ST. ÉNIMIE.
How can I describe the unimaginable picturesqueness of this little town
wedged in between the crowding hills, dropped like a pebble to the
bottom of a mountain-girt gulf?
St. Énimie has grown terrace-wise, zigzagging the steep sides of the
Causse, its quaint spire rising in the midst of rows of whitewashed
houses, with steel-gray overhanging roofs, vine-trellised balconies,
and little hanging gardens perched aloft. On all sides just outside the
town are vineyards, now golden in hue, peach-trees and almond groves,
whilst above and far around the gray walls of the Causse shut out all
but the meridian rays of the sun.
As I write this, at six o'clock on the evening of the 5th of September,
the last crimson flush of the setting sun lingers on the sombre,
grandiose Causse Méjean. All the rest of the scene, the lower ranges
around, are in a cool gray shadow: silvery the spire and roofs just
opposite my window, silvery the atmosphere of the entire picture.
Nothing can be more poetic in colour, form, and combination.
Close under my room are vegetable gardens and orchards, whilst in
harmony with the little town, and adding a still greater look of
old-worldness, are the arched walls of the old château-fort. As evening
closes in, the fascination of the scene deepens; spire and roofs,
shadowy hill and stern mountain fastness, are all outlined in pale,
silvery tones against a pure pink and opaline sky, the greenery of near
vine and peach-tree all standing out in bold relief, blotches of
greenish gold upon a dark ground. I must describe our inn, the most
rustic we had as yet met with, nevertheless to be warmly recommended on
account of the integrity and bonhomie of the people.
Somewhat magniloquently called the Hôtel St. Jean, our hostelry is an
auberge placing two tiny bedchambers and one large and presumably
general sleeping-room at the disposal of visitors. We had, as usual,
telegraphed for two of the best rooms to be had. So the two tiny
chambers were reserved for us, the only approach to them being through
the large room outside furnished with numerous beds. The tourist,
therefore, has a choice of evils--a small inner room to himself,
looking on to the town and gardens, or a bed in the large outer one
beyond, the latter arrangement offering more liberty, freedom of
ingress and egress, but less privacy. However, the rooms did well
enough. A decent bed, a table, a chair, quiet--what does the weary
traveller want beside?
Here, as at Le Vigan, we were received with a courteous friendliness
that made up for all shortcomings. The master, a charming old man, a
member of the town council (conseiller municipale), at once accompanied
me to the post-office, where the young lady post-mistress produced
letters and papers, probably the first English newspapers ever stamped
with the mark of St. Énimie. The townsfolk stared at me in the
twilight, but without offensive curiosity, I may here give a hint to
future explorers of my own sex, that it is just as well to buy one's
travelling-dress and head-gear in France. An outlandish appearance,
sure to excite observation, is thus avoided. In the meantime the common
inquiry was put to us, 'What will you have for dinner?' It really
seemed as if we only needed to ask for any imaginable dish to get it,
so rich in resources was this little larder at the world's end. The
exquisite trout of the Tarn, here called the Tar; game in abundance and
of excellent quality; a variety of fruit and vegetables-such was the
dainty fare displayed in the tiny back parlour leading out of the
kitchen. Soup in these parts, it must be confessed, is not very good.
In other respects we fared as well for our five francs per diem,
including lights and attendance, as if at some big Paris hotel paying
our twenty-five!
The fastidious are warned that certain luxuries we have learned to
regard as necessary to existence are unheard of in the Lozère. A bell,
for instance--as well expect to find a bell here as in Noah's Ark! A
very good preparation for this journey would be the perusal of Tieck's
humorous novelette called 'Life's Superfluities' (Des Lebens
Uberfluss), wherein he shows that with health, a cheerful disposition,
and sympathetic companionship, we may do without anything in the way of
an extra at all. Shelter, covering, bed--beyond these all is mere
superfluity.
Having dined, we made inquiries as to the morrow's journey on the Tarn,
and that somewhat portentous shooting of the rapids we longed for, yet
could hardly help shrinking from.
Our host soon set our minds at rest, and smiled when I suggested
discomfort and peril.
'Make your minds easy,' he said; 'I will myself answer for your safety.'
He then gave me the following printed programme of the day's excursion,
which I translate below, as it shows into what excellent hands the
stranger falls at St. Énimie. The most timid lady travellers may safely
trust themselves to these town councillors and maires of the little
villages bordering the Tarn. Not only will they be taken he very
greatest care of; not only are they perfectly secure from any form of
extortion: they make acquaintance throughout every stage of the way
with the very best type of French peasant, a class of men, as will be
shown in these pages, of whom any country might justly be proud. I have
now a fairly representative experience of the French peasant. The
dignity, sobriety, and intelligence of the Lozérien I have nowhere
found surpassed. It was a happy thought of the leading men in these
parts to organize a kind of tourist agency among themselves, thus
keeping out strangers and speculators sure to spoil the business by
overcharges. A village mayor here, a municipal councillor there, in all
about a score of the inhabitants, have formed what they call 'La
Compagnie de Batellerie St. Jean,' which ensures the traveller a fixed
tariff, good boats, and, above all, experienced boatmen, for what is
during the last stage of the way a somewhat hazardous journey. The
prospectus runs thus:
'NOTICE TO TOURISTS.
'The Hôtel St. Jean at St. Énimie places at the disposal of tourists a
service of boats between that town and Le Rozier.
'The service is divided into four stages, the entire journey without
halt occupying six hours.
'The corresponding members of the company at the four stations are as
follows:
'At St. Énimie, St. Jean, hotel proprietor and town councillor.
'At St. Chély, Bernard, town councillor.
'At La Malène, Casimir Montginoux, hotel proprietor.
'At St. Préjet, Alphonse Solanet, mayor.
'The charge for the complete transit, whether the boat numbers one
passenger or several, is forty-two francs, which may be paid to any of
the boatmen or at any stage of the journey.'
St. Énimie is what Gibbon calls 'an aged town,' its sponsor and
foundress being a Merovingian princess. For the pretty legend
concerning this musically-named maiden, I refer readers to the
guide-books, liking better to fill my pages with my own experiences
than with matter to be had for the asking elsewhere.
Had it been somewhat earlier in the year, we might perhaps have decided
to make a little stay here. But in the height of summer the heat is
torrid on the Roof of France. In winter the cold is Arctic, and there
is no autumn in the accepted sense of the word; winter might be at
hand. We were advised by those in whose interest it was that we should
remain, to lose no time and hurry on. Having bespoken the four relays
of boatmen for next day, we betook ourselves to our little rooms,
somewhat relieved by the fact that we were the only travellers, and
that the large, general bedroom adjoining our own would be therefore
untenanted. We had reckoned without our host, the comfortable beds
therein being evidently occupied by various members of the family when
the tourist season was slack. We were composing ourselves to sleep,
each in our own chamber, when we heard the old master and mistress of
the house, with some little grandchildren, steal upstairs and, quiet as
mice, betake themselves to bed. Then all was hushed for the night.
Only one sound broke the stillness. Between one and two in the morning
our driver descended from his attic. A quarter of an hour later there
was a noise of wheels, pattering hoofs, and harness bells. He had
started, as he told us was his intention, on his homeward journey,
traversing the dark, solitary Causse alone, with only his lantern to
show the way. Soon after five o'clock our old host, evidently
forgetting that he had such near neighbours, or perhaps imagining that
nothing could disturb weary travellers, began to chat with his wife,
and before six, one and all of the family party had gone downstairs. I
threw open my casement to find the witchery of last night vanished,
cold gray mist enshrouding the delicious little picture, with its
grandiose, sombre background. That clinging mist seemed of evil
bodement for our expedition. Ought we to start on a long day's river
journey in such weather? Yet could we stay?
I confess that there was something eerie in the isolation and
remoteness of St. Énimie. Compared to the savagery and desolation of
the Causses, it was a little modern Babylon--a corner of Paris, a bit
of boulevard and bustle, but with such narrow accommodation, and with
such limited means of locomotion at disposal, the prospect of a stay
here in bad weather was, to say the least of it, disconcerting. I
prepared in any case for a start, made my tea, performed my toilet, and
packed my bag as briskly as if a bright sun were shining, which true
enough it was, although we could not see!
When, soon after seven o'clock, I descended to the kitchen, I found our
first party of boatmen busily engaged over their breakfast, and all
things in readiness for departure.
'The sun is already shining on the Causse,' said our old host. 'This
mist means fine weather. Trust me, ladies, you could not have a better
day.'
We did our best to put faith in such felicitous augury. Punctually at
eight o'clock, accompanied by the entire household of the little Hôtel
St. Jean, we descended to the landing-place, two minutes' walk only
from its doors.