their dinner. Almost as he spoke we whirled in at the gate of a big
yard, and saw, under a penthouse at the end of it, a kind of school
feast going on: rows of tables covered with platters and jugs, and rows
of vintagers devouring untold quantities of vintage soup. Our _cocher_
drove straight up to these, and, having whirled showily round, drew up
with the air of Napoleon confronting his army, and addressed the
meeting. As he progressed with his explanation of our mission we
gloomily produced the Kodak, and waited for the outward rush of those
who wished to be immortalised: we were becoming alive to the fact that
the Médoc peasant had not that shrinking from publicity that we had
believed. But providentially the succulent soup, with the meat and
cabbage and bread floating in it, was too good to be left in a hurry,
and at the end of our driver’s address one candidate only came forward,
an extremely plump young lady, with an expression of placid
self-contentment, and an apron of an infuriated Scotch plaid. The
Treasure leaped from his box like an antelope, and, leading her forth to
a convenient spot, proceeded to pose her according to his own ideas.
After a few experimental positions the inspiration came, and we had the
privilege of focussing the fair _vendangeuse_, standing
[Illustration: THE TREASURE WAS POSED BESIDE HER, WITH HIS FAT ARM ROUND
HER NECK.]
placidly heedless of the fact that the Treasure, with his moustache
twisted up to his eyes, from the very extremity of gallantry, was posed
beside her, with his fat arm round her neck. Thus they were
photographed, and as the words ‘_C’est fait_’ were uttered, the
Treasure’s hat was raised with a flourish, and a ponderous kiss was
deposited upon the cheek of beauty. There was a roar of delight from the
luncheon party under the penthouse; even the photographers so far forgot
themselves as to titter sympathetically, and as our _cocher_ whipped up
his horse, and swung out of the yard on two wheels, he turned to us and
winked with an intimacy that made my cousin take out her most unbecoming
pair of spectacles and put them on, in order to sustain the character of
the expedition.
After this the events of the day became blended into a monotony of hot
green vineyards, with pink and white houses on the hazy horizon; narrow
roads, without a fence between their warm yellow gravel and the yellow
gravel in which the vines grow; gangs of
[Illustration: FAWN-COLOURED OXEN.]
vintagers stooping among the plants; fawn-coloured oxen pacing at ease
with their loads; the clack and twang of Bordelais tongues; and, most
prominent of all ingredients, the heat and the Kodak. Every friend of
the _cocher_ was found and photographed, the sketch-book was utilised
for those who insisted on an immediate result, and, as the afternoon
sun began to drop towards the western uplands, we hoped that we might,
in the fulness of time, be permitted to go home. But the Treasure had
yet another friend, one who lived still farther away from Pauillac, and
it was not till we had driven for half an hour that we saw in front of
us the now familiar _chai_, with its arched opening into the _cuvier_,
and its magenta-legged proprietor standing inside in the juice, shovel
in hand. It was becoming too late in the day for the Kodak, and the
_cocher_ desired that a sketch should be made of this most particular
friend, and also of the friend’s wife, whom, in the twinkling of an eye,
he had fetched from her house and placed on the edge of the _pressoir_
in utter absurdity and incongruity. But the artist was too completely
subjugated to remonstrate; even when the sketch-book was snatched from
her by the _cocher_ and deposited in the vinous fingers of the grape
treader with long and loud explanation of every page, she merely sank
back in voiceless despair.
We heard without interest or emotion that we were to be driven home by
a different and longer way. Our only articulate longing was for tea, but
that being a mere vision, as impossible as beautiful, we gradually took
refuge in fatalism, telling ourselves that if we got home that night,
well and good; if not, we could sleep in the wagonette, waking up
obediently at intervals to make moonlight sketches of such of the
_cocher’s_ friends as he chose to summon from their beds for the
purpose. We were in the act of dividing our last gingerbread, while the
cool breath of the Médoc evening gave us its first nip, and the vines
became fragrant in the dew, and the chorus of _cigales_ in the roadside
grass sounded like the rhythmic reeling of line off innumerable
trout-rods, when I was thrown violently against my cousin by the
collapse of the wagonette on one side, and after an instant of extreme
anxiety and discomfort, we found ourselves rolled out in a heap into the
vines, with the _cigales’_ note at our very ears, and the hind wheel of
the wagonette finding a bed for itself in the shallow ditch beside us.
[Illustration: THE COCHER MADE LIGHT OF IT.]