The spring has come again, and I am now at Les Eyzies, in the valley of the
Vézère: a paradise of exceptional richness to the scientific bone and flint
grubber on account of the very marked predilection shown for it by the men
of the Stone Age, polished and unpolished. It is about five in the morning,
and the woods along the cliffs are just beginning to catch the pale fire of
the rising sun. Just outside my open window are about twenty chickens in
the charge of two mother hens, and as they have not been long awake, they
do their utmost to make a noise in the world like other creatures that are
empty. As soon as the neighbour's door is open they enter in a body, and
march towards the kitchen. A female voice is heard to address something
sharply to them in patois; there is a scuffle in the passage, and all the
chickens scream together as they rush before the broom into the road. This
is how the village day opens.
I am waiting for a man who has undertaken to show me some caverns in the
neighbouring rocks. Meanwhile, another comes along, and makes mysterious
signs to me from the road. He is barefoot and ragged, and does not look as
if he had a taste for regular work, but rather as if he belonged to the
somewhat numerous class who live by expedients, and have representatives in
all ranks of society. He has a small sack in his hand, to which he points
while he addresses me in patois. I tell him to come in. The sack contains
crayfish, and now I know the reason of his mysterious air, for all
fishing is prohibited at this time, and he is running the gauntlet of the
_garde-pêche_, who lives close by. The poor ragamuffin has been out all
night, wading in the streams, and his wife, who looks, if possible, more
eager and hungry than himself, is waiting near, keeping watch. He offers
his crayfish for three sous the dozen, and I buy them of him without
feeling that respect for the law and the spawning season which I know I
ought to have. But I have suffered a good deal from bad example. There was
a _Procureur de la République_ not far from here the other day, and the
first thing he asked for at the hotel was fish.
Presently the other man--the one I am waiting for--shows himself. He is
a lean old soldier of the Empire, with a white moustache, kept short and
stiff like a nailbrush. He is still active, and if he has any disease he is
in happy ignorance of it; nevertheless, he confides to me that it is in
the legs that he begins to feel his seventy-two years. His face has a very
startling appearance. It is so scratched and torn that it makes me think of
the man of the nursery-rhyme who jumped into the quickset-hedge; and, as
it turns out, this one was just such another, only his movement was
involuntary. He tells me how he came to be so disfigured. He was coming
home with some cronies, at a late hour, from one of those Friendly Society
meetings which in France, as in England, move the bottle as well as the
soul, when, owing to an irregularity of the road, for which he was in no
way to blame, he took an unintentional dive down a very steep bank, at the
bottom of which was a dense forest of brambles. As he was quite unable to
extricate himself, his companions, after a consultation, decided to haul
him up by the legs; and it was to this manner of being rescued that he
attributed most of the damage done to his ears.
[Illustration: CHÂTEAU DES EYZIES.]
We passed under the ruined castle of Les Eyzies, which was never very
large, because the shelf of rock on which it was built would not have
admitted of this; but when defended it must have been almost inaccessible.
The ruin is very picturesque, with the overleaning rock above, and the
clustered roofs below. The village is continued up the marshy valley of the
Beüne, which here joins that of the Vézère. In the face of the overleaning
rocks are orifices that strike the attention at once by their shape, which
distinguishes them from natural caverns. They have been all fashioned like
common doors or windows on the rectangular principle, which proves that
they are the artificial openings of human dwellings. The men who made their
homes in the side of the precipice, and who cut the rock to suit their
needs, must have let themselves down from the top by means of a rope. To
what age these Troglodytes belonged nobody knows, but it is not doubted
that they came after the flint-working savages, whose implements are found
in the natural caverns and shelters near the ground.
We continued up the valley of the Beüne. The banks under the rocks were
starred with primroses, and from the rocks themselves there hung with
cotoneaster the large and graceful white blossoms of that limestone-loving
shrub, the amelanchier. In the centre of the valley stretched the marsh,
flaming gold with flags and caltha, and dotted with white valerian. The
green frogs leapt into the pools and runnels, burying themselves in the
mud at the shock of a footstep; but the tadpoles sported recklessly in the
sunny water, for as yet their legs as well as their troubles were to come.
I confess that this long morass by the sparkling Beüne, frequented by
the heron, the snipe, the water-hen, and other creatures that seek the
solitude, interested me more than the caverns which I had set out to see. I
nevertheless followed the old man into them, and tried to admire all that
he showed me; but there was not a stalactite six inches long the end of
which had not been knocked off with a stick or stone. The anger that
one feels at such mutilation of the water's beautiful work destroys the
pleasure that one would otherwise derive from these caves in the limestone.
A visit, however, to the now celebrated cavern known as the Grotte de
Miremont repaid me for the trouble of reaching it. It lies a few miles to
the north of Les Eyzies, in the midst of very wild and barren country. From
any one of the heights the landscape on every side is seen to be composed
of hills covered with dark forest and separated by narrow valleys. Here and
there the white rock stands out from the enveloping woods of oak, ilex, and
chestnut, or the arid slope shows its waste of stones, whose nakedness the
dry lavender vainly tries to cover with a light mantle of blue-gray tufts.
It is these sterile places which yield the best truffles of Périgord.
Sometimes trained dogs are used to hunt for the cryptogams, but, as in the
Quercy, the pig is much more frequently employed for the purpose. A comical
and ungainly-looking beast this often is: bony and haggard, with a long
limp tail and exaggerated ears. A collar round the neck adds to its
grotesqueness.
One has to climb or descend a steep wooded hill to reach the cavern, for
the entrance is on the side of it. The _métayer_ acts as guide, and his
services are indispensable, for there are few subterranean labyrinths so
extensive and so puzzling as this.
Although the principal gallery is barely a mile in length, there are so
many ramifications that one may walk for hours without making a complete
exploration of the daedalian corridors, even with the help of the guide.
With sufficient string to lay down and candles to light him, a stranger
might enter these depths alone and come to no harm; but if he despised the
string and trusted to his memory he would soon have reason to wish that he
had remained on the surface of the earth, where, if he lost himself, there
would be fellow-creatures to help him. Now with the sticky and tenacious
clay trying to pull off his boots at every step, now walking like a monkey
on hands and feet to keep his head from contact with the rock, he would
grow weary after an hour or so, and begin to wish to go home, or, at any
rate, to the hotel; but the more his desire to see daylight again took
shape and clearness, the more bewildered he would become, and farther and
farther he would probably wander from the small opening in the side of the
hill. Thus he might at length hear the moan of water, and if it did not
scare him, he would see by the glimmer of his solitary candle the gleam
of a stream rushing madly along, then plunging deeper into the earth, to
reappear nobody knows where. This cavern offers little of the beauty of
stalactite and stalagmite; but the roof in many places has a very curious
and fantastic appearance, derived from layers of flints embedded in the
solid limestone, and exposed to view by the disintegration of the rock or
the washing action of water. They can be best likened to the gnarled and
brown roots of old trees, but they take all manner of fanciful forms.
The little house in which I am living stands almost on the spot where some
particularly precious skeletons, attributed to prehistoric men and women,
were dug up about twenty years ago, when the late Mr. Christy was here
busily disturbing the soil that had been allowed to remain unmoved for
ages. The overleaning rock, which is separated from my temporary home only
by a few yards, probably afforded shelter to generations of those degraded
human beings from whom the anthropologist who puts no bridle on his
hobby-horse is pleased to claim descent. Near the base is one of those
symmetrically scooped-out hollows which are such a striking peculiarity
of the formation here, and which suggest to the irreverent that a
cheese-taster of prehistoric dimensions must have been brought to bear
upon the rocks when their consistency was about the same as that of fresh
gruyère. According to one theory, they were washed out by the sea, that
retired from the interior of Aquitaine long before the interesting savages
who made arrow-heads and skin-scrapers out of flints, and needles out of
bone, came to this valley and worked for M. Lartet and Mr. Christy. Others
say that the sea had nothing to do with the fashioning of these hollows,
but that they were made by the breaking and crumbling away of the more
friable parts of the limestone under the action of air, frost, and water.
While members of learned societies discuss such questions with upturned
noses, a rock above them will sometimes be unable to keep its own
countenance, but, simulating without flattery one of the human visages
below, will wear an expression of humour fiendish enough to startle the
least superstitious of men.
Upon the lower part of my rock is hanging the wild rose in flower, and
above it is a patch of grass that is already brown, although we are in the
first week of May; then upon a higher grass-grown steep is a solitary ilex,
looking more worthy of a classic reputation than many others of its race.
Its trunk appears to rise above the uppermost ridge of bare rock, and the
outspread branches, with the sombre yet glittering foliage, are marked
against the sky that is blue like the bluebell, as motionless as if they
had been fixed there by heat, like a painted tree on porcelain.
On the other side of the house is a small balcony that looks upon the road,
the peaceful valley, and the darkly-wooded cliffs just beyond the Vézère.
During the brief twilight--the twilight of the South, that lays suddenly
and almost without warning a rosy kiss upon the river and the reedy pool--I
sometimes watch from the balcony the barefooted children of the neighbours
playing upon the white road. Poor village children! As soon as a wanderer
gets to know them, he leaves them never to see them again. Living in
a great city is apt to dull the sensibility, and to close men up in
themselves. In a village you become forcibly interested in surrounding
humanity, and enter into the lives and feelings of others. A young woman
died yesterday in child-birth, and was buried to-day. Everybody felt as if
the awful shadow that descended upon the lonely house across the river
had passed close to him and her, and left a chill in the heart. When the
uncovered waggon bearing the deal coffin wrapped in a sheet, and having at
the head an upright cross of flowers and leaves that shook and swayed with
the jolting of this rustic hearse, moved towards the church, nearly the
whole of the population followed. Only the day before another woman was
carried along the same white road towards the little cemetery, but the
coffin then was borne upon the shoulders of four persons of her own sex.
Now and again fatigue brought the bearers to a standstill; then they would
change shoulders by changing places. And the white coffin, moving up and
down as a waif on the swell of the sea, passed on towards the glowing west,
where presently the purple-tinted wings of evening covered it.
But the peasants are not sentimentalists--far from it. Always practical,
they are very quick to perceive the futility of nursing grief, and
especially the unreasonableness of wishing people back in the world who
were no longer able to do their share of its work. A young man came into
the village with a donkey and cart to fetch a coffin for his father who had
just died.
'_Apé!_ I dare say he was old,' was the reflection of our servant--a
Quercynoise. If it had been the old father who had come to fetch a coffin
for the young man, she would have found something more sympathetic to say
than that.
Sometimes at sunset I climb the rugged hill behind the house. Then the
stony soil no longer dazzles by its white glitter, but takes a soft tint of
orange, or rose, or lilac, according to the stain of the sky, and there is
no light in the rocky South that so tenderly touches the soul as this. Here
the spurge drinks of the wine of heaven with golden lips wide open; but the
hellebore, which has already lost all its vernal greenness, and is parched
by the drought, ripens its drooping seeds sullenly on the shadowy side of
the jutting crag, and seems to hate the sun. Higher and yet far below the
plateau is a little field where the lately cut grass has been thrown into
mounds. Here the light seems to gain a deeper feeling, and the small
vineyard by the side holds it too. It is one of the very few old vineyards
which, after being stricken nearly unto death by the phylloxera, have
revived, and by some unknown virtue have recovered the sap and spirit of
life. The ancient stocks gnarled and knotted, and as thick as a man's arm,
together with the fresh green leaves and the hanging bunches of buds that
promise wine, wear a colour that cannot be rightly named--a transparent,
subtle, vaporous tint of golden pink or purple, which is the gift of this
warm and wonderful light. A cricket that has climbed up one of the tender
shoots strikes a low note, which is like the drowsy chirrup of a roosting
bird. It is the first touch of a fiddler in the night's orchestra, and
will soon be taken up by thousands of other crickets, bell-tinkling toads,
croaking frogs in the valley, and the solitary owl that hoots from the
hills. Below, how the river seems to sleep under the dusky wings of
gathering dreams where the white bridge spans it! Beyond, where the
blue-green sky is cut by a broken line of hill and tree, the rocks become
animated in the clear-obscure, and the apparently dead matter, rousing from
its apathy, takes awful forms and expressions of life.
My small boat had been lying on the Vézère several days doing nothing, when
I decided upon a little water-faring up the stream. This canoe had been
knocked together with a few deal boards. It had, as a matter of course,
a flat bottom, for a boat with a keel would be quite unsuitable for
travelling long distances on rivers where, if you cannot float in four
inches of water, you must hold yourself in constant readiness to get out
and drag or push your craft over the stones. This exercise is very amusing
at the age of twenty, but the fun grows feeble as time goes on. My boat
was not made to be rowed, but to be paddled, either with the short
single-bladed paddle which is used by the fishermen of the Dordogne, and
which they call a 'shovel,' or by the one that is dipped on both sides of
the canoe alternately. There being rapids about every half-mile on the
Vézère, and the current in places being very strong, I realized that no
paddler would be able to get up the stream without help, and so I induced
my landlord to accompany me and to bring a pole. He was a good-tempered
man, somewhat adventurous, with plenty of information, and a full-flavoured
local accent which often gave to what he said a point of humour that was
not intended. The voyage, therefore, commenced under circumstances that
promised nothing but pleasantness. It was a perfectly beautiful May
afternoon, with a fresh north breeze blowing that tempered the ardour of
the sun.
The water changed like the moods of a child who has only to choose the form
and manner of his pleasure. Now it pictured in its large eye, whose depth
seemed to meet eternity, the lights and forms and colours of the sky, the
rocks, and the trees; now it leapt from the shaded quietude, and, splitting
into two or more currents, separated by willowy islets or banks of pebbles,
rushed with an eager and joyous cry a hundred yards or so; then it stopped
to take breath, and moved dreamily on again. Where the water was shallow
was many a broad patch of blooming ranunculus; so that it seemed as if the
fairies had been holding a great battle of white flowers upon the river.
We glided by the side of meadows where all the waving grass was full of
sunshine. On the bank stood purple torches of dame's violet, and the
dog-rose climbing upon the guelder rose was pictured with it in the water.
On the opposite bank stood the great rocks which have caused this part of
the river to be called the Gorge of Hell. Here human beings in perpetual
terror of their own kind cut themselves holes in the face of the precipice,
and lived where now the jackdaw, the hawk, the owl, and the bat are the
only inhabitants. In the Middle Ages the English companies turned the side
of the rock into a stronghold which was the terror of the surrounding
district.
This fastness was called La Roque de Tayac, because the village of Tayac
faces it on the other side of the river. Although only a few fragments of
the masonry that was formerly attached to the rock remain, the chambers cut
in the solid limestone are strange testimony of the habits and contrivances
of England's lawless partisans in these remote valleys. The lower
excavations evidently served for stables, as the mangers roughly cut in
the rock testify. The horses or mules were led up and down a steep narrow
ledge. A perpendicular boring, shaped like a well, connects the lowest
chamber with those above, and there can be no doubt that the nethermost
part served the purpose of a well or cistern. By means of a hanging rope a
man could easily pull himself up to the higher stages and let himself down
in the same manner. In the event of a surprise the rope would, of course,
be pulled up. Woe to those who exposed their heads in this cylindrical
passage to the stones which the defenders above had in readiness to hurl
down! But the river flowing deeply at the base of the rock, no part of the
fortress could have been easy of access. Such was the stronghold which
obtained so evil a reputation throughout a wide district as an almost
impregnable den of bandits and cut-throats.
We read that the English, who had fortified themselves at the Roque de
Tayac, having ravaged the country of Sarlat in 1408, the men of Sarlat laid
an ambush for them, and, taking them by surprise, cut them in pieces. But
the next year, their numbers being again largely increased, they resumed
their forays with the result that the Sarladais marched to the valley of
the Vézère and regularly besieged the Roque de Tayac. The struggle was
marked with great ferocity on both sides. The fortress was eventually
captured, but the defenders sold their lives dearly, and many of the
Sarladais, instead of returning to their homes, remained under the pavement
of the church across the water.
Having passed the first rapids easily, we talked, and the conversation
turned upon--cockchafers! My companion had been much impressed by the
strange doings of a party of gipsy children whom he had lately passed on
the highroad. One of them had climbed up a tree, the foliage of which had
attracted a multitude of cockchafers, and he was shaking down the insects
for the others to collect.
But it was not this that made the teller of the story stop and gaze with
astonishment; it was the use to which the cockchafers were put. As they
were picked up they were crammed into the children's mouths and devoured,
legs, wings, and all. At first he thought the small gipsies were feasting
on cherries. He declared that the sight disgusted him, and spoilt his
appetite for the rest of the day. In this I thought his stomach somewhat
inconsistent, for I knew of a little weakness that he had for raw
snails, which, to my mind, are scarcely less revolting as food than live
cockchafers. He would take advantage of a rainy day or a shower to catch
his favourite prey upon his fruit-trees and cabbages. Having relieved them
of their shells, and given them a rinse in some water, he would swallow
them as people eat oysters. He had a firm belief in their invaluable
medicinal action upon the throat and lungs. His brother, he said, would
have died at twenty-three instead of at fifty-three had it not been for
snails. He told me, too, of a man who, from bravado, tried to swallow
in his presence, and at a single gulp, one of the big pale-shelled
snails--known in Paris, where they are eaten, after being cooked with
butter and garlic, as _escargots de Bourgogne_--but it stuck in his throat,
and a catastrophe would have happened but for the sturdy blow which his
companion gave him on the 'chine.' That a snail-eater should criticise
gipsies for eating cockchafers shows what creatures of prejudice we all
are.
After passing the Nine Brothers--a name given to nine rocks of rounded
outline standing by the water like towers of a fortress built by
demi-gods--we had our worst fight with the rapids, and were nearly beaten.
It was the last push of the pole from the man behind me, when he had no
more breath in his body, that saved us from being whirled round and carried
back. Before one gets used to it, the sensation of struggling up a river
where it descends a rocky channel at a rather steep gradient is a little
bewildering. The flash of the water dazzles, and its rapid movement makes
one giddy. There is no excitement, however, so exhilarating as that which
comes of a hard battle with one of the forces of nature, especially when
nature does not get the best of it. This tug-of-war over, we were going
along smoothly upon rather deep water, when I heard a splash behind me, and
on looking round saw my companion in a position that did not afford him
much opportunity for gesticulation. He was up to his middle in the water,
but hitched on to the side of the boat with his heels and hands. He had
given a vigorous push with his pole upon a stone that rolled, and he rolled
too. Now, the boat being very light and narrow, an effort on his part
to return to his former position would have filled it with water; so he
remained still while I, bringing my weight to bear on the other side,
managed to haul him up by the arms. After this experience, he was restless
and apparently uncomfortable, and we had not gone much farther before he
expressed a wish to land on the edge of a field. Here he took off the
garments which he now felt were superfluous, vigorously wrung the water out
of them, and spread them in the sun to dry. I left him there fighting with
the flies, whose curiosity and enterprise were naturally excited by such
rare good luck, and went to dream awhile in the shadow of the rock, on the
very edge of which are the ramparts of the ruined castle of La Madeleine.
This is the most picturesque bit of the valley of the Vézère; but to feel
all the romance of it, and all the poetry of a perfect union of rocks and
ruin, trees and water, one must glide upon the river, that here is deep and
calm, and is full of that mystery of infinitely-intermingled shadow and
reflection which is the hope and the despair of the landscape-painter. Now,
in this month of May, the shrubs that clung to the furrowed face of the
white rock were freshly green, and the low plaint of the nightingale, and
the jocund cry of the more distant cuckoo, broke the sameness of the great
chorus of grasshoppers in the sunny meadows.
When I returned to my companion, I found that he was clothed again, but not
in a contented frame of mind. He accompanied me as far as Tursac, and then
started off home on foot. He had had enough of the river. There was still
sufficient daylight for me to continue the voyage to Le Moustier, but,
apart from the fact that I could not get up the rapids alone, I was quite
willing to pass the night at Tursac.
Having chained the boat to a willow, I walked through the meadows towards a
group of houses, in the midst of which stood a church, easily distinguished
by its walls and tower. When I had arranged matters for the night, I passed
through the doorway of this little church, under whose vault the same
human story that begins with the christening, receives a new impetus from
marriage, and is brought to an end by the funeral, had been repeated by
so many sons after their fathers. The air was heavy with the fragrance
of roses from the Lady Chapel, where a little lamp gleamed on the ground
beside the altar. As the sun went down, the roses and leaves began to
brighten with the shine of the lamp, like a garden corner in the early
moonlight.
At the inn I met one of those commercial travellers who work about in the
rural districts of France, driving from village to village with their
samples, fiercely competing for the favours of the rustic shopkeeper, doing
their utmost to get before one another, and be the first bee that sucks the
flower, taking advantage of one another's errors and accidents, but always
good friends and excellent table companions when they meet. I learnt that
my new acquaintance was 'in the drapery.' We were comparing notes of our
experience in the rough country of the Corrèze, when he, as he rolled up
another cigarette, said:
'I had learnt to put up with a good deal in the Corrèze, but one day I had
a surprise which was too much for me. I had dined at one of those auberges
that you have been speaking of, and then asked for some coffee. It was an
old man who made it, and he strained it through--guess what he strained it
through!'
I guessed it was something not very appropriate, but was too discreet to
give it a name.
'_Eh bien_! It was the heel of an old woollen stocking!'
'And did you drink the coffee?'
'No. I said that I had changed my mind.'
We did not take any coffee that evening. We had something less likely to
set the fancy exploring the secrets of the kitchen, where, through the open
doorway, we could see our old peasant hostess seated on her little bench
in the ingle and nodding her head over the dying embers of her hearth. Her
husband was induced by the traveller to bring up from the cherished corner
of his cellar a bottle of the old wine of Tursac, made from the patriarchal
vines before the pestilential insect drew the life out of them. The
hillsides above the Vézère are growing green again with vineyards, and
again the juice of the grape is beginning to flow abundantly; but years
must pass before it will be worthy of being put into the same cellar with
the few bottles of the old wine which have been treasured up here and there
by the grower, but which he thinks it a sacrilege to drink on occasions
less solemn than marriages or christenings in the family.
'You can often coax the old wine from them,' said my knowing companion, 'if
you go the right way to work.'
'And what is the secret?'
'Flattery: there is nothing like it. Flatter the peasant and you will be
almost sure to move him. Say, 'Ah, what a time that was when you had the
old wine in your cellars!' He will say, '_Nest-ce pas, monsieur_?' and
brighten up at the thought of it. Then you will continue: 'Yes, indeed,
that was a wine worth drinking. There was nothing like it to be found
within fifty kilomètres. What a bouquet! What a fine _goút du terroir_!'
He will not be able to bear much more of this if he has any of the wine.
Unless you are pretty sure that he has some, it is not worth while talking
about it. Expect him to disappear, and to come back presently with a
dirty-looking bottle, which he will handle as tenderly as if it were a new
baby.'
Those whose travelling in France is carried out according to the
directions given in guide-books--the writers of which nurse the reader's
respectability with the fondest care--will of course conclude that the
best hotels in the wine districts are those in which the best wine of the
country is to be had. This is an error. The wine in the larger hotels is
almost invariably the 'wine of commerce'; that is to say, a mixture of
different sorts more or less 'doctored' with sulphate of lime, to overcome
a natural aversion to travelling. The hotel-keeper, in order to keep on
good terms with the representatives of the wine-merchants--all mixers--who
stop at his house, distributes his custom among them. Those who set value
on a pure _vin du pays_ with a specific flavour belonging to the soil,
should look for it in the little out-of-the-way auberge lying amongst the
vineyards. There it is probable that some of the old stock is still left,
and if the vigneron-innkeeper says it is the old wine, the traveller may
confidently believe him. I have never known in such cases any attempt at
deception.
The next morning I reached Le Moustier. Here the valley is broad, but the
rocks, which are like the footstools of the hills, shut in the landscape
all around. These naked perpendicular masses of limestone, yellow like
ochre or as white as chalk, and reflecting the brilliance of the sun, must
have afforded shelter to quite a dense population in the days when man
made his weapons and implements from flints, and is supposed to have lived
contemporaneously with the reindeer. Notwithstanding all the digging and
searching that has gone on of late years on this spot, the soil in the
neighbourhood of the once inhabited caverns and shelters is still full of
the traces of prehistoric man.
Shortly before my coming, a _savant_--everybody is called a _savant_ here
who goes about with his nose towards the ground--gave a man two francs to
be allowed to dig for a few hours in a corner of his garden. The man was
willing enough to have his ground cleared of stones on these terms. The
_savant_ therefore went to work, and when he left in the evening he took
with him half a sackful of flints and bones.
In a side valley close to Le Moustier is a line of high vertical or
overleaning rocks. A ledge accessible from the ground runs along the face,
and nearly in the centre, and at the back of it, are numerous hollows in
the calcareous stone, some natural, others partly scooped out with the aid
of metal implements, whose marks can still be seen. Each of these shelters
was inhabited. Holes and recesses have been cut in the walls to serve for
various domestic purposes, and on the ground are traces of fireplaces,
reservoirs for water, etc. The original inhabitants of these hollows may
have been savages no more advanced in the arts than those who worked
flints, but it is certain that the latest occupiers were much more
civilized. Rows of holes roughly cut in the limestone show where the ends
of beams once rested, and the use of these timbers was evidently to support
a roof that covered much of the ledge. It is quite certain that people
lived here in the Middle Ages, and they might do so now but for the
difficulty of bringing up water. The security which the position afforded
could hardly have been lost sight of in the days when the inhabitants of
Guyenne were in constant dread of being attacked. One must therefore be
guarded against wild talk about prehistoric man in connection with these
rock dwellings, which in many cases were used as fortresses during the
three hundred years' struggle between the English and French in Aquitaine.
My waterfaring back to Les Eyzies was far easier than the voyage up-stream.
Nevertheless, there was some excitement in it, for when the rapids were
reached, the current snatched the boat, as it were, from me, but carried me
with it, by little reefs each marked out as an islet as white as snow, by
the floating flowers of the water ranunculus; but when its strength failed,
it left me to drift where, in the dark shadow of rock and tree, the water
rested from its race. Presently the rapids were seen again dancing in the
sun, and the boat, gliding on to just where the smooth surface curved and
the current took its leap without a ripple, darted forward like a startled
water-bird. Once a back current whirled my fragile boat completely round.
Then I remembered the good advice of the friendly Otter at Beynac with
reference to going down these streams, where the water has to be watched
with some attention if one does not wish to get capsized: '_Tenez-vous
toujours dans le plus fort du courant_.'
Again in calm water, I recognised, beyond the still grass and the scattered
flame of the poppies, the high walls of the fortress-like church of Tayac,
with the light of the sinking sun upon them. Then a little lower down at
the ford, which was my stopping-place, a pair of bullocks were crossing the
river with a waggon-load of hay; so that the picturesque, the idyllic, and
the sentiment of peace were all blended so perfectly as to make me feel
that the pen was powerless, and that the painter's brush alone could save
the scene from passing away for ever.
Tayac and Les Eyzies form one very straggling commune, and the church where
the slain men of Sarlat lie serves for the entire population. This edifice
of the eleventh and twelfth centuries deserves a brief description. There
is much grandeur in its vast, deeply-recessed Romanesque portal, with
marble columns in the jambs and numerous archivolts. Then its high, narrow
windows, and the low, square towers, pierced with loopholes, give to it
that air of the fortress which immediately impresses the beholder. Without
doubt it was built like so many other churches of the same stormy and
uncertain period, to be used as a place of refuge in case of danger. The
entrance to the principal tower is artfully concealed at the back of a
chapel at the east end, and can only be reached with a ladder. The very
narrow passage makes two or more right angles before it leads to the foot
of the spiral staircase--a disposition of great value in defence.
Having heard of a cavern in the garden of the presbytery which, in the
memory of living people, was the refuge of a murderer whom the gendarmes
were afraid to follow underground, because it was believed that he would
knock them on the head one after the other while they were wriggling
through the passage, and then quietly walk out by a back way unknown to
anyone but himself, I felt a strong desire to explore this cave of evil
repute. The idea was all the more enticing because I was assured that
nobody had entered it but the murderer. I called upon the curé, and asked
him how he felt at the prospect of a little trip underground in his own
garden. He did not seem to feel very eager for the adventure; but when I
proposed to go alone, he was too polite to let me depart with his best
wishes. He decided to accompany me. When he had put on his oldest
_soutane_, we started with a packet of candles and a ball of string.
Priests' gardens are often very interesting, and the one through which
we now passed pleased me greatly. It was a long strip, in two or three
terraces, upon the rocky hillside. Many fruit-trees, but chiefly almond,
cherry, and peach, were scattered over it. There was also a straggling
vine-trellis, from which there now spread in the June air that sweet
fragrance of the freshly-opened flower-buds of which the poet-king Solomon
sung. In the highest part was the cavern. We had to crawl in upon our hands
and knees, and in some places to lie out almost flat. As my friend the curé
insisted upon going first, I could not help thinking that the back view
of him, as he wormed his way along the low gallery, was not exactly
sacerdotal. Sometimes we passed over smooth sand--evidently left by a
stream that once issued here; at other times over small stones, which were
bad for the knees. We kept a keen look-out for the remains of prehistoric
men and beasts, but only found the shells of eggs which a fox had probably
stolen from the curé's fowl-house. There were also rabbits' bones, whose
presence there was to be explained in the same way. My companion, however,
having once entered his cave, was resolved upon returning another day and
digging conscientiously in the sand, which appeared to be very deep in
places. He may since have unearthed some pre-historic treasures there. The
cavern was interesting as showing the honeycombing effects of water on
limestone rock, but it did not lead very far into the hill. The belief that
the murderer escaped by another opening than the one by which he entered
was founded on fiction.
After the cave exploration, the curé was so good as to accompany me to a
mysterious ruin in the neighbourhood, which he believed to be of English
origin, because it was always spoken of by the people of the locality as
William's Chapel. The English pronunciation of the name William had been
preserved in the patois. After this, I did not doubt that his supposition
was correct. Some Englishman was connected with the history of the
building; but was it really a chapel? The hill that we had to climb to it
was very high, and, although covered with herbage, almost precipitous. The
building was not on the summit, but on a ledge of rock some distance down
the cliff. The ruin consisted of only a few fragments of wall, built very
strongly of well-shaped stones laid together without mortar. Holes cut in
the rock showed where the ends of beams had rested. The position was
rather one for a fortress than for a chapel; but no doubt Englishmen of
an eccentrically religious turn appeared as early as the thirteenth or
fourteenth century, if not earlier. If the people of the valley climbed up
to William's Chapel to say their prayers, they must have been very pious
indeed.
The strength of the current in the Vézère had turned me from my first plan,
which was to ascend the river as far as Montignac, and take the road thence
to Hautefort, the birthplace of Bertrand de Born, who was put into hell by
Dante for having encouraged Henry Plantagenet's sons to rebel against their
father. The sombre Florentine treated the troubadour baron with excessive
harshness, for it is recorded of Bertrand that his repentance for the sins
of his restless and agitated life was so sincere that he ended his days as
a monk in the monastery of Cîteaux. [Footnote: 'Mobile, agité, comme son
aventureuse existence qui commenca au donjon d'Hautefort et s'éteint
dans le silence du cloitre de Cîteaux.--'_Discours sur les célébrités du
Périgord_,' par L. Sauveroche.]
Bertrand de Born was an evil counsellor to Henry Court-Mantel, but a
singularly attractive figure of the twelfth century was this troubadour
noble, whose life in the world was divided between the soothing charm of
the '_gai sçavoir_' and the excitement of war, and who was equally at his
ease whether he was holding the lance or the pen. He had the tenderest
friendship for the young Prince, and mourned his death in the best elegy
that appeared at the dawn of modern literature.
[Illustration: CHÂTEAU DE HAUTEFORT.]
Of the ancient fortress of Bertrand de Born, Viscount of Hautefort, a few
vestiges are left, which may be easily distinguished from the later masonry
of the castle with which they are combined.
[Illustration: A HOUSE AT PÉRIGUEUX.]