"Hotel of the Emperors," close by the Hospice at the opening of the
Promenade. This title is worthy of Daudet himself! Along the south
side of the Promenade stand the chief cafés and shops; as one sits by
a table at a door watching the passers-by, the scene is entirely
agreeable. Everybody seems to have walked out of Daudet's page. The
men are of two types chiefly--those of the stout and bearded figure,
such as Tartarin himself possessed, and the thin and sharp-featured
fellows of Italian caste, like Bezuquet and Costecalde, with their
bright, black eyes and fierce moustachios. Most of them, this sunny
day, are abroad in their shirt sleeves, and almost to a man they wear
the soft black felt hats such as our English curates affect.
VII.
There is a musical jingle of spurs, as some baggy-trousered soldiers
pass on their way to the fine cavalry barracks which the town
possesses. There go a pair of comfortable-looking priests in their
long black gowns, their good fat fingers twined behind them; but
nowhere do we see the white habit of the friars, whose monastery of
Pampérigouste the gallant Tartarin and his crusaders defended from the
Government troops so long ago! The women-folk whom one sees about are
nearly all hatless, but they wear a dainty substitute in the shape of
a little cap of white muslin and lace, and a pelerine of the same
material over their shoulders and breast. Small, plump, swarthy, they
are true daughters of the south, and by that token better to look upon
than their sisters of the north. Here and there one may see a woman
touched with something of the Paris fashion, members of that local
aristocracy to which belonged the charming Clorinda of Pascalon's
hopeless passion.
There is a constant toot-toot or tinkle of bells as cyclists go by,
for the wheel has come into great popularity here as elsewhere since
Tartarin made his tragic exit across the bridge. Perhaps the most
unmistakable evidences of provincialism are supplied by the
antiquated types of vehicles with their fat-faced drivers and their
unshorn horses, many of the latter being harnessed with the most
extravagant kinds of collars and saddles that project a couple of feet
or more above the level of the animals' backs.
The whole scene is one of peaceful and happy life, and it is good to
look upon people who are in no hurry to do business and seem to take
things easily. Across the way, there, the chemist is standing at his
door, with those great glasses of coloured water, that seem to have
gone out of fashion in England, shining in his window, while he rolls
a cigarette for the white-legged postman who has stopped to give him a
letter, and chats with him in the passing. He might be Bezuquet
himself, did we not know of the misfortune that befell the latter,
when he was tatooed out of recognition by the South Sea Islanders, and
had to wear a mask when he came home!
[Illustration: TARASCON: "THE BIT OF A SQUARE"]
Going down a street that leads northward from the Promenade, we pass
the Mairie, a quaint old building from whose balcony floats, not the
Tarasque, but the tricolor, and by whose doorway are posted notices of
coming bull-fights, for Tarascon is still keen on its ancient sport
despite the restrictive legislation. Near by is the public market, and
the whole district swarms with dogs of every breed. We peep into
the church of St. Martha, which is no bad example of the Pointed
Gothic and occupies the site of an old Roman Temple. One of the kings
of Provence is buried here, but more interesting is the tomb of the
saint to whom the church is dedicated.
VIII.
St. Martha and the Tarasque are the peculiar glories of the
Tarasconians, who, you must know, would almost strike you if you
breathed the word "Tartarin" to them, and have never forgotten Daudet
for his satires on the town. We cannot do better than go to Daudet for
the legend of St. Martha and the beast.
"This Tarasque, in very ancient days, was nothing less than a terrible
monster, a most alarming dragon, which laid waste the country at the
mouth of the Rhone. St. Martha, who had come into Provence after the
death of our Lord, went forth and caught the beast in the deep
marshes, and binding its neck with a sky-blue ribbon, brought it into
the city captive, tamed by the innocence and piety of the saint. Ever
since then, in remembrance of the service rendered by the holy Martha,
the Tarasconians have kept a holiday, which they celebrate every ten
years by a procession through the city. This procession forms the
escort of a sort of ferocious, bloody monster, made of wood and
painted pasteboard, who is a cross between the serpent and the
crocodile, and represents, in gross and ridiculous effigy, the dragon
of ancient days. The thing is not a mere masquerade, for the Tarasque
is really held in veneration; she is a regular idol, inspiring a sort
of superstitious, affectionate fear. She is called in the country the
Old Grannie. The creature has herself stalled in a shed especially
hired for her by the town council."
Daudet's light sketch of the Tarasque may be supplemented by a more
circumstantial account of the strange ceremony from a writer on old
customs (William S. Walsh), who informs us that "the famous Miracle
Play of 'Sainte Marthe et la Tarasque,' instituted, it was said, by
King Réné in 1400, was one of the last Provençal _coronlas_ to
disappear, as in its day it was one of the most popular. Even after
the Mystery Play was itself abandoned, a remnant of it lingered on
until the middle of the nineteenth century in the annual procession of
La Tarasque, celebrated on July 29th, not only at Tarascon, but also
at Beaucaire. The main feature was the huge figure of a dragon, made
of wood and canvas, eight feet long, three feet high, and four feet
broad in the middle. The head was small, there was no neck, the body,
which was covered with scales, was shaped like an enormous egg, and
at the nether extremity was a heavy beam of wood for a tail. Sixteen
mummers, gaily caparisoned and known as the Knights of la Tarasque
were among its attendants. Eight of the knights concealed themselves
within the body to represent those who had been devoured, and
furnished the motive power, besides lashing the tail to right and
left, at imminent risk to the legs of the spectators. The other eight
formed the escort, and were followed by drummers and fifers and a long
procession of clergy and laity. The dragon was conducted by a girl in
white and blue, the leading string being her girdle of blue silk. When
the dragon was especially unruly and frolicsome she dashed holy water
over it. A continuous rattle of torpedoes and musketry was kept up by
those who followed in the dragon's train."
The celebration of the Tarasque has taken place several times, I
believe, since the prohibition, while the procession of St. Martha is
held annually; but as my visit did not synchronise with either, I had
to be content with securing photographs from a local photographer, who
was more inclined to discuss the weather and smoke his cigarette than
sell his wares, and left his wife--at the time of my call, in a state
of partial undress between changing her visiting costume for an indoor
dress--to do the business of hunting up prints for me. It will be
remembered by those who have read _Port Tarascon_ that Tartarin
foresaw his own downfall from the day on which, under the impression
that he was shooting at a whale, he planted a bullet in the gross
carcase of the Tarasque, which had been taken with the emigrants to
the South Seas and was swept overboard to become a waif of the waves.
IX.
One of the peculiarities of Tarascon is its railway station on the
outskirts of the town. It is situated some thirty feet above the level
of the street, and you gain the platform by climbing several long
flights of stairs, up which it is no light task to carry a
heavily-burdened bicycle. During most of the day there is little
evidence of life in or around the station, and a clerk will cheerfully
devote a quarter of an hour to explain to you the absurdities of the
railway time table; but five or six times a day the place wakes up on
the arrival of a train from or to the capital, for all the trains in
France seem to have a connection, however tardy and remote, with the
octopus of Paris. Then there is much ringing of bells and blowing of
trumpets, and you almost expect to see the quaint and portly form of
Tartarin himself returning from his great adventure in the Sahara
or his ascent of Mont Blanc. But you reflect that these and many other
of his doings were much too good to be true, and take your place in
the corner of the carriage, making yourself comfortable for the long
and dreary journey to Paris.
[Illustration: TARASCON: THE PROCESSION OF THE TARASQUE
_The little girl leading the monster represents Saint Martha_]
The last thing you see as the train steams away is the white stretch
of the Avignon Road lying between the railway and the river, its
little white houses and modern villas close-shuttered and growing
indistinct in the soft southern twilight.
"La Fête Dieu"
I.
For centuries the 19th of June has been to the people of France a day
of high festival. No one who has happened to be travelling in Normandy
or Brittany--or indeed in almost any of the French provinces--about
this time of the year can have failed to notice the celebration of the
Fête Dieu, and many may have wondered what it was all about. It has
existed so long as one of the national customs, varying in its
observance in different parts of the country, and having passed
through many periods of change, that a few years ago he would have
been accounted a rash and uninspired prophet who would have foretold
that the Republican Government might have the temerity to lay its
embargo on this sacred institution. But, behold the day when the
secular hand of M. Combes had stretched out into the remotest parts of
fair France, and following hard upon the upsetting of monastic peace,
came the prohibition of religious processions in public. The effect of
this order was to limit the fête in many places to a mere
perambulation of the exterior of the church, and in others the
procession was confined entirely to the interior, though here and
there, it would seem, the function took place just as it did
generations before M. Combes and the anti-clericals arose into power.
The festival is clearly of pagan origin, like so many of the
ceremonies of the Christian church; it corresponds with the Corpus
Feast in Spain, the exhibition of the holy sacrament having been
grafted on to the heathenish rights very early in the Christian era.
There seems to be evidences of the ceremony having been observed in
some form or other centuries before 673, as in that year an
ecclesiastical council, held at Braga in Spain, spoke of "the ancient
and traditional custom of solemnly carrying the Host on the
shoulders." It was Pope Urbain IV., who vainly endeavoured to stir up
a new crusade on behalf of his former diocese of Jerusalem, that
officially recognised and instituted as regular offices of the church
in 1264 the ceremonies connected with the Fête Dieu. But, despite this
papal ordinance, the festival did not become one of general observance
until, some generations later, there had grown around the purely
religious part of it a mass of painfully secular tomfoolery, which
turned the fête into a great saturnalia. In the days of that merry
monarch, King Réné, it had assumed such proportions that an entire
week was devoted to the celebration, "courts of love," tournaments,
jousts, mystery plays, and many other amusements being associated with
the solemn procession of the sacred sacrament. Flourishing more or
less, the fête continued annually, without interruption until the
great Revolution, which gave short shrift to the old taste for
processions; but under Louis XVIII. it was re-established, and the
State even furnished troops as escorts for those taking part in the
processions. Times are changed indeed when we find _Le Pèlerin_, an
illustrated weekly newspaper devoted entirely to the interests of
pilgrimages, publishing cartoons which show the police dispersing the
pious participants in the procession of the Fête Dieu, while rowdy
socialists are permitted to wave their red rags in the highway.
[Illustration: PROCESSION OF LA FÊTE DIEU
_Photographed at Morlaix, in Brittany_]
II.
The festival, which has thus fallen upon evil times, might possibly
have gone more steadily downhill to the limbo of old customs if the
Government had left it alone, as of recent years it has not been
gaining in popularity, and, practically speaking, only women and
children have shown active interest in it under the direction of the
priests and lay officials. Throughout Normandy it was a rare thing to
see men taking part; but in Brittany, and especially at the quaint old
town of Morlaix, which is famed for its high railway bridge and its
Fête Dieu, and holds an extremely jolly kermesse, with dancing and the
selling of cheap rubbish, immediately after the holy sacrament has
been carried through the streets, a larger proportion of men were to
be seen engaging in the ceremony; while in the far south, among the
peasants of Provence and Aveyron, the men have long been as attached
to this and similar fêtes of the church as the women, taking part with
a comic gravity of demeanour absurdly out of keeping with their
usually gay and careless behaviour. Generally speaking, the Fête Dieu,
as celebrated during modern years, has been a picturesque, but brief
and inoffensive ceremonial, that did not greatly disturb anybody, and
seemed to please the women and children. In the course of time it
might have died out as a public institution, though it must always
survive, in some manner, as a religious festival; but the Government,
in its crusade against the enemies of the Republic--for such
undoubtedly are the Catholic priests--may find that it has, by its
very prohibition, reawakened interest in this ancient and decrepid
institution of the church.
As for the familiar procession of the Fête Dieu, there is not very
much to describe: a brief notice of one may be taken as typical of
all. The first indication that the visitor would have of something
unusual toward was the strewing of the principal streets with rushes.
Almost every shopkeeper would be seen with an armful of the green
blades, laying them down to fullest advantage in the middle of the
road. This done, the next thing was to bring out long sheets of white
linen, which were tacked a little way below the windows of the first
story, and hung downward to within a foot or so of the ground, the
entire route being thus lined with a continuous stretch of white,
whereon busy hands had pinned roses and other flowers, sometimes
attempting designs such as a heart or a cross, or the monogram "I H
S." Each shopkeeper seemed to vie with his or her neighbour to produce
a more elaborate evidence of pious interest in the coming procession;
but I have noticed frequently that many performed their part in the
most perfunctory manner, only rushing up their white linen and
sticking on a flower or two when the head of the procession was
actually in sight, and whipping off the sheets as soon as it had
passed by.
III.
In many parts of the town, often in the front garden of a private
house, in some outside corner of a church or in a market-place,
elaborate shrines, made of wood, covered with cloth, and decorated
with rushes and flowers, would be erected. In one small town I have
counted upwards of a dozen such erections, enclosing gaudy statues of
the saints, especially well disposed towards those who supplied the
money for the shrines. But here again I have noticed the proverbial
economy of the French nation asserting itself, the attendant at such a
gorgeous shrine lighting the numerous candles only on the approach of
the procession, and blowing them out the instant it had passed, when
also the dismantling of the shrine would begin! I recall a
particularly gorgeous shrine which I saw many years ago in the town of
Falaise. At a considerable distance the numerous candles seemed to be
burning so brilliantly, that I was not altogether surprised on going
up and examining them to find the supposed candles were actually
incandescent electric lamps. Thus the preliminary arrangements of the
populace for the coming of the procession.
The route was, as a rule, one that had been followed for years, but
the erection of a particularly elaborate shrine by some person blessed
with pelf and piety, in a street not within the usual itinerary, would
be regarded as sufficient to justify a detour.
I have never witnessed the procession without being refreshed by its
suggestion of old-world ease. "Build your houses as if you meant them
to last for ever," was Ruskin's advice. "Proceed as if your procession
had started at the Flood and was going on till Doomsday," would seem
to be the motto that inspires the demonstrators in the Fête Dieu.
In the distance the sound of music is heard, and after a time at the
far end of the road the head of the procession is seen moving towards
us at a pace as much slower than a funeral as that is slower than a
horse race. First comes the beadle, or church officer attached to the
cathedral, whose blue or red uniform, with cocked hat, knee breeches,
white hose and buckled shoes, remind one of the dress of our soldiers
in the seventeenth century, a get-up very similar to that of the Swiss
Guard at the Vatican, these beadles being, indeed, generally known as
the "Swiss," though they are loutish and ignorant fellows, with as
much regard for religion as the chucker-out at a roaring London
tavern. But for all that, the Swiss makes a mighty picturesque figure
at the head of the procession, his sword hanging at his hip, and a
long mace carried in his hand as he steps out slowly and endeavours to
combine dignity with scowls at the children who follow him, the little
girls in their white muslin dresses, made for their first communion,
and the little boys in the sort of midshipman's suit universally worn
by French lads at the time of their confirmation, a white armlet being
donned on this occasion and a rosary tied around it. Following the
children, who carry banners with various religious devices, come bands
of music and different groups of men and women, who also march under
certain banners that indicate their membership of some brotherhood or
sisterhood.
IV.
There are brotherhoods of the Holy Sacrament in many parts of France
whose credentials date back to the Middle Ages, and who seem to exist
solely for the purpose of being privileged to walk in religious
processions, with a ludicrous gown lavishly trimmed, and having on the
front, after the manner of a herald's tabard, a picture of Christ. The
brethren of the various "charities," which in France correspond in
some degree to our friendly societies, also wear uniforms, and, in
some parts of the country assist in the procession. In the past many
unseemly disturbances arose out of the rivalry of these brotherhoods
as to their respective privileges in the Fête Dieu, and the sacred
function was often marred by the most disgraceful scenes of rowdyism
as the rivals fought for precedence, and especially for the right of
bearing the canopy under which the Holy Sacrament is carried through
the streets.
The approach of the Host is heralded by the acolytes in their scarlet
gowns with lace tunicles, who come singing, and precede the
white-robed members of the choir, lay brethren and priests, who are
either diligently reading from books, or mumbling unintelligently the
orisons provided for the occasion. Succeeding these come more
acolytes, swinging censers, and others who, walking backwards, bear
large baskets of rose leaves, and scatter their fragrant burdens in
handfuls on the road in front of the bishop. The latter, arrayed in
his most gorgeous vestments, advances slowly, holding aloft, with
well-assumed solemnity, to impress beholders with the awful sacredness
of his charge, the elaborate brass monstrance or cabinet which
encloses the consecrated wafer. The bishop, who thus displays before
the just and the unjust the Holy Sacrament, walks under a canopy of
richly embroidered cloth, carried on four posts by specially chosen
members of some of the brotherhoods, or perhaps by some unusually
devout laymen, whose purses have not been altogether closed when the
clerical hat has gone round.
Previously to the approach of the dais covering the bishop and his
holy burden, the spectators in the street have been laughing and
joking with and about the demonstrators, and some of the children in
the procession have shown lamentable forgetfulness of the solemn
nature of the function by putting out their tongues at us, and turning
back to say derisively, "les Anglais!"--for this was before the days
of the _Entente_. But the moment the bishop and the Host come up, down
flop the spectators on their knees, crossing themselves, the men
removing their hats, though I confess with pleasure that many a time I
have seen groups of men showing as much reverence to the sacred wafer
as Cockney crowds do to the Lord Mayor's coachman on show day.
[Illustration: A WOMAN OF SAINTE ENIMIE]
The procession is now at an end so far as our particular standpoint is
concerned, and already the white sheets are disappearing all along the
road, shopkeepers turning their attention to business again. But it is
winding its way through other streets, pausing to make special
obeisance before the temporary shrines, and to rehearse prayers
cunningly adapted to the peculiar requirements of the saints to
whom the shrines are dedicated. And so after, it may be, two or three
hours perambulation, the demonstrators return to the cathedral, where
High Mass is celebrated; this over, they are free to make merry to
their heart's desire. And they do.
"M'sieu Meelin of Dundae"
I.
Please do not consider it an affectation of superior knowledge if I
begin by saying it is improbable that one out of a hundred of my
readers has ever heard of Morbihan and the wonderful druidical remains
in the Commune of Carnac. To be quite frank, I had never heard of them
myself until one dusty summer day when I cycled into the little
village of Carnac away on the south coast of Brittany, and within
sight of the historic bay of Quiberon. The village of Carnac, whose
population numbers only some six hundred souls, is one of the most
interesting in Brittany, where almost every hamlet has some historic
touch to engage the attention of the visitor. It consists practically
of a little square of houses surrounding the ancient parish church,
dedicated to Saint Corneille. This saint is the patron of cattle, and
in September the town is the centre of a series of most picturesque
celebrations, the peasants journeying hither from all parts of the
surrounding country, accompanied by their cattle, horses, and even
their pigs, for the pig is as notable a feature of rural life in
Brittany as it is in Ireland. Saint Corneille, for a reason which will
be explained further on, is supposed to take a very personal interest
in the welfare of the Breton's cattle, and to see the simple peasants
on their pilgrimage to his shrine, and later in the ceremonies of
parading their beasts around the church and kneeling before his statue
on the west front of the tower, kneeling again and sometimes even
fighting for a dip in the water from his fountain, is to realise how
sincere is their belief in his powers. But this is only by the way; my
present intention is not to spend any more time in describing the
quaint ceremonies that have long made Carnac a centre of pilgrimage,
and have been the theme of many a story and poem by French writers.
[Illustration: THE FAMOUS DRUIDICAL REMAINS AT CARNAC
(_The second view is a continuation of the first_)]