FROM MENDE TO ST. ÉNIMIE.
So, just upon twelve months later, I once more found myself climbing to
the summit of the lofty plateau between Mende and St. Énimie.
It was a fortnight earlier in the year, and the weather was perfect;
light clouds that had threatened rain cleared off, mild sunshine
brightened the scene, and the air, although brisk and invigorating, was
by no means cold. Still more enticing now looked the billowy swell of
gold and purple mountains, and the dark cliffs frowning over green
valleys. To-day, too, the exhilarating conviction of fulfilment was
added to that of looking forward. A second time I had reached the
threshold of the long-dreamed-of region of marvels, at last really to
cross it and enter in.
I was on my way to the Causses at last! More striking and beautiful
than when first seen now seemed the upward drive from Mende--the
beautiful gray cathedral cushioned against the soft green hills, the
cheerful little town in its fertile valley, its wild entourage of
far-stretching waste and barren peak. More musical still sounded in my
ears the purling of the Lot, as unseen it ran between sunny pastures
over its stony bed far below.
Little I thought, indeed, although of firm intention, when making the
journey so far twelve months all but two weeks ago, that on this 5th of
September, 1888, I should be gazing on the same scene--a scene
reminding me now, as then, of the vast reedy plateau gazed on at Saïda,
dividing the Algerian traveller from the Sahara.
This time I did not stop to make tea gipsy-wise on the turf in front of
the farmhouse; nor, to my disappointment, did the children run out to
share the contents of my bonbon-box. Not a soul was abroad; an eldritch
solitude reigned everywhere.
The Causse of Sauveterre is not reached till we have left the farmhouse
and ruined château far behind. From that point the roads diverge, and
we see our own leading to St. Énimie wind like a ribbon till lost to
view in the gray, stony wilderness.
A considerable portion of the land hereabouts is cultivated. We see
little patches of rye, oats, Indian corn, clover, potatoes, and here
and there a peasant ploughing up the soil with oxen.
As we proceed, the enormous horizon ever widens; long shadows fleck the
purply-brown and orange-coloured undulations; scattered sparsely are
little flocks of sheep, of a rich burnt-umber-brown, but herbage is
scant and little cattle can be nourished here. The swelling hills now
show new and more grandiose outlines; at last we come in sight of the
dark mass of the Causse de Sauveterre, and soon we enter upon the true
'Caussien' landscape in all its weird and sombre grandeur. Just as when
fairly out on the open sea we realize to the full its beauty and sense
of infinity, so it is here. The farther we go the wider, more
bewilderingly vast becomes the horizon: wave upon wave, billow upon
billow, now violet-hued, with a tinge of gold; now deep brown, partly
veiled with green, or roseate with sunlit clouds--the gray monotony of
stone and waste is thus varied by the way.
By the roadside slender trees of the hornbeam tribe are planted at
intervals, and where these are wanting, tall flagstaffs take their
place, to guide the wayfarer when six feet of snow cover the ground.
Wild-flowers in plenty brighten the edges of the road--stonecrops,
cornflowers, purple 'lady's fingers,' and many others; but wedged as we
are in our not too comfortable calèche, to get out and pluck them is
impossible.
The road from Mende to the summit of the plateau can only be described
as a vertical ascent; before beginning to descend, we have a few
kilomètres of level, that is all. As we approach the village of
Sauveterre, we see one or two wild figures--shepherds, uncouth in
appearance as Greek herdsmen; poorly dressed, but robust-looking,
well-made girls and women, short-skirted, bare-headed, footing it
bravely under the now hot sun.
Portions of the land on either side consist of waste, quite recently
laid under cultivation; the huge blocks of stone have been wrenched up,
heaven knows how, and conspicuously piled up in the midst of the
newly-created field, a veritable trophy. How much more commendable than
that commemorative of blood-stained victory! The rich red earth amply
repays these Herculean labours. With regard to the tenure of land, I
should suppose the state of things here must be very much what it was
in the age of primitive man. I fancy that any native of these parts,
any true Caussenard, has only to clear a bit of waste and plant a crop
to make it his own; a stranger would doubtless have his right to do so
contested, or, maybe, some patriarchal system is still in force, and
the village community is not yet extinct in France.
'Voilà la capitale de Sauveterre!' soon cries our driver, pointing to a
cluster of bare brown, apparently windowless, houses, and a tiny
church, all grouped picturesquely together.
A poor-looking place it was enough when we obtained a nearer view,
reminding me of a Kabyle village more than anything else; not, however,
brightened with olive or fig tree! Nothing in the shape of a garden is
to be seen, only dull walls of close-set dwellings, with narrow paths
between. Windows, however, our driver assured us, were there; but the
village is built with its back to the road.
The great privation of these poor people is that of a regular
water-supply--one large, by no means pellucid, pond, with cisterns, are
all the sources they can rely upon from one end of the year to the
other; not a fountain issues from the limestone for miles round, not a
stream waters the entire Causse, a region extensive as Dartmoor or
Salisbury Plain. When we consider that this plateau has a height above
the sea-level equal to that of Skiddaw, we can easily imagine what the
long eight months' winter here is like. For the greater part of the
time the country is under several feet of snow, and the Caussenard
warms his poor tenement as best he can with peat.
It was curious to hear our conductor, himself evidently accustomed to a
hard, laborious life, speak of the inhabitants of Sauveterre. He
described their condition much as a well-to-do English artisan might
speak of the half-starved foreign victims of the sweater--so wide is
the gulf dividing the Caussenard from the French peasant proper.
'Just think of it,' he said; 'they don't even dress the rye for their
bread, but eat it made of husks and all. Rye-bread, bacon, potatoes,
that is their fare, and water: if it were only good water one would
have nothing to say--bad water they drink. But they are contented,
pardie.'
'What do they do for a doctor?' I asked.
He made a curious grimace.
'They doctor themselves till they are at the point of death, and then
send for a doctor. But it is not often. They are healthy enough,
pardie!'
With regard to the ministrations of religion, they are in the position
of dalesfolk in some parts of Dauphiné. A curé from St. Énimie, he told
us, performed Mass once a fortnight in summer, and came over as
occasion required for baptisms, marriages, and burials. In winter alike
ordinary Mass and these celebrations were stopped by the snow. The
services of the priest had then to be dispensed with for weeks, even
months, at a time.
I next tried to gain some information as to schools, but here my
informant was not very clear. Yes, he said, there was schooling in
summer; whether lay or clerical, whether the children were taught the
Catechism in their mother-tongue--in other words, the patois of the
Causse--or in French, I could not learn.
Do these wild-looking mountaineers exercise the electoral privilege? Do
they go to the poll, and what are their political views? Are their sons
drafted off, as the rest of French youth, into military service? Does a
newspaper, even the ubiquitous _Petit Journal_, penetrate into these
solitudes? It was difficult to get a satisfactory answer to all my
questions, and quite useless to make a tour of inquiry in the village.
One must speak the patois of the Caussenard to obtain his confidence,
and though the population is inoffensive, even French tourists are
advised on no account to adventure themselves in these parts without
being accompanied by a native of the country.
One thing is quite certain: The four thousand and odd wild,
sheepskin-wearing inhabitants of the entire region of the Causses must
erelong be nationalized--like the Breton and the Morvandial, undergo a
gradual and complete transformation. Travellers of another generation
on this road will not be stared at by the fierce-looking, picturesque
figures we now pass in the precincts of Sauveterre. Brigands they might
be, judging from their shaggy beards, unkempt locks, and Robinson
Crusoe-like dress; also their fixed, almost dazed, look inspires
anything but confidence. Still, we must remember that Sauveterre is in
the Lozère, and that the Lozère enjoys the enviable pre-eminence of
'white assizes'--a clean bill of moral health.
After quitting the village, which has a deserted look as of a
plague-stricken place, the road descends. We now follow the rim of a
far-stretching, tremendous ravine, its wooded sides running
perpendicularly down. For miles we drive along this giddy road, the
only protection being a stone wall not two feet high. The road,
however, is excellent, our little horses steady and sure-footed, and
our driver very careful. We are, indeed, too much interested in the
scenery to heed the frightful precipices within a few inches of our
carriage-wheels. But the retrospection makes one giddy. The least
accident or mishap, contingencies not dwelt upon whilst jogging on
delightfully under a bright sky, might, or rather must, here end in a
tragedy. Tourists should be quite sure of both driver and horses before
undertaking this drive.
By-and-by the prospect becomes inexpressibly grand, till the impression
of magnificence culminates as our road begins literally to drop down
upon St. Énimie, as yet invisible. Our journey must now be compared to
the descent from cloud-land in a balloon. Meantime, the stupendous
panorama of dark, superbly-outlined mountain-wall closes in. We seem to
have reached the limit of the world. Before us, a Titanic rampart,
rises the grand Causse Méjean, now seen for the first time; around,
fold upon fold, are the curved heights of Sauveterre, the nearer slopes
bright green with sunny patches, the remoter purply black.
It is a wondrous spectacle--wall upon wall of lofty limestone, making
what seems an impenetrable barrier, closing around us, threatening to
shut out the very heavens; at our feet an ever-narrowing mountain pass
or valley, the shelves of the rock running vertically down.
When at last from our dizzy height our driver bids us look down, we
discern the gray roofs of St. Énimie wedged between the congregated
escarpments far below, the little town lying immediately under our
feet, as the streets around St. Paul's when viewed from the dome. We
say to ourselves we can never get there. The feat of descending those
perpendicular cliffs seems impossible. It does not do to contemplate
the road we have to take, winding like a ribbon round the upright
shafts of the Causse. Follow it we must. We are high above the
inhabited world, up in cloudland; there is nothing to do but descend as
best we can; so we trust to our good driver and steady horses, obliged
to follow the sharply-winding road at walking pace. And bit by bit--how
we don't know--the horizontal zigzag is accomplished. We are down at
last!