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Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_).
IN THE TRACK OF R. L. STEVENSON
AND ELSEWHERE IN OLD FRANCE
[Illustration: THE SCHELDT AT ANTWERP
"We made a great stir in Antwerp Docks. In a stroke or two the canoes
were away out in the middle of the Scheldt."--R. L. S.]
All rights reserved
IN THE TRACK OF R. L. STEVENSON AND ELSEWHERE IN OLD FRANCE
by
J. A. HAMMERTON
Author of "Stevensoniana"
With 92 Illustrations
Bristol
J. W. Arrowsmith, 11 Quay Street
London
Simpkin, Marshall, Hamilton, Kent & Company Limited
First published in 1907
CONTENTS
_Page_
THROUGH THE CEVENNES 1
ALONG THE ROUTE OF "AN INLAND VOYAGE" 71
"THE MOST PICTURESQUE TOWN IN EUROPE" 121
THE COUNTRY OF THE CAMISARDS 137
THE WONDERLAND OF FRANCE 155
THE TOWN OF "TARTARIN" 173
"LA FÊTE DIEU" 195
"M'SIEU MEELIN OF DUNDAE" 207
ROUND ABOUT A FRENCH FAIR 219
THE PALACE OF THE ANGELS 237
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
THE SCHELDT AT ANTWERP _Frontispiece_
_Face Page_
LE MONASTIER 1
LE MONASTIER 4
CHÂTEAU NEUF, NEAR LE MONASTIER 8
GOUDET 8
CHÂTEAU BEAUFORT AT GOUDET 13
SPIRE OF OUR LADY OF PRADELLES 13
THE INN AT GOUDET 16
OLD BRIDGE AT LANGOGNE 20
THE LOIRE NEAR GOUDET 20
VILLAGE AND CASTLE OF LUC 24
LA BASTIDE 24
ROAD TO OUR LADY OF THE SNOWS 29
THE MONASTERY 29
OUR LADY OF THE SNOWS 33
MAIN STREET, LE BLEYMARD 36
RUINS OF THE HÔTEL DU LOT 36
ON THE LOZÈRE 40
ON THE LOZÈRE 45
VILLAGE OF COCURÈS 48
BRIDGE OVER THE TARN 48
WATERFALL ON THE LOZÈRE 53
IN THE VALLEY OF THE TARN 53
"CLARISSE" 56
THE TARN VALLEY AT LA VERNÈDE 60
IN THE VALLEY OF THE TARN 65
NEAR FLORAC 65
FLORAC 68
BOOM ON THE RUPEL 72
VILLEVORDE ON THE WILLEBROEK CANAL 72
THE ALLÉE VERTE AT LAEKEN 77
THE SAMBRE AT MAUBEUGE 77
THE GRAND CERF, MAUBEUGE 80
THE CHURCH AT QUARTES 84
THE SAMBRE FROM THE BRIDGE AT PONT 84
ON THE SAMBRE AT QUARTES 88
SCENE AT PONT-SUR-SAMBRE 88
THE SAMBRE CANAL AT LANDRECIES 93
THE FOREST OF MORMAL FROM THE SAMBRE 93
THE INN AT MOY 97
THE VILLAGE STREET, MOY 97
VEUVE BAZIN 100
THE BAZINS' INN AT LA FÈRE 100
THE TOWN HALL NOYON 104
HÔTEL DU NORD, NOYON 104
NOYON CATHEDRAL FROM THE EAST 109
NOYON CATHEDRAL: WEST FRONT 112
COMPIÈGNE TOWN HALL 116
THE OISE AT PONTOISE 120
GENERAL VIEW OF LE PUY 121
LE PUY: CATHEDRAL AND ROCHER DE CORNEILLE
FROM PLACE DU BREUIL 125
LACEMAKERS AT LE PUY 128
MARKET DAY AT LE PUY, SHOWING TYPES OF
THE AUVERNGATS 129
LE PUY 132
THE CHURCH OF ST. MICHAEL, LE PUY 136
HOUSE OF DU CHAYLA, AT PONT DE MONTVERT 137
TWO VIEWS IN THE VILLAGE OF LA CAVALERIE 141
LA CAVALERIE, WITHIN THE CAMISARD WALL 144
ST. VERNAN, IN THE VALLEY OF THE DOURBIE 145
THE WAY OVER THE LARZAC 148
MILLAU, WITH VIEW OF THE CAUSSE NOIR 152
ON THE CAUSSE DU LARZAC 152
ON THE TARN 157
A ROCKY DEFILE ON THE TARN 160
IN THE GORGE OF THE TARN 161
THE CHÂTEAU DE LA CAZE ON THE TARN 164
PEYRELAU, IN THE VALLEY OF THE JONTE 169
BEAUCAIRE: SHOWING CASTLE AND BRIDGE ACROSS
THE RHONE TO TARASCON 173
TARASCON: THE PUBLIC MARKET 176
THE TARASQUE 177
THE CASTLE OF TARASCON 177
TARASCON: THE MAIRIE 180
A WOMAN OF TARASCON 184
TARASCON: "THE BIT OF A SQUARE" 189
TARASCON: THE PROCESSION OF THE TARASQUE 193
PROCESSION OF LA FÊTE DIEU 196
A WOMAN OF SAINTE ENIMIE 205
THE FAMOUS DRUIDICAL REMAINS AT CARNAC 208
THE MERCHANTS' TABLE 213
WOMEN OF THE CEVENNES 220
GENERAL VIEW OF MONT ST. MICHEL 244
MONT ST. MICHEL 253
Note
The travel-sketches that go to the making of this little book have
appeared, in part only, in certain literary magazines, here and in
America; but the greater part of the work is now printed for the first
time.
Perhaps the author should anticipate a criticism that might arise from
the sequence of the first two papers. Had he gone to work on a set
plan, he would naturally have undertaken his pilgrimage along the
route of _An Inland Voyage_ before visiting the scenes of _Travels
with a Donkey_, as the one book preceded the other in order of
publication, _An Inland Voyage_, which appeared originally in 1878,
being properly Stevenson's first book. _Travels with a Donkey_ was
published in 1879. But he has preferred to give precedence to "Through
the Cevennes," as it was the first of his Stevenson travel-sketches to
be written. Moreover, these little journeys were as much, indeed more
affairs of personal pleasure than of copy-hunting, and when the author
went forth on them he had no intention of making a book about his
experiences--at least, not one deriving its chief interest from
association with the memory of R. L. S. He has been counselled,
however, to bring together these chapters and their accompanying
photographs in this form, on the plea that the interest in Stevenson's
French travels is still so considerable that any straightforward
account of later journeys over the same ground cannot fail to have
some attraction for the admirers of that great master of English
prose.
The book is but a very little sheaf from the occasional writings of
its author on his wayfarings in old France, where in the last ten
years he has travelled many thousands of miles by road and rail
between Maubeuge and Marseilles, from Belfort to Bordeaux, and always
with undiminished interest among a people who are eminently lovable
and amid scenes of infinite variety and charm.
[Illustration: "In a little place called Le Monastier, in a pleasant
Highland valley about fifteen miles from Le Puy, I spent a month of
fine days."--R. L. S.]
[Illustration: _The Public Well_
LE MONASTIER]
Through the Cevennes
I.
Someone has accounted for the charm of story-telling by the suggestion
that the natural man imagines himself the hero of the tale he is
reading, and squares this action or that with what he would suspect
himself of doing in similar circumstances. The romancer who can best
beguile his reader into this conceit of mind is likely to be the most
popular. It seems to me that with books of travel this mental
make-believe must also take place if the reader is to derive the full
measure of entertainment from the narrative. With myself, at all
events, it is so, and Hazlitt may be authority of sufficient weight to
justify the thought that my own experience is not likely to be
singular. To me the chief charm in reading a book of travel is this
fanciful assumption of the rôle of the traveller; and so far does it
condition my reading, that my readiest appetite is for a story of
wayfaring in some quarter of the world where I may hope, not
unreasonably, to look upon the scenes that have first engaged my
mind's eye. Thus the adventures of a Mr. Savage Landor in Thibet, or a
Sir Henry Stanley in innermost Africa, have less attraction for me
than the narrative of a journey such as Elihu Burritt undertook in his
famous walk from London to John o' Groats, or R. L. Stevenson's
_Travels with a Donkey in the Cevennes_. I will grant you that the
delicious literary style of Stevenson's book is its potent charm, but
I am persuaded that others than myself have had their pleasure in the
reading of it sensibly increased by the thought that some day they
might witness Nature's originals of the landscapes which the master
painter has depicted so deftly. It had long been a dream of mine to
track his path through that romantic region of old France; not in the
impudently emulative spirit of the throaty tenor who, hearing Mr.
Edward Lloyd sing a new song, hastens to the music-seller's, resolved
to practise it for his next "musical evening;" not, forsooth, to do
again badly what had once been done well; but to travel the ground in
the true pilgrim spirit of love for him who
"Here passed one day, nor came again--
A prince among the tribes of men."
Well did I know that many of the places with which I was familiar
romantically through Stevenson's witchery of words were drab and dull
enough in reality: enough for me that here in his pilgrim way that
"blithe and rare spirit" had rested for a little while.
II.
The mountainous district of France to which, somewhat loosely,
Stevenson applies the name Cevennes, lies along the western confines
of Provence, and overlaps on several departments, chief of which are
Ardèche, Lozère, Gard, and Herault. In many parts the villages and the
people have far less in common with France and the French than
Normandy and the Normans have with provincial England. Here in these
mountain fastnesses and sheltered valleys the course of life has
flowed along almost changeless for centuries, and here, too, we shall
find much that is best in the romantic history and natural grandeur of
France. Remote from Paris, and happily without the area of the "cheap
trip" organisers, it is likely to remain for ever "off the beaten
track."
In order to visit the Cevennes proper, the beautiful town of Mende
would be the best starting-place. But since my purpose was to strike
the trail of R. L. S., after some wanderings awheel northward of
Clermont Ferrand, I approached the district from Le Puy, a town which
so excellent a judge as Mr. Joseph Pennell has voted the most
picturesque in Europe. Besides, Stevenson himself had often wandered
through its quaint, unusual streets, while preparing for his memorable
journey with immortal Modestine. "I decided on a sleeping sack," he
says; "and after repeated visits to Le Puy, and a deal of high living
for myself and my advisers, a sleeping sack was designed, constructed,
and triumphantly brought home." At that time the wanderer's "home" was
in the mountain town of Le Monastier, some fifteen miles south-east of
Le Puy, and there in the autumn of 1877 he spent "about a month of
fine days," variously occupied in completing his _New Arabian Nights_
and _Picturesque Notes on Edinburgh_, and conducting, with no little
personal and general entertainment, the preliminaries of his projected
journey through the Cevennes.
[Illustration: _Where R. L. S. bought Modestine_
"Our first interview (with Father Adam) was in the Monastier market
place."--R. L. S.
"The bell of Monastier was just striking nine, as I descended the hill
through the common."--R. L. S.
LE MONASTIER]
III.
Together with a friend I had spent some rainy but memorable days at Le
Puy in the summer of 1903, waiting for fair weather to advance on this
little highland town, which lies secure away from railways and can
only be reached by road. A bright morning in June saw us gliding on
our wheels along the excellent _route nationale_ that carries us
thither on a long, easy gradient. The town seen at a distance is a
mere huddle of grey houses stuck on the side of a bleak, treeless
upland, and at close quarters it presents few allurements to the
traveller. But it is typical of the mountain villages of France, and
rich in the rugged, unspoilt character of its inhabitants. Stevenson
tells us that it is "notable for the making of lace, for drunkenness,
for freedom of language, and for unparalleled political dissension."
As regards the last of these features, the claim to distinction may
readily be admitted, but for the rest they apply equally to scores of
similar villages of the Cevennes. Certainly it is not notable for the
variety or comfort of its hostelries, but I shall not regret our brief
sojourn at the Hôtel de Chabrier.
Mine host was a worthy who will always have a corner in my memory.
Like his establishment, his person was much the worse for wear. Lame
of a leg, his feet shod with the tattered fragments of slippers such
as the Scots describe with their untranslatable "bauchle," a pair of
unclean heels peeping out through his stockings, he was the living
advertisement of his frowsy inn, the ground floor of which, still
bearing the legend _Café_, had been turned into a stable for oxen and
lay open to the highway, a doubtful shelter for our bicycles. But
withal, turning a shut eye to the kitchen as we passed, the cooking
was excellent, and M. Chabrier assured us that he was renowned for
game patties, which he sent to "all parts of Europe." The frank
satisfaction with himself and his hotel he betrayed at every turn
would have rejoiced the heart of so shrewd a student of character as
R. L. S., and the chances are considerable that in that month of fine
days, six-and-twenty years before, Stevenson may have gossiped with my
friend of the greasy cap, for M. Chabrier was then, as now, making his
guests welcome and baking his inimitable patties.
Did he know Stevenson? "_Oui, oui, oui, M'sieu!_" Stevenson was a
writer of books who had spent some time there years ago. "_Oui, oui,
parfaitement, M'sieu Stevenzong._" What a memory the man had, and how
blithely he recalled the distant past!
"Then, of course, you must have known the noted village character
Father Adam, who sold his donkey to this Scottish traveller?"
"_Père Adam--oui, oui, oui--ah, non, non, je ne le connais pas_," thus
shuffling when I asked for some further details.
Mine host, who read the duty of an innkeeper to be the humouring of
his patrons, could clearly supply me with the most surprising details
of him whose footsteps I was tracing; but wishful not to lead him into
temptation, I tested his evidence early in our talk by asking how many
years had passed since he of whom we spoke had rested at Le Monastier,
and whether he had patronised the Hôtel de Chabrier. He sagely
scratched his head and racked his memory for a moment, with the result
that this Scotsman--oh, he was sure he was a Scotsman--had stayed in
that very hotel, and occupied bedroom number three, just four years
back!
Obviously he was mistaken--not to put too fine a point upon it--and
his cheerful avowal, in discussing another subject, that he was "a
partisan of no religion," did not increase my faith in him. There were
few Protestants in Le Monastier, he told me; but as I happened to know
from my good friend the pasteur at Le Puy that the postmaster here, at
least, stood by the reformed faith, and by that token might be
supposed a man of some reading, I hoped there to find some knowledge
of Stevenson, whose works and travels were familiar to the pasteur.
Alas, "_J' n' sais pas_" was the burden of the postmaster's song.
To wander about the evil-smelling by-ways of Le Monastier, and observe
the ancient crones busy at almost every door with their lace-making
pillows, the bent and grizzled wood-choppers at work in open spaces,
is to understand that, despite the lapse of more than a quarter of a
century, there must be still alive hundreds of the village folk among
whom Stevenson moved. But to find any who could recall him were the
most hopeless of tasks; to identify the _auberge_, in the
billiard-room of which "at the witching hour of dawn" he concluded the
purchase of the donkey and administered brandy to its disconsolate
seller, were equally impossible, and it was only left to the pilgrims
to visit the market-place where Father Adam and his donkey were first
encountered. So with the stink of the church, whose interior seemed to
enclose the common sewer of the town, still lingering in our nostrils,
we resumed our journey southward across the little river Gazeille, and
headed uphill in the direction of St. Martin de Frugères, noting as we
mounted on the other side of the valley the straggling lane down which
Modestine, loaded with that wonderful sleeping sack and the
paraphernalia of the most original of travellers, "tripped along upon
her four small hoofs with a sober daintiness of gait" to the ford
across the river, giving as yet no hint of the troubles she had in
store for "the green donkey driver."
[Illustration: CHÂTEAU NEUF, NEAR LE MONASTIER
A drawing of this castle by Stevenson has been published.]
[Illustration: GOUDET
"I came down the hill to where Goudet stands in a green end of a
valley."--R. L. S.]
IV.
Along our road were several picturesque patches formed of rock and
pine, and notably the romantic ruins of Château Neuf, with the little
village clustered at their roots, which furnished subjects for
Stevenson's block and pencil. Among his efforts as a limner there has
also been published a sketch of his that gives with striking effect
the far-reaching panorama of the volcanic mountain masses ranging
westward from Le Monastier, a scene of wild and austere aspect. A
little beyond Château Neuf we were wheeling on the same road where he
urged with sinking heart the unwilling ass, and while still within
sight of his starting-place, showing now like a scar on the far
hillside, we passed by the filthy village of St. Victor, the
neighbourhood where the greenness of the donkey driver was diminished
by the advice of a peasant, who advocated thrashing and the use of the
magic word "Proot."
The road grew wilder as we advanced towards St. Martin de Frugères, to
which village the sentimental traveller came upon a Sabbath, and wrote
of the "home feeling" the scene at the church brought over him--a
sentiment difficult to appreciate as we wandered the filth-sodden
streets and inspected the ugly little church, whitewashed within and
stuffed with cheap symbols of a religion that is anathema to
descendants of the Covenanters. The silvery Loire far below in the
valley to our right, we sat at our ease astride our wiry steeds and
sped cheerfully down the winding road to Goudet, feeling that if our
mode of progress was less romantic than Stevenson's, it had
compensations, for there was nothing that tempted us to tarry on our
way.
"Goudet stands in a green end of a valley, with Château Beaufort
opposite upon a rocky steep, and the stream, as clear as crystal,
lying in a deep pool between them." The scene was indeed one of
singular beauty, the fertile fields and shaggy woods being in pleasant
contrast to the barren country through which we had been moving. While
still a mile away from the place, we foregathered with two peasants
trudging uphill to St. Martin. I was glad to talk with them, as I
desired to know which of the inns was the oldest. There were three, I
was told, and the Café Rivet boasted the greatest age, the others
being of recent birth, and none were good, my informant added,
supposing that we intended to lodge for the night.
To the inn of M. Rivet we repaired, this being the only _auberge_ that
Goudet possessed at the time of Stevenson's visit. We found it one of
the usual small plastered buildings, destitute of any quaintness, but
cleaner than most, and sporting a large wooden tobacco pipe, crudely
fashioned, by way of a sign. The old people who kept it were good
Cevennol types, the woman wearing the curious headgear of the peasant
folk, that resembles the tiny burlesque hats worn by musical clowns,
and the man in every trait of dress and feature capable of passing for
a country Scot. The couple were engagingly ignorant, and had never
heard of Scotland, so it was no surprise to learn that they knew
nothing of the famous son of that country who had once "hurried over
his midday meal" in the dining-room where we were endeavouring to
instruct Madame Rivet in the occult art of brewing tea. The Rivets had
been four years in possession of the inn at the time of Stevenson's
visit, and I should judge that the place had changed in no essential
feature, though I missed the portrait of the host's nephew, Regis
Senac, "Professor of Fencing and Champion of the Two Americas," that
had entertained R. L. S. In return for our hints on tea-making, Madame
Rivet charged us somewhat in excess of the usual tariff, and showed
herself a veritable _grippe-sous_ before giving change, by carefully
reckoning the pieces of fly-blown sugar we had used, a little
circumstance the cynic may claim as indicating a knowledge of the
spirit if not the letter of Scotland.
V.
It was late in the afternoon when we continued our journey from
Goudet, intent on reaching that evening the lake of Bouchet, which
Stevenson had selected as the camping-place for the first night of his
travels. The highway to Ussel is one of the most beautiful on the
whole route, lying through a wide and deep glen, similar to many that
exist in the Scottish Highlands, but again unlike all the latter in
its numerous terraces, that bear eloquent witness to the industry of
the country-folk. Every glen in this region of France is remarkable
for this handiwork of the toilers, and the time was, before the advent
of the sporting nawbobs, when in some parts of the Scottish Highlands
similar rude stonework was common in the glens.
[Illustration: CHÂTEAU BEAUFORT AT GOUDET]
[Illustration: SPIRE OF OUR LADY OF PRADELLES]
To those who have not seen this work of the poor hill-folk it is not
easy to convey a proper idea of its effect on the landscape. In these
bleak mountain regions the sheltered valleys and ravines are best
suited for growing the produce of the field, but as the soil is scant
and the ground too often takes the shape of a very attenuated V, it
is impossible to cultivate the slopes of the valley in their natural
condition; so, with infinite labour and the patience of their stolid
oxen, the Cevennols begin by building near the banks of the stream a
loose stone wall, and filling in the space between that and the upward
slope with a level bedding of earth. Thus step by step the hillside is
brought into cultivation, and the terraces will be found wherever it
is possible to rear a wall and carry up soil; indeed, they are to be
seen in many places where it would have been thought impossible to
prepare them, and out of reason to grow crops upon them. Often they
are not so large as an ordinary bedroom in area, and such a space one
may see under wheat. A hillside so terraced looks like a flight of
giant steps, and it is a unique spectacle to children of the plains to
descry, perhaps on the twentieth story, so to say, a team of oxen
ploughing one of these eerie fields.
Along this road, where on our right the terraces climbed upward to the
naked basalt, and on the other side of the valley, now flooded with a
pale yellow sunset that picked out vividly children at play tending a
scanty herd of cattle on the hillside, our donkey driver of old had
some of his bitterest experiences with that thrawn jade Modestine. We,
fortunate in our more docile mounts, made excellent progress to
Ussel, after walking a good two miles on foot. The road beyond that
town was lively with bullock wagons, heavily freighted with timber,
and carts, mostly drawn by oxen, filled with women returning from the
market at Costaros, a little town on the highway between Le Puy and
Pradelles; bullocks and people--the former to our embarrassment--being
greatly interested in the wheel-travellers of these seldom cycled
roads.
When we arrived at Costaros, a town that is drab and dismal beyond
words, the evening was wearing out under a leaden sky, promising the
stragglers from the market good use for their bulky umbrellas, and we
had still eight kilometres of rough country roads between us and the
lake. Stevenson, in his heart-breaking struggles with the wayward ass,
must have crossed the highway in the dark some little distance south
of Costaros to have arrived at the village of Bouchet St. Nicolas, two
miles beyond the lake; and as we urged forward in the rain, which now
fell pitilessly and turned the darkling mountains into phantom masses
smoking with mist, we could appreciate to the full the satisfaction
with which he abandoned his quest of the lake and spent his first
night snug at the inn of Bouchet. As we wheeled through the mud into
the large village of Cayres no straggler appeared in the streets, that
steamed like the back of a perspiring horse; but a carpenter at work
in a windy shed assured us that the chalet on the shore of the lake
had opened for the season, and in our dripping state we pressed
thither uphill, feeling that two miles more in the rain could not
worsen our condition. It was a weird and moving experience--the
ghostly woods on the hillside, the tuneless tinkle of bells on unseen
sheep, the hissing noise of our wheels on the moist earth--and our
delight was great when we heard the lapse of water on our left. For
nearly a mile the latter part of the road lay through a pine forest,
where the ground had scarcely suffered from the rain, but the way was
dark as in a tunnel, and glimpses of the lake between the trees showed
the water almost vivid as steel by contrast.
VI.
"I had been told," says R. L. S., "that the neighbourhood of the lake
was uninhabited except by trout." He travelled in the days before the
_Syndicat d'Initiative du Velay_, which I shall ever bless for its
chalet by the Lac du Bouchet, whose lighted windows two weary pilgrims
descried that night with joy unspeakable. Our arrival was the cause of
no small commotion to the good folk who kept this two-storied wooden
hostel. We were their first visitors of the season, and it was clear
they hailed us with delight, despite the lateness of our arrival.
Candles were soon alight in the dining-room upstairs, a fire of pine
logs crackling in the open hearth, the housemaid briskly laying the
table, the mistress bustling in the kitchen, doors banging cheerily in
the dark night as the master went and came between outhouses, fetching
food and firing for which our coming had suddenly raised the need. Our
bedrooms opened off the dining-room, and were well if plainly
furnished, the floors being sanded, and we had soon made shift to
change our sodden garments as well as the limited resources of
wheelmen's baggage would allow. Above all was the ceaseless noise of
the lake, that seemed to lend a keener edge to the chilly air.
[Illustration: THE INN AT GOUDET
_Where Stevenson was entertained by the old man and woman who still
conduct it_]
We could scarcely believe it was the middle of June in the sunny south
of France as we sat there shivering before the spluttering logs in a
room "suitable for bandits or noblemen in disguise." But a deep sense
of comfort was supplied by the savoury smells that issued from the
lower regions of the house. Our blessings on the head of the landlady
and the whole French nation of cooks were sincere, as we regaled
ourselves with an excellent meal of perch, omelet, mutton chops,
raisins, almonds, cheese, lemonade and coffee. Imagine yourself
arriving after nine o'clock at night at a lonely inn anywhere in
the British Isles and faring thus! Moreover, the tenants of the
chalet--the two women especially--were the most welcome of gossips,
and the elder had a gift of dry humour that must have served her well
in so wet a season. For three weeks it had rained steadily, she said,
and she feared it was nothing short of the end of the world. When we
told her that we had come from Le Monastier by way of St. Martin and
Goudet, she was highly amused, and the younger, a rosy-faced wench,
laughed heartily at the thought of anybody visiting such places. The
lake of Bouchet--ah, that was another matter! Lakes were few in
France, and this one well worth seeing. There were many lakes in
Scotland! This was news to them, and they wondered why we had come so
far to see this of Bouchet,--as we did ourselves when next morning we
surveyed a tiny sheet of water almost circular, no more than two miles
in circumference and quite featureless. It is simply the crater of an
ancient volcano, and receives its water from some underground springs,
there being no obvious source of supply. The lake, at an altitude of
4,000 feet, is higher than the surrounding country.
VII.
When we awoke in the morning and made ready for our departure the room
was filled with the smoke of burning faggots, as though a censer had
been swung in it by some early-rising acolyte; and the fire was again
a welcome evidence of the landlady's thoughtfulness, for the outlook
was grey and the early morning air bit shrewdly as the tooth of
winter. Had the day promised better, we should have struck south from
the lake to Bouchet St. Nicolas, at whose inn Stevenson uncorked a
bottle of Beaujolais, inviting his host to join him in drinking it;
and the innkeeper would take little, saying, "I am an amateur of such
wine, do you see?--and I am capable of leaving you not enough." But
the way thither is no better than a bullock-track, and several miles
of similar road lie between Bouchet and the highway; so with a
lowering sky ominous of more rain, and the knowledge that for three
weeks the country had been soaking, we determined not to risk the
bullock-track, and retraced our path to Costaros, passing on the way
numerous ox wagons laden with timber.
The whole countryside was sweet with the morning incense of the faggot
fires burning on many a cottage hearth. We overtook several young
people driving cattle out to the pasture lands, and noting that
without exception they carried umbrellas, our hopes of a good day were
not high. But by the time we had reached the Gendarmerie, that stands
at the crest of the hill on the high road out of Costaros, and were
chatting with one of the officers whom we found idling at the door,
the wind was rising and heaped masses of sombre clouds were being
driven before it across the sky, though in their passage they
disclosed no cheering hints of the blue behind. The gendarme admitted
that the rising wind might be a good sign, but he was not very
hopeful, and seemed to be more interested in meeting two travellers
from a country he had never heard of than in discussing the weather.
There are parts of France, especially Normandy and Brittany, where, to
confess oneself a Scotsman is to be assured of a heartier welcome than
would be accorded to one who came from England; but Stevenson's boast
that "the happiest lot on earth is to be born a Scotsman" counts for
little in these highlands of the south, where few of the village-folk
have ever heard of Scotland.
The road south of Costaros even on a bright summer day must appear
bleak and cheerless, and that morning our chief desire was to move
along it as quickly as we could. Yet, as we advanced, the scene was
not without elements of beauty, and the mists that veiled the distant
mountains gradually lifting, produced a transformation entirely
pleasing, while ere long there were great and welcome rifts in the
grey above, and patches of blue sky heartened us on our way. By the
time we had reached the hamlet of La Sauvetat the sun was peeping out
fitfully, and on our right it suddenly flooded with amber light a
meadow, yellow with marigolds, where cows were pasturing, attended by
a small girl who was playing at skipping-rope.
VIII.
We had again joined the track of R. L. S., where, now armed with a
goad, he drove his donkey. "The perverse little devil, since she would
not be taken with kindness, must even go with pricking." We had but to
sit in our saddles, and wheel rapidly down the long and exhilarating
descent to Pradelles, a very tumbledown village with a great shabby
square lying at an angle of almost forty-five degrees. The town
occupies a little corrie on the hillside, and the ground slopes
quickly on the west to the river Allier, beyond which the country
rises again in mighty undulations as far as the eye can reach. For all
its slanternness--perhaps, in some degree, because of that--Pradelles
is a place of interest, perched here at an altitude of 3,800 feet
above sea-level.
[Illustration: OLD BRIDGE AT LANGOGNE
"Just at the bridge at Langogne a lassie of some seven or eight
addressed me in the sacramental phrase, '_D'où 'st-ce-que vous
venez?_'"--R. L. S.]
[Illustration: THE LOIRE NEAR GOUDET
"An amiable stripling of a river, which it seems absurd to call the
Loire."--R. L. S.]
More than any other place we saw in our journey, this old mountain
town wears an unmistakable "foreign" appearance, and one walks its
streets with the feeling that one is moving cautiously along the
sloping roof of a house. Among its tumbledown buildings it still
possesses fragments of considerable historic value, such as its
ancient hospice, and a gateway from the top of which a village heroine
killed some Huguenot heroes by throwing a stone at them while they
were leading an assault against its walls. In the church of Nôtre Dame
this episode in the history of the town is commemorated by a mural
painting in vivid colours, the stone which the devout Catholic maiden
is hurling at the devoted heads of the besiegers being large enough to
warrant the assistance of a steam crane. The interior of the church is
very quaint and unusual, and I am sorry that Stevenson did not yield
to the urging of the landlady of the inn to visit Our Lady of
Pradelles, "who performed many miracles, although she was of wood,"
for his impressions of the church could not have failed to be
peculiarly piquant. The miraculous image of the virgin is a wooden
doll, dressed in lace and set on the high altar. Pilgrims come in
large numbers to its shrine every fifteenth of August; and one of the
spirited paintings on the wall depicts the rescue of the idol from a
burning of the church which, I should guess, took place about the time
of the Revolution. Evidently the rescuers of Our Lady were not
prepared to submit her to the crucial test a sister image at Le Puy
survived--"burning for thirty-six hours without being consumed." Many
and unfamiliar saints look down at us from the walls, and at the west
end there is a loft such as might be seen in some of the very old
Scottish churches, occupied at the time of our visit by a group of
women, members no doubt of some pious confraternity.
R. L. S. has some picturesque notes on "The Beast of Gévaudan," whose
trail he first struck at Pradelles; for we were now in the wild and
uncultivated country of Gévaudan, "but recently disforested from
terror of the wolves," whose grizzly exploits in the way of eating
women and children seem to have engaged the imagination of our
traveller. If the wolves have gone, they have left in their stead a
flourishing progeny of wolf-like curs, who infest the highways and
byways in extraordinary numbers, to the embarrassment of the wheelman.
IX.
From Pradelles to Langogne is a long and deep descent, and while
walking our machines down an unrideable path, a young woman on a
terrace near the road came forward to greet us, tripping unexpectedly
over the tether of a goat, and landing softly and naturally on the
ground, where after her moment's surprise she smilingly asked, "_Où
allez vous promener?_" more usually our bucolic greeting than "_D'où
'st-ce-que vous venez?_" the latter "sacramental phrase," on which
Stevenson remarks, being possibly suggested in his case by the odd
appearance of the traveller and his beast of burden.
The bridge across the Allier at Langogne, where Stevenson met the
"lassie of some seven or eight" who demanded whence he came, is now a
crazy ruin, and a serviceable modern structure spans the river some
little distance to the west of it. Near this place he camped for the
night. He furnishes no information about his stay at Langogne, where,
I should judge, he slept at one of the inns. The town must have
altered greatly since he rested there, as it is now on the railway
line to Villefort, and a considerable trade in coal seems to be
carried on. It is also a popular summer resort, though one is at a
loss to account for its attractions to holiday makers. Its church
dates from the tenth century, and contains in a little chapel on the
right, below the level of the nave, the image of Nôtre Dame de
Tout-Pouvoir, which our landlady at the Cheval Blanc assured us was
_très vénérée_, and the housemaid who conducted us thither took
advantage of the occasion to tell her beads before the statue, keeping
a roving eye on us as we wandered about the church.
X.
Stevenson's track now lay somewhat to the west of the course of the
Allier, as he made for the little village of Cheylard l'Evêque, on the
borders of the Forest of Mercoire, and in this stage of his journey he
was more than usually faithful to his ideal of travel: "For my part, I
travel not to go anywhere, but to go. I travel for travel's sake. The
great affair is to move; to feel the needs and hitches of our life
more nearly; to come down off this feather-bed of civilisation, and
find the globe granite underfoot and strewn with cutting flints."
There was no need for his quitting the highway, since his further
objective lay due south through the pleasant valley of the Allier. But
his diversion among the by-ways was rich in adventure, and
furnished him with material for perhaps his best chapter, "A Camp in
the Dark." He had the good fortune to lose his way after nightfall,
and to be forced to camp in a wood of pines in happy ignorance of his
whereabouts. When next morning he did reach Cheylard he was fain to
confess that "it seemed little worthy of all this searching." With a
less keen appetite for losing ourselves in a maze of muddy
bullock-tracks, we pressed forward through the fresh green valley to
Luc, and here rejoined the path of our adventurer once more. We had
the road almost to ourselves, and among the few wayfarers I recall was
a travelling knife-grinder, whom we passed near Luc engaged in the
agreeable task of preparing his dinner, the first course of which,
_potage au pain_, was simmering in a sooty pot over a fire of twigs. A
nation of gourmets, verily, when the humblest among them can thus
maintain the national art in the hedges.
[Illustration: VILLAGE AND CASTLE OF LUC
"Why anyone should desire to visit Luc is more than my much-inventing
spirit can suppose."--R. L. S.]
[Illustration: LA BASTIDE
"At a place called La Bastide I was directed to leave the river."
--R. L. S.]
"Why anyone should desire to visit either Luc or Cheylard is more than
my much inventing spirit can suppose." Thus our vagabond. But
journeying at a more genial season of the year, we found the
neighbourhood of Luc not devoid of beauty. The valley of the Allier is
here broken into wide and picturesque gorges, and in many ways the
scenery is reminiscent of Glen Coe, where Alan Breck and David Balfour
dodged the redcoats. But late in September it would bear a very
different aspect, and Stevenson tells us that "a more unsightly
prospect at this season of the year it would be hard to fancy.
Shelving hills rose round it on all sides, here dabbled with wood and
fields, there rising to peaks alternately naked and hairy with pines.
The colour throughout was black or ashen, and came to a point in the
ruins of the castle of Luc, which pricked up impudently from below my
feet, carrying on a pinnacle a tall white statue of Our Lady." There
is now a railway station at Luc, the line running near the road all
the way to La Bastide and as we continued southward that sunny June
day, it was only the shrill noise of the crickets and the unusual
quilt work of the diligently husbanded hillsides that told us we were
not looking on a Perthshire landscape. In a sweet corner of the valley
lies La Bastide, a drowsy little town despite its long connection with
the railway, which existed even at the time of Stevenson's visit.
Here, he tells us, "I was directed to leave the river, and follow a
road that mounted on the left among the hills of Vivarais, the modern
Ardèche; for I was now come within a little way of my strange
destination, the Trappist monastery of Our Lady of the Snows."
Thither we shall follow his steps, more closely than usual, as the
road is too steep to admit of our cycling. For some distance the route
lies through a great forest of pines, but when the crest of the hill
is gained a far-reaching prospect greets the eye. "The sun came out as
I left the shelter of a pine wood," writes R. L. S., "and I beheld
suddenly a fine wild landscape to the south. High rocky hills, as blue
as sapphire, closed the view, and between these lay ridge upon ridge,
heathery, craggy, the sun glittering in veins of rock, the underwood
clambering in the hollows, as rude as God made them at the first.
There was not a sign of man's hand in all the prospect; and, indeed,
not a trace of his passage, save where generation after generation had
walked in twisted footpaths in and out among the beeches and up and
down upon the channelled slopes." Only when the snow comes down and
mantles these abundant hills would this description not apply. It is a
perfect picture of what we saw. Presently we noted with no small
satisfaction the white statue of the Virgin, which, standing by the
highway at a point where a side road strikes northward through the
pines, "directed the traveller to Our Lady of the Snows." He describes
the pine wood as "a young plantation," but in the intervening years
the trees have grown into a mighty forest, dark and mysterious, and
the statue of Our Lady was so overshadowed by branches rich with
cones, that it was impossible to get a satisfactory photograph of it.
"Here, then," he continues, "I struck leftward, and pursued my way,
driving my secular donkey before me, and creaking in my secular boots
and gaiters, towards the asylum of silence." On our equally secular
cycles we followed the same track, the roadway being dotted on each
side with bundles of faggots gathered by the silent monks, probably
for the use of the poor.
XI.
"I have rarely approached anything with more unaffected terror than
the monastery of Our Lady of the Snows. This it is to have had a
Protestant education," says Stevenson, as he recalls the feeling
produced within him by the clanging of a bell at the monastery while
he was not yet in sight of it. No bells clanged as we descended the
road which Father Apollinaris was still in the act of making when
Stevenson encountered him. We emerged at length from the shelter of
the trees into a wide hollow of land, from which on every side the
hills rose up, and where on our right were the outer walls of the
monastery, plain plastered buildings, with little barred windows on
the ground floor and a row without bars on the second story. On our
left was a large saw-mill, where steam saws were giving shrill
advertisement of their use. Several monks were among the workers at
the mill, and a brown-coated figure was walking along the road that
opened on our left beyond the timber sheds to some large white
buildings which, as we afterwards learned, comprised the farm
belonging to the monastery. The first impression was not exactly to
touch one's feeling for romance. Trappists in the timber trade
suggests a heading for a "snippet" periodical, and if the monks were
silent, here at least were noises that smote unpleasantly on the ear.
[Illustration: ROAD TO OUR LADY OF THE SNOWS
Made by Father Apollinaris "with his own two hands in the space of a
year."]
[Illustration: THE MONASTERY
"Modestine was led away by a layman to the stables, and I and my pack
were received into Our Lady of the Snows."--R. L. S.]
The buildings of Our Lady of the Snows are quite devoid of any
architectural beauty. They are set four-square in the hollow, and the
hills trend gently upward on every side richly clad with trees, for
the monks have reforested much of the surrounding land, which is the
property of the fraternity. The south side is occupied by a long,
two-storied building, which contains the main entrance--a plain,
whitewashed, barn-like structure--and buildings of a similar type
adjoin it east and west, while the north side of the quadrangle is
filled by the more pretentious masonry of the church, the
chapter-house, and other religious offices, though even here the
essential note of the architecture is austerity, the clock-tower being
devoid of decoration and purely utilitarian.
When endeavouring to photograph the buildings while the sun shone, an
old man with a very red face, a very white beard and a very dirty
white blouse came along, leaning feebly on his stick. He was delighted
on being asked to become part of the picture, and begged me to wait a
moment while he fixed on his left arm his _plaque_, whereon I read in
brazen letters, "Gardien de la Propriété." This aged and infirm
defender of the monastic estates was as proud of his _plaque_ as if it
had been a medal won in war. There must be few attacks upon the
property of the monastery, which he informed me extended as far as we
could see in this windswept hollow of the hills, if our friend of the
snowy beard and ruddy face stood for its defence! We were cheered to
learn from him that there would be no difficulty in visiting the
monastery, and if we wished we might be able to pass the night there.
This we desired most heartily for various reasons, but chiefly because
it was now close on six in the evening, and days are short in these
latitudes.
XII.
We were told to go round to the chief gateway, and there to summon the
Brother Porter by ringing the bell. This we did, with something of
that "quaking heart" to which Stevenson confesses in the same act, for
the clamour of a bell that one rings in a great silent building seems
fraught with news of an offence for which one stands to receive the
penalty. Nor do your spirits rise when a little shutter in the door is
opened, and a grizzly-whiskered face in a brown hood peers through
demanding your business. All was well, however. The Brother Porter
admitted us to the courtyard, and went to summon one of the novitiates
who, as Guest Father, would do us the honours of the monastery. He
was, as I should judge, a young man of five-and-twenty, who came to us
through a door on the right of the entrance that admitted to the
hospice. Wearing the white flannel habit of the monks, with a black
scapular hanging loose and bulky below the neck, he was of medium
stature, his shaven face pleasant and comely, and his dark eyes of
that unusual brilliance which Stevenson noted as "the only morbid
sign" he could detect in the appearance of the monks. Our host bowed
ceremoniously in shaking hands with us, and immediately escorted us
across the trim garden to the monastic buildings at the other side of
the quadrangle.
During their period of novitiate, which lasts for three years, the
monks have still the liberty to talk with strangers or with the lay
brethren, but when their final vows are taken they are supposed to be
inarticulate, except in performing the religious offices of each day.
The Guest Father would in two years more be qualified for the silent
life; meanwhile, he exercised his power of speech with so much grace
that one felt truly sorry so excellent a talker should contemplate
with cheerfulness the voluntary and useless atrophy of his divine
gift. Very reverently he led us into the church, which is a plain but
elegant building with a vaulted roof, the walls being whitewashed, and
the woodwork, of which there is not too much, chastely carved. A
number of good pictures are hung on the walls, and there is a series
of statues of the saints on brackets, executed with some taste, and
entirely free from the usual tawdry colouring of similar objects in
French Catholic churches. The altar also is in welcome contrast to the
common doll-show of the ordinary church, and although the oft-repeated
references to the simplicity of the whole with which our excellent
friend pointed out the various features of the place approached almost
to affectation, one must bear ready witness to the apparent sincerity
of these poor monks in their efforts towards a simpler circumstance of
worship than the Roman Catholic Church in general practises.
[Illustration: _Trappist Monks gathering roots for distilling_]
[Illustration: _A Peep into the Library_
OUR LADY OF THE SNOWS]
The chapter-house is in keeping with the church in point of restraint
in decoration, its beautifully panelled walls giving the apartment a
genial touch of warmth by contrast with the cold white of its groined
roof.
The library, which occupies a spacious room on the upper story of the
north wing, is stocked with some twenty thousand volumes, chiefly in
Latin and French, but including an excellent collection of works in
Greek, religion and history being naturally the chief subjects
represented. When we remember that many of the monks are men of no
intellectual gifts and of small learning, being drawn largely from the
peasant class and the military, we may doubt if the treasures of the
library are in great request. The librarian, at least, must be a man
of bookish tastes, since the collection is arranged in perfect order.
Our guide assured us that the monastery possesses a copy of _Travels
with a Donkey_, but he did not discover it for us.