NANT (AVEYRON).
All this time Le Vigan was to us as Capua to Hannibal's
soldiers--Circe's charmed cup held to the lips of Odysseus.
We ought not to have stayed there an unnecessary hour. We should have
continued our journey at once. On and on we lingered, nevertheless, and
when at last we braced ourselves up for an effort, the terrible truth
was broken to us. Instead of being nearer to the goal of our wishes, we
had come out of the way, and were indeed getting farther and farther
from that mysterious, so eagerly longed-for region, the terribly
unattainable Causses. Our project at last began to wear the look of a
nightmare, a harassing, feverish dream. We seemed to be fascinated
hither and thither by an ignis fatuus, enticed into quagmires and
quicksands by an altogether illusive, mocking, malicious
Will-o'-the-wisp.
I was painfully reminded of what had been a pleasing puzzle in childish
days: the maze at Needham Market, famous throughout Suffolk, and
familiar to all Suffolk-bred folk. This is a wonderfully constructed
shrubbery or thicket, cut into numerous little circular and
semicircular paths, so contrived that the most ingenious are caught
like flies in a spider's trap. Round and round, backwards and forwards,
in and out, scuttle the uninitiated, only to find themselves at the
precise point whence they had started hours before. The conviction of
being thus foiled in my purpose, and for the second time, weighed upon
my spirits. My companion also became somewhat dejected. The superb
weather might forsake us. September was at hand. It really seemed as if
we were doomed to return to our dogs and cats at Hastings without
having reached the Roof of France after all.
True, a matter of eighty miles only divided us from our destination,
but surely the most impracticable eighty miles out of Arabia Petræa! We
were bound for a certain little town called St. Énimie, but between us
and St. Énimie stretched a barrier, insurmountable as Dante's fog
isolating Purgatory from Paradise, or as the black river separating
Pluto's domain from the region of light. We seemed as far off the
Causses as Christian from the heavenly Jerusalem when imprisoned in
Castle Doubting, or as the Israelites from Canaan when in the
wilderness of Zin.
To reach St. Énimie, then, meant two long days' drive, _i.e._, from six
a.m. to perhaps eight p.m., in the lightest, which stands for the most
uncomfortable, vehicle, across a country the greater part of which is
as savage as Dartmoor. Our first halting-place would be Meyrueis, and
between Le Vigan and Meyrueis relays could be had, but at that point
civilization ended. The second day's journey must lie through a
treeless, waterless, uninhabited desert; in other words, as a glance at
the map will show, we must traverse the Causse Méjean itself.
Romantic as this expedition sounded, our host, the royal cook, shook
his head at the proposal. Suppose we were overtaken by a storm in that
wilderness? Suppose any accident happened to horses or harness?
Suppose----
'In fact,' he said, 'there is nothing for these ladies to do but make
the round to Mende by railway.'
'To Mende!' I cried aghast. 'Back to Nîmes, back to heaven knows where!
Never! Get to St. Énimie we can, we will, we must, without making the
round by railway to Mende.'
After a good deal of somewhat painful excitement, a rueful inspection
of the only kind of vehicle that was practicable on the stony, uphill
Causse, the Helvellyn we wanted to climb, I gave in. Yes, it was out of
the question to drive for fourteen hours at a stretch, seated on such a
knifeboard. I had made a blunder in thinking eighty miles only eighty
miles under any circumstances. Crestfallen, and having in mind the
dictum of the great Lessing: 'Kein mensch muss müssen,' I again took in
hand maps and guidebooks. At this stage of affairs came to aid the
voiturier who had gallantly proposed to drive us to the top of the
Lozérien Helvellyn, provided we could sit on a knifeboard. He was one
of the handsomest men we saw in these parts, which is saying a good
deal. Tall, well-made, dignified, with superb features and rich
colouring, it seemed a thousand pities he should be only a carriage
proprietor in this out-of-the-way spot. He appeared, however, as every
other good-looking person does here, altogether unconscious of his
magnificent physique and striking features. What occupied him much more
was evidently his business, and the duty incumbent upon him to make
things pleasant to strangers.
'If these ladies,' he said in country fashion, thus addressing
ourselves--if these ladies will let me drive them to Millau, they can
have my most comfortable carriage, as the roads are excellent. They can
sleep at a good auberge on the way. From Millau it is only five hours
by railway to Mende, and from Mende only a four hours' drive to St.
Énimie.'
We joyfully hailed the proposal. It seemed a roundabout way to St.
Énimie, but it did seem a way; and, at any rate, if we were going back,
we were not going back to the precise point from which we had started.
My companion still persisted in the melancholy conviction that we
should never get to the Causses, but I comforted her with the
observation that if we did not get to the Causses, we should at all
events get somewhere. Before starting, our host presented us with a
letter of introduction to the master of the auberge at our
halting-place for the night--the little village of Nant, half-way
between Le Vigan and Millau.
'It is only an auberge,' he said apologetically; 'you must not expect
much. But the patron is a friend of mine; he will do his very best for
you after what I have written.'
The letter of introduction being, of course, an open one, we read it.
'Permit me to commend to your attentive care,' wrote the royal cook,
'two respectable ladies----' Here amusement got the better of
curiosity; we laid down the missive and had a hearty laugh over what
seemed at best a strange, almost ludicrous, compliment. Surely he might
have substituted an adjective of a more flattering nature, accorded us
some more winning attribute--charming, amiable, learned. Could we lay
claim to none of these?
I summed up the matter in our favour, after all. Such a testimony
coming from a courtier, as the chef of a king's cuisine must be called,
was, perhaps, the very highest he felt able to give; and to be
respectable means more than meets the ear.
Does not La Bruyère say: 'Un homme de bien est respectable par lui-même
et indépendamment de tous les dehors'? He had, perhaps, that axiom in
his mind.
Having sent on our four big boxes to Millau by diligence, we set off
for the first stage of our journey. The weather was perfect, and I
cannot at any time reconcile my experiences of French weather with
those of another ardent explorer of France a hundred years ago.
'Amusements,' wrote Arthur Young from the North of France in September,
1787, 'in truth, ought to be taken within doors, for in such a climate
none are to be depended on without; the rain that has fallen here is
hardly credible. I have, for five-and-twenty years past, remarked in
England that I never was prevented by rain from taking a walk every
day, with going out while it actually rains; it may fall heavily for
many hours, but a person who watches an opportunity gets a walk or a
ride. Since I have been at Liancourt we have had three days in
succession of such incessantly heavy rain that I could not go a hundred
yards from the house without danger of being quite wet. For ten days
more rain fell here, I am confident, had there been a gauge to measure
it, than ever fell in England in thirty.'
We are accustomed to reverse this comparison, and I should say that the
years 1787-88-89, during which the Suffolk squire journeyed through the
country on horseback, must have been revolutionary in a meteorological
as well as a political sense. I have now made travels and sojourns in
various parts of France during fifteen years, and I should say to all
who want sunshine for their holiday trip, go to France for it.
Upon this, as upon the occasion of former expeditions, a rainy day
never came except when a spell of bad weather was an unmitigated boon,
enforcing rest, and giving leisure for the utilization of daily
experiences.
On the whole, the route now decided upon has much to recommend it,
especially to travellers unfit for excessive fatigue. The drive from Le
Vigan to Millau is thus divided into two easy stages, and the scenery
for the greater part of the way is diversified and interesting.
Gradually winding upwards from the green hills surrounding our
favourite little town, its bright river, the Arre, playing
hide-and-seek as we go, we take a lonely road cut around barren, rocky
slopes covered with stunted foliage, here and there tiny enclosures of
corn crop or garden perched aloft.
The charm of this drive consists in the sharp contrasts presented at
unexpected turns. Now we are in a sweet, sunbright, sheltered valley,
where all is verdure and luxuriance. At every door are pink and white
oleanders in full bloom, in every garden peach-trees showing their
rich, ruby-coloured fruit--the handsome-leaved mulberry, the shining
olive, with lovely little chestnut-woods on the heights around. Now we
seem in a wholly different latitude. The vegetation and aspect of the
country are transformed. Instead of the vine, the peach, and the olive,
we are in a region of scant fruitage, and only the hardiest crops,
apple orchards sparsely mingled with fields of oats and rye. And yet
again we seem to be traversing a Scotch or Yorkshire moor--so vast and
lonely the heather-clad wastes, so bleak and wild the heavens.
But every zone has its wild-flowers. As we go on, our eyes rest upon
white salvias, the pretty Deptford pink, wild lavender, several species
of broom and ferns in abundance. The wild fig-tree grows here, and the
huge boulders are tapestried with box and bilberry. One rare lovely
flower I must especially mention--the exquisite, large-leaved blue flax
(the Linum perenne), that shone like a star amid the rest.
It is Sunday, and as we pass the village of Arre in its charming
valley, we meet streams of country folks dressed in their best,
enjoying a walk. No one was afield. Here, as in most other parts of
rural France, Sunday is regarded strictly as a day of rest.
After a long climb upwards, our road cut through the rock being a grand
piece of engineering, we come upon the works of a handsome railway
viaduct now in construction. This line, which, when finished, will
connect Le Vigan with Millau and Albi, will be an immense boon to the
inhabitants--one of the numerous iron roads laid by the Republican
Government in what had hitherto been forgotten parts of France. Close
to these works a magnificent cascade is seen, a sheet of glistening
white spray pouring down the dark, precipitous escarpment.
Hereabouts the barren, stony, wilderness-like country betokens the
region of the Causses. We are all this time winding round the rampart
like walls of the great Causse de Larzac, which stretches from Le Vigan
to Millau, rising to a height of 2,624 feet above the sea-level, and
covering an area of nearly a hundred square miles. This Causse affords
some interesting facts for evolutionists. The aridity, the absolutely
waterless condition of the Larzac, has evolved a race of non-drinking
animals. The sheep browsing the fragrant herbs of these plateaux have
altogether unlearned the habit of drinking, whilst the cows drink very
little. The much-esteemed Roquefort cheese is made from ewes' milk, the
non-drinking ewes of the Larzac. Is the peculiar flavour of the cheese
due to this non-drinking habit?
The desert-like tracts below this 'Table de pierre,' as M. Réclus calls
it, are alternated with very fairly cultivated farms. We see rye, oats,
clover, and hay in abundance, with corn ready for garnering.
Passing St. Jean de Bruel, where all the inhabitants have turned out to
attend a neighbour's funeral, we wind down amid chestnut woods and
pastures into a lovely little valley, with the river Dourbie, bluest of
the blue, gliding through the midst. Beyond stream and meadows rise
hills crested with Scotch fir, their slopes luxuriant with buck-wheat,
maize, and other crops--here and there the rich brown loam already
ploughed up for autumn sowing. Well-dressed people, well-kept roads,
neat houses, suggested peace and frugal plenty.
What a contrast did the little village of Nant present to Le Vigan! It
was like the apparition of an exquisitely-dressed, pretty girl, after
that of a slatternly beauty. Nant, 'proprette,' airy, well cared for,
wholesome; Le Vigan, dirty, draggle-tailed, neglected, yet in itself
possessed of quite as many natural attractions. We had been led to
expect a mere country auberge, decent shelter, no more--perhaps even
two-curtained, alcoved beds in a common sleeping-room! What was our
astonishment to find quite ideal rustic accommodation--quarters,
indeed, inviting on their own account a lengthy stay!
A winding stone staircase led from the street to the travellers'
quarters. Kitchen, salle-à-manger and bedrooms were all spick and span,
cool and quiet; our rooms newly furnished with beds as luxurious as
those of the Grand Hotel in Paris. Marble-topped washstands and
newly-tiled floors opened on to an outer corridor, the low walls of
which were set with roses and geraniums as in Italy. Below was a
poultry-yard. No other noise could disturb us but the cackling of hens
and the quacking of ducks. On the same floor was a dining-room and the
kitchen, but so far removed from us that we were as private as in a
suite of rooms at the celebrated Hôtel Bristol.
Nant is a quite delightful townling; we only wished we could stay there
for weeks. It is a very ancient place, but so far modernized as to be
clean and pleasant. The quaint, stone-covered arcades and bits of
mediæval architecture invite the artist; none, however, comes!
The sky-blue Dourbie runs amid green banks below the gray peak, rising
sheer above the town; around the congeries of old-world houses are
farms, gardens and meadows, little fields being at right angles with
the streets. In the large, open market-place, where fairs are held,
just outside the town, is a curious sight. The corn is gathered in, and
hither all the farmers round about have brought their wheat to be
threshed out by water-power.
Next morning, by half-past eight, our landlady fetched me to see some
farms. She was a delicate, even sickly-looking little woman, although
the mother of fine, healthful children, and very intelligent and
well-mannered. Without showing any inquisitiveness as to my object, she
at once readily acceded to my request that she should accompany me on a
round of inspection. First of all, however, and as, it seemed, a matter
of course, she carried me off to see the Bonnes Sœurs--in other words,
the nuns, often such important personages in rural places.
I had already seen so much of nuns, nunneries and the like, that I
sorely begrudged the time thus spent. Good manners forbade a demur.
There was nothing to do but to feign some slight interest in the
schoolrooms, dormitories, playground, chapel--facsimiles, as were the
nuns themselves, of what I had seen dozens of times before.
But one thing these nuns had to show I had never seen before. I allude
to their herbarium. The mother superior, so it seems, was a capital
herbalist and doctor, consulted in case of sickness by all the
country-folks for miles round, and, in order to supply her
pharmacopœia, had yearly collections made of all the medicinal plants
in which the neighbourhood abounds. Here in a drying chamber, exposed
to air and sun, were stores of wild lavender for sweetening the linen
presses; mallows, elder flowers, gentian, leaves of the red vine,
poppies, and many others used in medicine. What I was most interested
in was the vast stores of the so-called thé des Alpes, a little plant
of the sage tribe, of which I had heard at Gap, in the Hautes Alpes.
The country-people in that part of France, as in the Aveyron, use this
little plant largely as a febrifugal infusion; they also drink it as
tea. My landlady showed me great bundles of it that she had dried for
household use. The thought struck me, as I surveyed the mother
superior's herbarium--here is an excellent hint for the projectors of
home colonies. Surely, if poor people are to be made self-supporting in
one sense, they should be made so in all.
Why should not every home colony--for the matter of that, every
isolated village--have its medicine-chest of simple field remedies? The
originators of home colonies have only to translate that excellent
little sixpenny work, 'Les Rémèdes de Campagne,' written by Dr.
Saffray, and published by Hachette, and put it into the hands of these
backwoodsmen of the old country. The least intelligent would soon learn
to cure common ailments by the use of remedies ever at their doors, and
not costing a penny. Having taken leave of the nuns, madame la patrone
next conducted me to the country on the other side of the town,
stopping to chat with this acquaintance and that. I suppose lady
tourists are wholly unknown in these parts, for these good people,
having glanced at me, said to madame:
'A relation, I suppose, and you are showing her about?'
All seemed pleased to learn that I was an Englishwoman come to see
their corner of the world.
We then paid a visit to some elderly farming-folks, friends of hers,
just outside the town. We found the farmer and his wife at home, and
both received us very cordially. The old man had a shrewd, pleasant
face, and, without any ado or ceremony, bade me sit down beside him
whilst he finished his morning soup. I chatted to him of my numerous
travels in various parts of France, and after listening attentively for
some time, he said:
'You must be finely rich' (joliment riche) 'to travel as you do.'
'Not at all,' said I; 'my fortune is my pen. I see all that I can, and,
on my return to England, write a book for the amusement and instruction
of others, which more than covers the expense of my journey.'
The old man's eyes twinkled; he touched his forehead, and then said
something to his wife in patois. I laughingly begged him to translate
the remark, which he did with a smile.
'I said to my wife that you must have a good head' (une bien forte
tête) 'to do that.'
'Le bon Dieu has given me eyes to see and a memory to retain,' said I.
'I have only to look well about me and take note.'
He paused, and added after a little reflection:
'Above all, you must talk with learned people.'
'That is not always necessary,' I replied. 'On the contrary, what
serves my purpose best is to talk with country-folk like yourself, who
can tell me about the details of farming in these parts--prices, crops,
and so on--not with fine ladies and gentlemen, who do not know a turnip
when they see it growing.'
This observation seemed to gratify him exceedingly. We then talked of
land tenure in France and in England. When I made him understand that
the law of entail still existed in my country, he shook his head
gravely. When I added that the English peasant did not possess an acre
of land, a garden, not even a house or a cow, he looked graver still.
'Il faut que tout cela change' (All that will have to be changed), he
remarked; and I told him that I fully concurred in the sentiment, and
that a great change of opinion on this subject was taking place in
England.
His wife, who had meantime listened attentively to our conversation,
now joined in. The fact that we had no conscription seemed to strike
her more than any other piece of information I had as yet given.
'You English people are very fortunate,' she said. 'Think of what it is
to be a mother, and rear your son to the age of twenty, then to see him
torn from your arms and shot down by a mitrailleuse. War, indeed! Grand
Dieu! the world has seen enough of it.'
We then had a long talk on farming matters, the old man quite ready to
devote half an hour even at this time of the day to a stranger. Like
many another French peasant of the poorer class, he was the owner of a
house and garden only, his occupation being that of bailiff on the
estate of a large owner. Here, as everywhere else throughout France, a
great diversity may be seen in the matter of land tenure--peasant
properties from five acres upwards, large holdings either let on lease,
as in England, cultivated by their owners, or lastly, as in the present
instance, managed by farm stewards. The system of métayage, or
half-profits, is not in force.
On five acres, my informant told me, a man with thrift and intelligence
may rear and maintain a family. The crops are very varied, corn, maize,
oats, rye, buckwheat, hay, being the principal. Butter is not made on
any considerable scale, but sheep, pigs, goats, and poultry are reared
in abundance.
I have mentioned that this old man possessed a house and garden. Rare,
indeed, is it to find a deserving peasant without them in France! But
he let these, meantime occupying the large, rambling old farmhouse,
formerly an abbey, belonging to his employer. When too old to work, he
would, with his little savings, retire to the cottage, from which none
could eject him.
As will be seen, the agriculture in this part of the Aveyron presents
no special features. What strikes the stranger, as he rambles about the
well-cultivated belt of country immediately around Nant, is the
sobriety, contentment, and independence of the people. All are suitably
and tidily dressed. Of beggary there is not a trace, and if life is
laborious, the sense of independence lightens every burden.
At present the entire education of girls and that of little boys is in
the hands of the nuns. In spite of every attempt to render popular
education unsectarian throughout France, how long it will be ere the
same mental training is accorded both sexes--ere, to use Gambetta's
noble words, 'our girls and boys are made one by the understanding
before they are made one by the heart'! Is it any wonder that
Boulangism, miracle-seeking, or any other mental aberration, gets the
upper hand in France, so long as young girls are reared by convent-bred
women, and their brothers and lovers-to-be in the school of Littré,
Herbert Spencer, and Darwin?