THE CAÑON OF THE TARN.
Amid many cordial adieux we took our seats, the good old town
councillor having placed a well-packed basket at the bottom of the
boat. Excellent little restaurants await the traveller at the various
stations on the way, but all anxious to arrive at their journey's end
in good time will carry provisions with them.
The heavy gray mist hung about the scene for the first hour or two,
otherwise it must have been enchanting. Even the cold, monotonous
atmosphere could not destroy the grace and smilingness of the opening
stage of our journey--sweet Allegro Gracioso to be followed by stately
Andante, unimaginably captivating Capricioso to come next--climax of
the piece--the symphony closing with gentle, tender harmonies. Thus in
musical phraseology may be described the marvellous cañon or gorge of
the Tarn--like the pen of true genius, enchanting, whatever the theme.
Quiet as the scenery is at the beginning of the way, without any of the
sublimer features to awe us farther on, it is yet abounding in various
kinds of beauty. Above the pellucid, malachite-coloured river, at first
a mere narrow ribbon ever winding and winding, rise verdant banks, tiny
vineyards planted on almost vertical slopes, apple orchards, the bright
red fruit hanging over the water's edge, whilst willows and poplars
fringe the low-lying reaches, and here and there, a pastoral group,
some little Fadette keeps watch over her goats.
The mists rise at last by slow degrees. Soon high above we see the sun
gilding the limestone peaks on either side. Very gradually the heavens
clear, till at last a blue sky and warm sunshine bring out all the
enchantment of the scene.
The river winds perpetually between the bright green banks and shining
white cliffs. Occasionally we almost touch the mossy rocks of the
shore; the maiden-hair fern, the wild evening primrose, wild Michaelmas
daisy, blue pimpernel, fringed gentian, are so near we can almost
gather them, and so crystal-clear the untroubled waters, every
object--cliff, tree, and mossy stone--shows its double. We might at
times fancy ourselves but a few feet from the pebbly bottom, each stone
showing its bright clear outline. The iridescence of the rippling water
over the rainbow-coloured pebbles is very lovely.
All is intensely still, only the strident cry of the cicada, or the
tinkle of a cattle-bell, and now and then the hoarse note of some wild
bird break the stillness.
Before reaching the first stage of our journey the weather had become
glorious, and exactly suited to such an expedition. The heavens were
now of deep, warm, southern blue; brilliant sunshine lighted up
gold-green vineyard, rye-field bright as emerald, apple-orchard and
silvery parapet on either side.
But these glistening crags, rearing their heads towards the intense
blue sky, these idyllic scenes below, are only a part of what we see.
Midway between the verdant reaches of this enchanting river and its
sheeny cliffs, between which we glide so smoothly, rise stage upon
stage of beauty: now we see a dazzlingly white cascade tumbling over
stair after stair of rocky ledge; now we pass islets of greenery
perched half-way between river and limestone crest, with many a combe
or close-shut cleft bright with foliage running down to the water's
edge.
Little paths, laboriously cut about the sides of the Causses on either
side, lead to the hanging vineyards, fields and orchards, so
marvellously created on these airy heights, inaccessible fastnesses of
Nature. And again and again the spectator is reminded of the axiom:
'The magic of property turns sands to gold.' No other agency could have
effected such miracles. Below these almost vertical slopes of the
Causse, raised a few feet only above the water's edge, cabbage and
potato beds have been cultivated with equal laboriousness, the soil,
what little of soil there is, being very fertile.
On both sides we see many-tinted foliage in abundance: the shimmering
white satin-leaved aspen, the dark rich alder, the glossy walnut,
yellowing chestnut, and many others.
Few and far between are herdsmen's cottages, now perched on the rock,
now built close to the water's edge. We can see their vine-trellised
balconies and little gardens, and sometimes the pet cats run down to
the water's edge to look at us.
And all this time, from the beginning of our journey to the end, the
river winds amid the great walls of the Causses--to our left the spurs
of the Causse Méjean; to our right those of Sauveterre. We are
gradually realizing the strangeness and sublimity of these bare
limestone promontories--here columns white as alabaster--a group having
all the grandeur of mountains, yet no mountains at all, their summits
vast plateaux of steppe and wilderness, their shelving sides dipping
from cloudland and desolation into fairy-like loveliness and fertility.
St. Chély, our first stage, comes to an end in about an hour and a half
from the time of leaving St. Énimie. We now change boatmen--punters, I
should rather call them. The navigation of the Tarn consists in skilful
punting, every inch of the passage being rendered difficult by rocks
and shoals, to say nothing of the rapids.
Here our leading punter was a cheery, friendly miller--like the host of
the hotel at St. Énimie, a municipal councillor. No better specimen of
the French peasant gradually developing into the gentleman could be
found. The freedom from coarseness or vulgarity in these amateur
punters of the Tarn is indeed quite remarkable. Isolated from great
social centres and influences of the outer world as they have hitherto
been, there is yet no trace either of subservience, craftiness, or
familiarity. Their frank, manly bearing is of a piece with the
integrity and openness of their dealings with strangers.
Shrewd, chatty, kindly, the municipal councillor--Bernard by
name--showed the greatest interest in us, his easy manners never
verging on impertinence. He was much pleased to learn that I had come
all the way from England in order to describe these regions for my
country-folks, and told us of the rapidly increasing number of French
tourists.
'It is astonishing!' he said--'quite astonishing! Two or three years
ago we had a score or two of gentlemen only; then we had fifty in one
summer; now we have hundreds--ladies as well; hardly a day passes
without tourists. I have to leave the management of my mill to my son,
as I am perpetually wanted on the river at this season of the year.'
'Such an influx of strangers must surely do good in the country?' I
asked.
'Ça ne fait pas de mal' (It does no harm), was his laconic reply; but
one could see from his look of satisfaction that he highly appreciated
the pacific invasion. The plain truth of the matter is, that the Cañon
du Tarn is proving a mine of wealth to these frugal, ingenuous peasants.
How pleasant to reflect that the gold thus showered into their laps by
Nature will not be squandered on vice or folly, but carefully
husbanded, and put to the best possible uses! What the effect of a
constantly-increasing prosperity may be on future generations, no one
can predict. Certain we may be that the hard-earned savings of these
village mayors and municipal councillors will go to the purchase of
land. The process of turning sands to gold will proceed actively; more
and yet more waste will be redeemed, and made fertile.
A charming château, most beautifully placed, adorns the banks of the
river between St. Chély and La Malène; alas! untenanted, its owner
being insane. Nowhere could be imagined a lovelier holiday resort; no
savagery in the scenes around, although all is silent and solitary;
park-like bosquets and shadows around; below, long narrow glades
leading to the water's edge.
At La Malène, reached about noon, we stop for half an hour, and
breakfast under the shade. Never before did cold pigeon, hard-boiled
eggs, and water from the stream have a better flavour. Our municipal
councillor was much concerned that we had no wine, and offered us his
own bottle, which we were regretfully obliged to refuse, not being
claret-drinkers. Then, seeing that our supply of bread was somewhat
small, he cut off two huge pieces, and brought them to us in his bare
hands. This offer we gratefully accepted.
'Ah! what weather, what weather!' he said. 'You said your prayers to
good purpose this morning. This is the day for the Tarn.'
Magnificent was the day, indeed, and sorely did La Malène tempt us to a
halt. It is a little oasis of verdure and luxuriance between two arid
chasms--flake of emerald wedged in a cleft of barren rock. The hamlet
itself, like most villages of the Lozère, has a neglected appearance.
Very fair accommodation, however, is to be had at the house of the
brothers Montginoux, our boatmen for the next stage, and all
travellers, especially good walkers, should make a halt here if they
can.
For ourselves, two motives hastened departure. In the first place, we
had heard of formidable rivals in the field; in other words,
competitors for whatever rooms were to be had at our destination, Le
Rozier. Three distinguished personages, deputies of the Lozère, were
making the same journey; whether before us or behind us, we could not
exactly make out. One thing was certain: like ourselves, they were
bound for Le Rozier. This alarming piece of information, coming as it
did on the heels of our last night's experience, made us doubly anxious
to get to our journey's end and insure rooms. What if we arrived to
find the auberge full--not an available corner anywhere, except,
perhaps, in the general bedchamber left for belated waifs and strays,
such as Mr. Robert Louis Stevenson describes in his voyage with a
donkey?
Again the weather, although most favourable for to-day's excursion,
betokened change. The light fleecy clouds playing about the summits of
the Causses, on either side grew heavier in appearance. We must hasten
on. We heard, too, a pitiful story of two American ladies who had
lately made this journey in a perpetual downpour, arriving at Le Rozier
drenched to the skin, and having seen nothing. We had not crossed the
Atlantic certainly to shoot the rapids of the Tarn, but it would be
deplorable even to have come from Hastings and meet with such a fiasco.
We now took leave of our worthy miller and his companion, giving a
liberal pourboire, as I am sure all travellers will do. It must be
borne in mind that the return journey occupies the punters three or
four times the duration of the journey downstream. Each stage is an
entire day's work, therefore, for which the tariff alone is
insufficient remuneration. Our new boatmen are the brothers
Montginoux--young men, very pleasant, very intelligent, and exceedingly
skilful in their business. The elder, who stands with his face towards
us, is full of enthusiasm for the scenery, and knows the river so well
that during the greater part of the way he is able to chat to us,
pointing out every remarkable feature in the shifting scene, and giving
us a good deal of information.
Both brothers, as is the universal rule in these parts, are exceedingly
good-looking, and have that frank, dignified manner characteristic of
the French peasant at his best. Peasant, did I say? These young men
might have passed for gentlemen anywhere; they are instances of the
great social transformation taking place throughout France. 'Le paysan,
c'est l'aristocrat de l'avenir,' French people say; and true enough we
see every day sons of peasants like the late Paul Bert, enrolled in the
professional ranks, attaining not only a respectable position, but
eminence in science, literature, and art. Turn over a dictionary of
French contemporary biography--how often do these words come after a
well-known, even distinguished, name: 'Fils d'un paysan'!
The first care of our young punters was to cut willow-branches, and
spread at the bottom of the boat in order to keep our feet dry. Do what
they will, the boat is flooded from time to time, and but for this
precaution renewed at intervals, we should be in sore discomfort.
On quitting La Malène, with its fairy-like dells, hanging woods, and
lawny spaces, the third and most magnificent stage of our journey is
entered upon, the first glimpse preparing us for marvels to come.
Smiling above the narrow dark openings in the rock are vineyards of
local renown. Here and there a silvery cascade flashes in the distance;
then a narrow bend of the river brings us in sight of the frowning crag
of Planiol crowned with massive ruins, the stronghold of the sire of
Montesquieu, which under Louis XIII. arrested the progress of the
rebellious Duke de Rohan.
For let it not be supposed that these solitudes have no history. We
must go much farther back than the seigneurial crusades of the great
Richelieu, or the wholesale exterminations of Merle, the Protestant
Alva or Attila, in the religious wars of the Cévennes-farther back even
than the Roman occupation of Gaul, when we would describe the townlings
of the Causses and the banks of the Tarn. Their story is of more
ancient date than any of recorded time. The very Causses, stony, arid
wildernesses, so unpropitious to human needs, so scantily populated in
our own day, were evidently inhabited from remote antiquity. Not only
have dolmens, tumuli, and bronze implements been found hereabouts in
abundance, but also cave-dwellings and traces of the Age of Stone.
Prehistoric man was indeed more familiar with the geography of these
regions than even learned Frenchmen of to-day. When, as I have before
mentioned, in 1879 a member of the French Alpine Club asked the
well-known geographer Joanne if he could give him any information as to
the Causses and the Cañon du Tarn, his reply was the laconic:
'None whatever. Go and see.'
It would take weeks, not days, to explore these scenes from the
archæological or geological point of view. I will content myself with
describing what is in store for the tourist.
We now enter the defile or détroit, at which point grace and
bewitchingness are exchanged for sublimity and grandeur, and the
scenery of the Causses and the Tarn reach their acme. The river,
narrowed to a thread, winds in and out, forcing laborious way between
the lofty escarpments, here all but meeting, yet one might almost fancy
only yesterday rent asunder.
It is as if two worlds had been violently wrenched apart, the cloven
masses rising perpendicularly from the water's edge, in some places
confronting each other, elsewhere receding, always of stupendous
proportions. What convulsive forces of Nature brought about this
severance of vast promontories that had evidently been one? By what
marvellous agency did the river force its way between? Some cataclysmal
upheaval would seem to account for such disrupture rather than the
infinitely slow processes suggested by geological history.
Meantime, the little boat glides amid the vertical rocks--walls of
crystal spar--shutting in the river, touching as it seems the blue
heavens, peak, parapet, ramparts taking multiform hues under the
shifting clouds, now of rich amber, now dazzlingly white, now deep
purple or roseate. And every one of these lofty shafts, so majestic of
form, so varied of hue, is reflected in the transparent green water,
the reflections softening the awful grandeur of the reality. Nothing,
certes, in nature can surpass this scene; no imagination can prefigure,
no pen or pencil adequately portray it. Nor can the future fortunes of
the district vulgarize it! The Tarn, by reason of its remoteness, its
inaccessibility--and, to descend to material considerations, its
expensiveness as an excursion--can never, fortunately, become one of
the cheap peep-shows of the world.
The intense silence heightens the impressiveness of the wonderful hour,
only the gentle ripple of the water, only the shrill note of the cicada
at intervals, breaks the stillness. We seem to have quitted the
precincts of the inhabited familiar world, our way lying through the
portals of another, such as primeval myth or fairy-tale speak of,
stupendous walls of limestone, not to be scaled by the foot or measured
by the eye, hemming in our way.
This defile, so fancy pictures, was surely the work of Titans in the
age of the ancient gods; their play, their warfare, were over hundreds
of thousands of years ago: only these witnesses left to tell of their
greatness! The famous Cirque des Baumes may be described as a double
wall lined with gigantic caves and grottoes. Here it is the fantastic
and the bizarre that hold the imagination captive. Fairies, but fairies
of eld, of giant race, have surely been making merry here! One and all
have vanished; their vast sunlit caverns, opening sheer on to the
glassy water, remain intact; high above may their dwellings be seen,
airy open chambers under the edge of the cliffs, deep corridors winding
right through the wall of rock, vaulted arcades midway between base and
peak, whence a spring might be made into the cool waves below. All is
still on a colossal scale, but playful, capricious, phantasmagoric.
Nor when we alight at the Pas de Soucis are these features wanting.
Here the river, a narrow green ribbon, disappears altogether, its way
blocked with huge masses of rock, as of some mountain split into
fragments and hurled by gigantic hands from above.
The spectacle recalls the opening lines of the great Promethean drama
of the Greek poet. Truly we seem to have reached the limit of the
world, the rocky Scythia, the uninhabited desert! The bright sunshine
and balmy air hardly soften the unspeakable savagery and desolation of
the scene, fitting background for the tragedy of the fallen Fire-giver.
Dominating the whole, as if threatening to fall, adding chaos to chaos,
and filling up the vast chasm altogether, are two frowning masses of
rock, the one a monolith, the other a huge block. Confronting each
other, tottering as it seems on their thrones, we can fancy the
profound silence broken at any moment by the crashing thunder of their
fall, only that last catastrophe needed to crown the prevailing gloom
and grandeur.