_THE VALLEY OF THE SEINE._
In the fruitful hills that border the river Seine, and form part of the
great watershed of Lower Normandy, Nature has poured forth her
blessings; and her daughters, who are here lightly sketched, dispense
her bounties.
It is a pleasant thing to pass homeward through this 'food-producing'
land--to go leisurely from town to town, and see something more of
country life in Normandy--to see the laden orchards, the cattle upon the
hills, and the sloping fields of corn. It is yet early in the autumn,
but the variety of colour spread over the landscape is delightful to the
eye; the rich brown of the buckwheat, the bright yellow mustard; the
green pastures by rivers, and the poppies in the golden corn; the
fields, divided by high hedges, and interspersed with mellowed trees;
the orchards raining fruit that glitters in the sunshine as it falls;
the purple heath, the luxuriant ferns. There is '_une recolte
magnifique_' this year, and the people have but one thought--'the
gathering in;' the country presents to us a picture--not like Watteau's
'_fêtes galantes_,' but rather that of an English harvest-home.
We are in the midst of the cornfields near Villers-sur-mer, and the
hill-side is glorious; it is covered to the very summit with
riches--the heavily-laden corn-stems wave their crests against a blue
horizon, whilst, in a cleft of the hill, a long line of poppies winds
downwards in one scarlet stream. They are set thickly in some places,
and form a blaze of colour, inconceivably, painfully brilliant--a
concentration of light as utterly beyond our power of imitation by the
pencil, as genius is removed from ordinary minds. We could not paint it
if we would, but we may see in it an allegory of plenty, and of peace
(of that peace which France so urgently desires); we may see her
blood-red banner of war laid down to garland the hill-side with its
crimson folds, and her children laying their offerings at the feet of
Ceres and forgetting Mars altogether. The national anthem becomes no
longer a natural refrain--anything would sound more appropriate than
'partant pour la Syrie' (there is no time for _that_ work)--to our
little friend in fluttering blouse, who sits in the grass and 'minds'
fifty head of cattle by moral force alone; we should rather sing:--
'Little boy blue, come blow me your horn,
The orchards are laden, the cow 's in the corn!'
* * * * *
We cannot leave this pastoral scene, at least until the evening; when
the sun goes down behind the sea--leaving a glow upon the hill-side and
upon the crowd of gleaners who have just come up, and casts long shadows
across the stubble and on the sheaves of corn; when the harvest moon
shines out, and the picture is completed--the corn--sheaves lighted on
one side by the western glow, on the other by the moon; like the famous
shield over which knights did battle,--one side silver, the other gold.
All this time we are within sight, and nearly within sound, of the
'happy hunting grounds' of Trouville and Deauville, but the country
people are singularly unaffected by the proximity of those pretty
towns, invented by Dumas and peopled by his following.[52] It is true
that on the walls of a little village inn, there is something paraded
about a 'Trouville Association, Limited,' and a company for 'the passage
of the Simplon,' with twenty-franc shares; but these things do not seem
to find much favour amongst the thrifty peasantry. They have, in their
time, been tempted to unearth their treasures, and to invest in bubble
companies like the rest of the world; but there is a reaction here, the
Normans evidently thinking, like the old Colonnæ, that a hole in the
bottom of the garden is about the safest place after all. And they have,
it is true, some other temptations which come to them with a cheap
press, such as '_la sureté financière_,' '_le moniteur des tirages
financiers_,' '_le petit moniteur financier_,' &c., newspapers whose
special business it is, to teach the people how to get rid of their
savings, we are speaking, of course, of the comparatively uneducated
agricultural population--the farmers, all through the district we have
come, especially near Vire and Falaise, being rich _propriétaires_ and
investing largely; and there are many other things in these half-penny
French newspapers which find their way into these remote corners of
France, which must make the curé sometimes regret that he had taught his
flock to read. In a little paper which lies before us, the first article
is entitled '_Le miroir du diable_;' then follows a long account of a
poisoning case in Paris, and some songs from a _café chantant_,
interspersed with illustrations of the broadest kind. But let us not be
too critical; we have seen many things in France which would startle
Englishmen, but nothing, we venture to say, more harmful in its
tendency, than the weekly broad-sheet of crime which is spread out over
our own land (to the number, the proprietors boast, of at least a
hundred thousand[53]), wherein John and Jane, who can only sign their
names with a cross, read in hideous cartoons, suggestions of cruelty and
crime more revolting than any the schoolmaster could have taught them.
In these rich and prosperous provinces, the people (revolutionary and
excitable as their ancestors were) certainly appear happy and contented;
the most uneducated of them are quick-witted and ready in reply, they
are not boorish or sullen, they have more readiness--at least in
manner--than the germanic races, and are, as a rule, full of gaiety and
humour. These people do not want war, they hate the conscription which
takes away the flower of the flock; they regard with anything but
pleasure the rather dictatorial '_Moniteur_' that comes to them by post
sometimes, whether they ask for it or not, and would much rather be
'let alone.'[54]
Such is a picture of Lower Normandy, the land of plenty where we wander
with so much pleasure in the summer months, putting up at wayside inns
(where the hostess makes her 'note' on a slate and finds it hard work to
make the amount come to more than five francs, for the night, for board
and lodging for 'monsieur') and at farmhouses sometimes; chatting with
the people in their rather troublesome patois, and making excursions
with the local antiquary or curé, to some spot celebrated in history.
They are pleasant days, when, if we will put up with a few
inconveniences, and live principally out of doors, we may see and hear
much that a railway traveller misses altogether. We shall not admire the
system of farming, as a rule (each farmer holding only a few acres); and
we shall find some of the cottages of the labourers very primitive,
badly built, and unhealthy, although generally neat; we shall notice
that the people are cruel, and careless of the sufferings of animals,
and that no farm servant knows how to groom a horse. We shall see them
clever in making cider, and prone to drink it; we shall see plenty of
fine, strong, rather idle men and women in the fields carrying
tremendous burdens, but hardly any children; they are almost as rare in
the country as a lady, or a gentleman. Indeed, in all our country
wanderings the 'gentry' make little figure, and appear much less
frequently on the scene than we are accustomed to in England. There are,
of course, _propriétaires_ in this part of Normandy who spend both
their time and money in the country, and are spoken of with respect and
affection by the people; but they are _raræ aves_, men of mark, like the
founder of the protestant colony at Beuzeval on the sea.
Nearly every Sunday after harvest-time there will be a village wedding,
where we may see the bride and bridegroom coming to take 'the first
sacrament;' seated in a prominent place in front of the altar, and
receiving the elements before the rest of the congregation, the bride
placing a white favour on the basket which contains the consecrated
bread, and afterwards coming from the church, the bride with a cap
nearly a foot high, the bridegroom wearing a dress coat, with a
tremendous bouquet, and a wedding-ring on his fore-finger; and, if we
stand near the church porch, we may be deafened with a salute fired by
the villagers in honour of the occasion, and overwhelmed by the
eloquence of the 'best man,' who takes this opportunity of delivering a
speech; and finally, the bells will ring out with such familiar tone
that we can hardly realise that we are in France.[55]
These people are of the labouring class, but they have some money to
'commence life' with; the poorest girls seldom marry without a portion
(indeed, so important is this considered amongst them that there are
societies for providing portions for the unendowed), and they are, with
few exceptions, provident and happy in married life. They are so in the
country at least, in spite of all that has been said and written to the
contrary. A lady who has had five-and-twenty years' acquaintance with
French society, both in town and country, assures us that 'the
stereotyped literary and dramatic view of French married life is
wickedly false.' The corruption of morals, she says, which so generally
prevails in Paris, and which has been so systematically aggravated by
the luxury and extravagance of the second Empire, has emboldened writers
to foist these false pictures of married life on the world.
But we, as travellers, must not enter deeply into these questions; our
business is, as usual, principally with their picturesque aspect. And
there is plenty to see; a few miles from us there is the little town of
Pont l'Evêque; and of course there is a fête going on. Let us glance at
the official programme for the day:--
'At 10 A.M., agricultural and horticultural meetings.
From 11 to 12, musical mass; several pieces to be performed by the
band of the 19th Regiment.
At 12-1/2, meeting of the Orphéonists and other musical societies.
1 P.M., ordering and march of a procession, and review of
Sappers and Miners.
2 P.M., ascension of grotesque balloons.
2-1/2 P.M., race of velocipedes.
3-1/2 P.M., climbing poles and races in sacks.
5 P.M., performance of music in the _Place de l'Eglise_;
band of the 19th Regiment.
6 P.M., grand dinner in the College Hall, with toasts,
speeches, and concert.
8 P.M., general illumination with Chinese lanterns, &c.
9 P.M., Display of fireworks; procession with torches to
the music of the military band.'
N.B. Every householder is requested to contribute to the gaiety by
illuminating his own house--_By order of the Maire._
How the rather obscure little town of Pont l'Evêque suddenly becomes
important,--how it puts on (as only a French town knows how to do) an
alluring and coquettish appearance; how the people promenade arm and
arm, up the street and down the street, on the dry little _place_, and
under the shrivelled-up trees; how they play at cards and dominoes in
the middle of the road, and crowd to the canvas booths outside the
town--would be a long task to tell. They crowd everywhere--to the
menagerie of wild beasts, to see the 'pelican of the wilderness;' to the
penny peepshows, where they fire six shots for a sou at a plaster cast
of Bismarck; to the lotteries for crockery and bonbons, and to all sorts
of exhibitions 'gratis.' Of the quantity of cider and absinthe consumed
in one day, the holiday-makers may have rather a confused and careless
recollection, as they are jogged home, thirteen deep in a long cart,
with a neglected, footsore old horse, weighed down with his clumsy
harness and his creaking load, and deafened by the jingling of his rusty
bells.
But if we happen to be in one of the larger towns during the time of the
Imperial fêtes (the 15th of August), or at a seaport on the occasion of
the annual procession in honour of the Virgin, we shall see a more
striking ceremony still. The processions are very characteristic, with
the long lines of fisherwomen in their scarlet and coloured dresses, and
handkerchiefs tied round the head; the fishermen, old and
weather-beaten, boys in semi-naval costume, neat and trim; and perhaps a
hundred little children, dressed in blue and white. A dense mass of
people crowding through the hot streets all day, impressive from their
numbers, and from the quiet orderly method of their procession, headed
and marshalled, of course, by the clergy and manoeuvred to the sound
of bells. There is such a perpetual ringing of bells, and the trains run
so frequently, that those who are not accustomed to such sights may
become confused as to their true meaning. We learn, however, from the
_affiches_ that it is all in honour of 'Our Lady of Hope,' that the
_externes_ from one school parade the streets to-day, wearing wreaths
and carrying banners and crowns of flowers; that others bear aloft the
'cipher of Mary,' the banner of the Immaculate Conception, baskets of
roses, oriflammes, &c.; that twenty grown-up men parade the town with
the 'banner of the Sacred Heart,' and that a party of young ladies, in
white dresses fringed with gold, brave the heat and the dust, and crowd
to do honour to the 'Queen of Angels.' A multitude with streamers and
banners, a confusion of colour and gilding, passing to and from the
churches all day; and at night, fire balloons, _feu d'artifice_, open
theatres, and 'general joy.'
Of one more ceremony we must speak, differing in character, but equally
characteristic and curious. We are in the country again, spending our
days in sketching, or wandering amongst the hills; enjoying the 'perfect
weather,' as we call it, and a little careless, perhaps, of the fact
that the land is parched with thirst, that the springs are dried up, and
that the peasants are beginning to despair of rain.
We see a little white smoke curling through the branches of the trees,
and hear in faint, uncertain cadence, the voices of men and children
singing. Presently there comes up the pathway between two lines of
poplars, a long procession, headed by a priest, holding high in the air
a glittering cross; there are old men with bowed heads, young men erect,
with shaven crowns, and boys in scarlet and white robes, carrying
silver censers; there is a clanking of silver chains, a tinkling of
little bells, and an undertone of oft-repeated prayer. The effect is
startling, and brilliant; the sunlight glances upon the white robes of
the men, in alternate stripes of soft shadow and dazzling brightness,
the wind plays round their feet as they march heavily along, in a whirl
of dust which robs the leaves of their morning freshness; whilst the
scarlet robes of the children light up the grove as with a furnace, and
the rush of voices disturbs the air. On they come through the quiet
country fields, hot and dusty with their long march, the foremost priest
holding his head high, and doing his routine work manfully--never
wearying of repeating the same words, or of opening and shutting the
dark-bound volume in his hand; and the children, not yet quite weary of
singing, and of swinging incense-burners--keeping close together two and
two in line; the people following being less regular, less apparently
enthusiastic, but walking close together in a long winding stream up the
hill.
What does it all mean? Why, that these simple people want rain on the
land, and that they have collected from all parts of the country to
offer their prayers, and their money, to propitiate the Deity. Could we,
but for one moment, as onlookers from some other sphere, see this line
of creeping things on their earnest errand, the sight would seem a
strange one. Do these atoms on the earth's surface hope to change the
order of the elements, to serve their own purposes? If rain were needed,
would it not come?
But we are in a land where we are taught, not only to pray for our
wants, but to pay for their expression; so let us not question the
motive of the procession, but follow it again in the evening, into the
town, where it becomes lost in the crowded streets--so crowded that we
cannot see more than the heads of the people; but the line is marked
above them by a stream of sunset, which turns the dust-particles above
their heads into a golden fringe. They make a halt in the square and
sing the 'Angelus,' and then enter the cathedral, where the priest
offers up a prayer--a prayer which we would interpret--not for rain, if
drought be best, but rather for help and strength to fight the battle of
life in the noblest way.
Such scenes may still be witnessed in Normandy (although, of course,
becoming less primitive and characteristic every year) by those who are
not compelled to hurry through the land.
In the country districts the habits of the peasant class are the only
ones that a traveller has any opportunity of observing; of the upper
classes he will see nothing, and of their domestic life obtain no idea
whatever. It is not to be accomplished, _en passant_, in Normandy, any
more than in Vienna. In the inns, the company at the public table
consists almost invariably of French commercial travellers, and the two
English ladies whom we meet with everywhere, travelling together. There
is hardly an hotel in Normandy, excepting, of course, at the
watering-places (of which we shall speak in the last chapter), that
would be considered well appointed, according to modern notions of
comfort and convenience. Ladies travelling alone would certainly find
themselves better accommodated in Switzerland or in the Pyrenees;
excepting in the matter of expense, for Normandy is still one of the
cheapest parts of Europe to travel in--the Russians and Americans not
having yet come.
We meet, as we have said, but few French people above the farming and
commercial class; our fellow-travellers being generally 'unprotected'
Englishwomen who may be seen in summer-time at the various railway
stations--fighting their way to the front in the battle of the
'_bagages_,' and speaking French to the officials with a grammatical
fervour, and energy, which is wonderful to contemplate[56]--taking their
places on the top of a diligence, amongst fowls and cheeses, with the
heroic self sacrifice that would be required to mount a barricade; in
short, placing themselves continually (and unnecessarily, it must be
admitted) in positions inconsistent with English notions of propriety,
and exposing themselves, for pleasure's sake, to more roughness and
rudeness than is good for their sex. These things arise sometimes from
necessity--on which we have not a word to say--but more frequently from
a rigid determination to 'economize,' in a way that they would not dream
of doing at home.
We would certainly suggest that English ladies should not elect to
travel by the diligences, and in out-of-the-way places, _unattended_;
and that they had better not attempt to 'rough it' in Normandy, if they
are able (by staying at home) to avoid the concussion.
To most men, this diligence travelling is charming--the seat on the
_banquette_ on a fine summer's day is one of the most enjoyable places
in life; it is cheap, and certainly not too rapid (five or six miles an
hour being the average); and we can sit almost as comfortably in a
corner of the banquette as in an easy-chair. In this beautiful country
we should always either drive or walk, if we have time; the diligence is
the most amusing and sometimes the slowest method of progress. Nobody
hurries--although we carry 'the mails' and have a letter-box in the side
of the conveyance, where letters are posted as we go along, it is
scarcely like travelling--the free and easy way in which people come and
go on the journey is more like 'receiving company' than taking up
passengers. As we jog along, to the jingling of bells and the creaking
of rusty iron, the people that we overtake on the road keep accumulating
on our vehicle one by one, as we approach a town, until we become
encrusted with human things like a rock covered with limpets. There is
no shaking them off, the driver does not care, and they certainly do not
all pay. It is a pleasant family affair which we should all be sorry to
see disturbed; and the roads are so good and even, that it does not
matter much about the load. The neglect and cruelty to the horses, which
we are obliged to witness, is certainly one drawback,[57] and the dust
and crowding on market days, are not always pleasant; but we can think
of no other objections in fine weather, to this quiet method of seeing
the country.
Much has been said in favour of 'a walking tour in Normandy,' but we
venture to question its thorough enjoyment when undertaken for long
distances; and it can scarcely be called 'economical to walk,' unless
the pedestrian's time is of no value to other people.
Let us be practical, and state the cost of travelling over the whole of
the ground that we have mapped out. We may assume that the most
determined pedestrian will not commence active operations until he
reaches Havre, or some other seaport town. From Havre to Pont Audemer by
steamboat; thence by road or railway to _all_ the towns on our route
(visiting Rouen by the Seine, from Honfleur), and so back to Havre, will
cost a 'knapsack-traveller' 46 francs 50 c., if he takes the banquette of
the diligence and travels third class, by railway. Thus it is a
question of less than two pounds, for those who study economy, whilst at
least a month's time is saved by taking the diligence.
One argument for walking is, that you may leave the high roads at
pleasure, and see more of the country and of the people; but the
pedestrian has his day's work before him, and must spend the greater
part of an August day on the dusty road, in order to reach his
destination. There are districts, such as those round Vire and Mortain,
which are exceptionally hilly, where he might walk from town to town;
but he will not see the country as well, even there, as from the
elevated position of a banquette. The finest parts of Normandy are
generally in the neighbourhood of towns which the traveller (who has
driven to them) can explore on his arrival, without fatigue; _chacun à
son gout_--these smooth, well-levelled roads are admirably adapted for
velocipedes--but we confess to preferring the public conveyances, to any
other method of travelling in France.
Let us conclude our remarks on this subject with an extract from the
published diary of a pedestrian, who thus describes his journey from
Lisieux to Caen, a distance of about twenty-six miles:--
'It is nightfall,' he says, 'before I have walked more than
half-way to Caen; to the left of the road I see a number of lights
indicative of a small town, but I perceive no road in that
direction, and so am compelled to trudge on. I was dreadfully
fatigued, for I had walked about Lisieux before starting. In the
faint light, I thought I saw a dog cross the road just before me,
but soon perceived that it must be a spectral one, the result of
excessive fatigue. At length I reach a lamp-post, with the light
still burning, indicating that I am in the suburbs of Caen. The
road proceeds down a steep hill. I don't know how long it would
seem to the visitor in the ordinary way, but to myself, prostrated
by fatigue, it appeared on this night a long and weary tramp.'--'A
Walking Tour in Normandy!'