I had left the volcanic mountains of Auvergne and had passed through
Mont-Dore and La Bourboule, following the course of the Dordogne that
flowed through the valley with the bounding spirits of a young mountaineer
descending for the first time towards the great plains where the large
towns and cities lie with all their fancied wonders and untasted charm.
But these towns and cities were afar off. The young Dordogne had a very
long journey to make before reaching the plains of Périgord. Nearly the
whole of this distance the stream would have to thread its way through
deep-cut gorges and ravines, where the dense forest reaches down to the
stony channel, save where the walls of rock rising hundreds of feet on
either side are too steep for vegetation. Above the forest and the rock
is the desert moor, horrible to the peasant, but to the lover of nature
beautiful when seen in its dress of purple heather and golden broom.
[Illustration: A BIT OF AUVERGNE.]
I had not been long on the road this day, when I saw coming towards me an
equipage more picturesquely interesting than any I had ever met in the
Champs-Elysées. It was a ramshackle little cart laden with sacks and a
couple of children, and drawn by a pair of shaggy sheep-dogs. Cords served
for harness. A man was running by the side, and it was as much as he could
do to keep up with the animals. This use of dogs is considered cruel in
England, but it often keeps them out of mischief, and I have never seen one
in harness that looked unhappy. Traces must help a dog to grow in his own
esteem, and to work out his ideal of the high destiny reserved for him;
or why does he, when tied under a cart to which a larger quadruped is
harnessed, invariably try to persuade himself and others that he is pulling
the load up the hill, and that the horse or donkey is an impostor?
[Illustration: THE DORDOGNE AT LA BOURBOULE.]
The width of the Mont-Dore valley decreased rapidly, and I entered the
gorge of the Dordogne, where basaltic rocks were thrown up in savage
grandeur, vividly contrasting with which were bands and patches of meadow,
brilliantly green. Yellow spikes of agrimony and the fine pink flowers of
the musk-mallow mingled with the wiry broom and the waving bracken about
the rocks.
It was September, but the summer heat had returned, and when the road
passed through a beech wood the shade was welcome. Here over the mossy
ground rambled the enchanter's nightshade, still carrying its frail white
flowers, which really have a weird appearance in the twilight of the woods.
The plant has not been called _circe_ without a reason. Under the beeches
there were raspberry canes with some fruit still left upon them. After
leaving the wood, the scene became more wild and craggy. The basalt, bare
and sombre, or sparsely flecked with sedums, their stalks and fleshy leaves
now very red, rose sheer from the middle of the narrow valley, down which
the stream sped like fleeing Arethusa, now turning to the right, now to the
left, foaming over rocks or sparkling like the facets of countless gems
between margins of living green.
Then I left the valley in order to pass through the village of St. Sauve
on the right-hand hill. There was little there worth seeing besides a very
ancient Romanesque archway, or, as some think, detached portico leading to
the church.
Many of the women of St. Sauve wore the black cap or bonnet of Mont-Dore,
which hangs to the shoulders. It is a hideous coiffure, but an interesting
relic of the past. The prototype of it was worn by the châtelaines of the
twelfth century. Then, however, it had a certain stateliness which it lacks
now. It is only to be seen in a very small district.
I consulted some of the people of St. Sauve respecting my plan of following
the Dordogne through its gorges. They did not laugh at me, but they looked
at me in a way which meant that if better brains had not been given to them
than to me their case would be indeed unfortunate. I was advised to see a
cobbler who was considered an authority on the byways of the district. I
found him sitting by the open window of his little shop driving hob-nails
into a pair of Sunday boots. When I told him what I had made up my mind to
do, he shook his head, and, laying down his work, said:
'You will never do it. There are rocks, and rocks, and rocks. Even the
fishermen, who go where anybody can go, do not try to follow the Dordogne
very far. There are ravines--and ravines. _Bon Dieu!_ And the forest! You
will be lost! You will be devoured!'
To be devoured would be the climax of misfortune. I wished to know what
animals would be likely to stop my wayfaring in this effectual manner.
'Are there wolves?'
'No; none have been seen for years.'
'Are there boars?'
'Yes, plenty of them.'
'But boars,' I said, 'are not likely to interfere with me.'
'That is true,' replied the local wiseacre, 'so long as you keep walking;
but if you fall down a rock--ah!'
'I would not care to have you for a companion, with all your local
knowledge,' I thought, as I thanked the cobbler and turned down a very
stony path towards the Dordogne. It is always prudent to follow the advice
of those who are better informed than yourself; but it is much more
amusing--for awhile--to go your own way. I had lunched, and was prepared
to battle with the desert for several hours. It was now past mid-day,
and notwithstanding the altitude, the heat was very great. But for the
discomfort that we endure from the sun's rays we are more than amply
compensated by the pleasure that the recollection brings us in winter, when
the north wind is moaning through the sunless woods and the dreary fog
hangs over the cities. When I again reached the Dordogne there was no
longer any road, but only a rough path through high bracken, heather and
broom. Snakes rustled as I passed, and hid themselves among the stones. The
cobbler had forgotten to include these with the dangers to be encountered.
To my mind they were much more to be dreaded than the boars, for these
stony solitudes swarm with adders, of which the most venomous kind is the
red viper, or _aspic_. Its bite has often proved mortal.
The path entered the forest which covers the steep sides of the
ever-winding gorge of the Dordogne for many leagues, only broken where the
rocks are so nearly vertical that no soil has ever formed upon them, except
in the little crevices and upon the ledges, where the hellebore, the sedum,
the broom, and other unambitious plants which love sterility flourish where
the foot of man has never trod.
The rocks were now of gneiss and mica-schist, and the mica was so abundant
as to cause many a crag and heap of shale to glitter in the sun, as though
there had been a mighty shattering of mirrors here into little particles
which had fallen upon everything. There was, however, no lack of contrast.
To the shining rocks and the fierce sunshine, which seemed to concentrate
its fire wherever it fell in the open spaces of the deep gorge, succeeded
the ancient forest and its cool shade; but the darkly-lying shadows were
ever broken with patches of sunlit turf. Pines and firs reached almost to
the water's edge, and the great age of some of them was a proof of the
little value placed upon timber in a spot so inaccessible. One fir had an
enormous bole fantastically branched like that of an English elm, and
on its mossy bark was a spot such as the hand might cover, fired by a
wandering beam, that awoke recollections of the dream-haunted woods before
the illusion of their endlessness was lost.
The afternoon was not far spent, when I began to feel a growing confidence
in the value of the cobbler's information, and a decreasing belief in my
own powers. It became more and more difficult, then quite impossible,
to keep along the bank of the stream. What is understood by a bank
disappeared, and in its stead were rocks, bare and glittering, on which the
lizards basked, or ran in safety, because they were at home, but which I
could only pass by a flank movement. To struggle up a steep hill, over
slipping shale-like stones, or through an undergrowth of holly and
brambles, then to scramble down and to climb again, repeating the exercise
every few hundred yards, may have a hygienic charm for those who are
tormented by the dread of obesity, but to other mortals it is too
suggestive of a holiday in purgatory.
Having gone on in this fashion for some distance, I lay down, streaming
from every pore, and panting like a hunted hare beside a little rill that
slid singing between margins of moss, amid Circe's white flowers and purple
flashes of cranesbill. Here I examined my scratches and the state of things
generally. The result of my reflections was to admit that the cobbler
was right, that these ravines of the Upper Dordogne were practically
impassable, and that the only rational way of following the river would
be to keep sometimes on the hills and sometimes in the gorge, as the
unforeseen might determine. Hitherto, I had not troubled to inquire where I
should pass the night, and this consideration alone would have compelled
me to depart from my fantastic scheme. After La Bourboule there is not a
village or hamlet in the valley of the Dordogne for a distance of at least
thirty miles, allowing for the winding of the stream.
After a hard climb I reached the plateau, where I saw before me a wide moor
completely covered with bracken and broom. Here I looked at the map, and
decided to make towards a village called Messeix, lying to the east in a
fork formed by the Dordogne and its tributary the Chavannon. Going by the
compass at first, I presently struck a road leading across the moor in the
right direction. I passed through two wretched hamlets, in neither of which
was there an auberge where I could relieve my thirst. At the second one a
cottage was pointed out to me where I was told a woman sold wine. When,
after sinking deep in mud, I found her amidst a group of hovels, and the
preliminary salutation was given, the following conversation passed between
us:
'They tell me you sell wine.'
'They tell you wrong--I don't.'
'Do you sell milk, then?'
'No; I have no beasts.'
As I was going away she kindly explained that she only kept enough wine for
herself. I had evidently not impressed her favourably. Although I think
water a dangerous drink in France, except where it can be received directly
from the hand of Nature, far from human dwellings, I was obliged to beg
some in this place, and run the risk of carrying away unfriendly microbes.
Having left the hovels behind me, the country became less barren or more
cultivated. There were fields of rye, buckwheat, and potatoes, but always
near them lay the undulating moor, gilded over with the flowers of a dwarf
broom. It was evening when I descended into a wide valley from which came
the chime of cattle-bells, mingled with the barking of dogs and the voices
of children, who were driving the animals slowly homeward. There were green
meadows below me, over which was a yellow gleam from the fading afterglow
of sunset, and in the air was that odour which, rising from grassy valleys
at the close of day, even in regions burnt by the southern summer, makes
the wandering Englishman fancy that some wayfaring wind has come laden with
the breath of his native land. Suddenly turning a corner, I so startled a
little peasant girl sitting on a bank in the early twilight with a flock
of goats about her, that she opened her mouth and stared at me as though
Croquemitaine had really shown himself at last. The goats stopped eating,
and fixed upon me their eyes like glass marbles; they, too, thought that I
could be no good.
I hoped that the village of Messeix was in this valley; but no, I had to
cross it and climb the opposite hill. On the other side I found the place
that I had fixed upon for my night quarters.
Very small and very poor, it lies in a region where the land generally is
so barren that but a small part of it has been ever broken by the plough;
where the summers are hot and dry, and the winters long and cruel. Although
in the watershed of the Gironde, it touches Auvergne, and its altitude
makes it partake very much of the Auvergnat climate, which, with the
exception of the favoured Limagne Valley, is harsh, to an extent that has
caused many a visitor to flee from Mont-Dore in the month of August. In the
deep gorges of the Dordogne and its tributaries, the snow rarely lies more
than a few days upon the ground, whereas upon the wind-swept plateau above
the scanty population have to contend with the rigours of that French
Siberia which may be said to commence here on the west, and to extend
eastward over the whole mass of metamorphic and igneous rocks, which is
termed the great central plateau of France, although it lies far south of
the true centre of the country.
At the first auberge where I applied for a night's lodging, an elderly
woman with a mournful face declined to take me in, and gave no reason. When
I had left, she came after me and said, with her eyes full of tears:
'I have a great trouble in the house, that is why I sent you away.'
I understood what she meant; somebody dear to her was dying. A man who was
listening said his brother-in-law, the baker, was also an innkeeper, and he
offered to take me to the auberge. I gladly consented, for I was fearful of
being obliged to tramp on to some other place. Presently I was in a large,
low room, which was both kitchen and baker's shop. On shelves were great
wheel-shaped loaves (they are called _miches_ in the provinces), some about
two feet in diameter, made chiefly of rye with a little wheaten flour.
Filled sacks were ranged along the wall. In a deep recess were the
kneading-trough, and the oven, now cold. The broad rural hearth, with its
wood-fire and sooty chimney, the great pot for the family soup hanging to a
chain, took up a large share of the remaining space. I sat upon a rickety
chair beside a long table that had seen much service, but was capable of
seeing a great deal more, for it had been made so as to outlast generations
of men. Bare-footed children ran about upon the black floor, and a thin,
gaunt young woman, who wore very short petticoats, which revealed legs not
unlike those of the table, busied herself with the fire and the pot. She
was the sister of the children, and had been left in charge of the house
while her father and mother were on a journey. She accepted me as a lodger,
but for awhile she was painfully taciturn. This, however, her scanty
knowledge of French, and the fact that a stranger even of the class of
small commercial travellers was a rare bird in the village, fully accounted
for. The place was not cheerful, but as I listened to the crickets about
the hearth, and watched the flames leap up and lick the black pot, my
spirits rose. Presently the church bell sounded, dong, dong, dong.
'Why are they tolling the bell?' I asked.
'Because,' replied the gaunt young woman, 'a man has died in the village.'
By pressing her to speak, she explained that while a corpse lay unburied
the bell was tolled three times in the day--early in the morning, at
mid-day, and at nightfall. The conversation was in darkness, save such
light as the fire gave. It was not until the soup was ready that the lamp
was lighted. Then the young woman, addressing me abruptly, said:
'Cut up your bread for your soup.'
I did as I was told, for I always try to accommodate myself to local
customs, and never resent the rough manners of well-intentioned people. The
bread was not quite black, but it was very dark from the amount of rye that
was in it. The soup was water flavoured with a suggestion of fat bacon,
whatever vegetables happened to be in the way, and salt. This fluid, poured
over bread--when the latter is not boiled with it--is the chief sustenance
of the French peasant. It was all that the family now had for their evening
meal, and in five minutes everyone had finished. They drank no wine; it
was too expensive for them, the nearest vineyard being far away. A bottle,
however, was placed before me, but the quality was such that I soon left
it. To get some meat for me the village had to be scoured, and the result
was a veal cutlet.
I was not encouraged to sit up late. As the eldest daughter of the inn
showed me my night quarters, she said:
'Your room is not beautiful, but the bed is clean.'
This was quite true. The room, in accordance with a very frequent
arrangement in these rural auberges, was not used exclusively for sleeping
purposes, but also for the entertainment of guests, especially on fair and
market days, when space is precious. There was a table with a bench for the
use of drinkers. There were, moreover, three beds, but I was careful to
ascertain that none would be occupied except by myself. I would sooner
have slept on a bundle of hay in the loft than have had an unknown person
snoring in the same room with me. One has always some prejudice to
overcome. The bed was not soft, and the hempen sheets were as coarse as
canvas, but these trifles did not trouble me. I listened to the song of
the crickets on the hearth downstairs until drowsiness beckoned sleep and
consciousness of the present lost its way in sylvan labyrinths by the
Dordogne.
At six o'clock the next morning I was walking about the village, and I
entered the little church, already filled with people. It was Sunday, and
this early mass was to be a funeral one. The man for whom the bell was
tolled last night was soon brought in, the coffin swathed in a common
sheet. It was borne up the nave towards the catafalque, the rough carpentry
of which showed how poor the parish was. Following closely was an old and
bent woman with her head wrapped in a black shawl. She had hardly gone a
few steps, when her grief burst out into the most dismal wailing I had ever
heard, and throughout the service her melancholy cries made other women
cover their faces, and tears start from the eyes of hard-featured,
weather-beaten men.
[Illustration: A MOORLAND WIDOW.]
Most of the women present wore the very ugly headgear which is the most
common of all in Auvergne and the Corrèze, namely, a white cap covered by
a straw bonnet something of the coal-scuttle pattern. There were many
communicants at this six o'clock mass, and what struck me as being the
reverse of what one might suppose the right order of things, was that the
women advanced in life wore white veils as they knelt at the altar rails,
while those worn by the young, whose troubles were still to come, were
black. These veils were carried in the hand during the earlier part of the
rite. Throughout a very wide region of Southern France the custom prevails.
The church belonged to different ages. Upon the exterior of the Romanesque
apse were uncouth carvings in relief of strange animal figures. They were
more like lions than any other beasts, but their outlines were such as
children might have drawn.
I returned to the inn. The baker had come back, and was preparing to heat
his oven with dry broom. I learned that he had not only to bake the bread
that he sold, but also the coarser rye loaves which were brought in by
those who had their own flour, but no oven. Three francs was the charge for
my dinner, bed, and breakfast. The score settled and civilities exchanged,
I walked out of Messeix, expecting to strike the valley of the Dordogne not
very far to the south. The landscape was again that of the moorland. On
each side of the long, dusty line called a road spread the brown turf,
spangled with the pea-flowers of the broom or stained purple with heather.
There were no trees, but two wooden crosses standing against the gray sky
looked as high as lofty pines. I met little bands of peasants hurrying
to church, and I reached the village of Savennes just before the _grand
messe_. Many people were sitting or standing outside the church--even
sitting on the cemetery wall. When the bell stopped and they entered,
literally like a flock of sheep into a fold, all could not find room
inside, so the late-comers sat upon the ground in the doorway, or as near
as they could get to it. As the people inside knelt or stood, so did they
who had been left, not out in the cold, but in the heat, for the sun had
broken through the mist, and the weather was sultry. As I walked round the
church I found women sitting with open books and rosaries in their hands
near the apse, amidst the yarrow and mulleins of forgotten grave mounds.
They were following the service by the open window. I lingered about the
cemetery reading the quaint inscriptions and noting the poor emblems upon
wooden crosses not yet decayed, picking here and there a wild flower, and
watching the butterflies and bees until the old priest, who was singing the
mass in a voice broken by time, having called upon his people to 'lift up
their hearts,' they answered: '_Habemus ad Dominum_.'
I had a simple lunch at a small inn in this village, where I was watched
with much curiosity by an old man in a blouse with a stiff shirt-collar
rising to his ears, and a nightcap with tassel upon his head. The widow who
kept the inn had a son who offered to walk with me as far as some chapel
in the gorge of the Chavannon. We were not long in reaching the gorge, the
view of which from the edge of the plateau was superbly savage. Descending
a very rugged path through the forest that covered the sides of the deep
fissure, save where the stark rock refused to be clothed, we came to a
small chapel, centuries old, under a natural wall of gneiss, but deep in
the shade of overhanging boughs. It was dedicated to St. John the Baptist,
and on St. John's Day mass was said in it, and the spot was the scene of a
pilgrimage. Outside was a half-decayed moss-green wooden platform on which
the priest stood while he preached to the assembled pilgrims. The young
man left me, and I went on alone into the more sombre depths of the gorge,
where I reached the single line of railway that runs here through some of
the wildest scenery in France. I kept on the edge of it, where walking,
although very rough, was easier than on the steep side of the split that
had here taken place in the earth's crust. Upon the narrow stony strip of
comparatively level ground the sun's rays fell with concentrated ardour,
and along it was a brilliant bloom of late summer flowers--of camomile, St.
John's wort, purple loosestrife, hemp-agrimony and lamium. At almost every
step there was a rustle of a lizard or a snake. The melancholy cry of the
hawk was the only sound of bird-life. Near rocks of dazzling mica-schist
was a miserable hut with a patch of buckwheat reaching to the stream. A man
standing amidst the white flowers of the late-sown crop said, in answer to
my questioning, that I could not possibly reach the village of Port-Dieu
without walking upon the line and through the tunnels.
When I had left him about fifty yards behind, his curiosity proved more
than he could bear in silence; so he called out to me, in the bad French
that is spoken hereabouts by those who use it only as the language of
strangers: '_Quel métier que vous faites?_'