writing-table, which I had hoisted up there with considerable
difficulty, in an attitude that my neighbour Decros's donkey
endeavoured to strike in his most agitated moments--it was standing
upon two legs, with the others in the air. The heavy branch of a large
fig-tree that had been flourishing for many years upon the overhanging
rock far above had come down upon the very spot where I was accustomed
to sit, and thus the strange antics of the table were accounted for.
From that day the thought of other things above, such as loose rocks,
which might also have conceived an antipathy for the table, and might
not be so considerate towards me as the fig-tree, weakened my
attachment to my ideal writing-place, for the discovery of which I was
indebted to the indefatigable tongues of the women of Roc-Amadour.
The mention of my neighbour's donkey recalls to mind an interesting
religious ceremony in which that amiable but emotional beast figured
with much distinction. Once every year all the animals at Roc-Amadour
that are worth blessing are assembled on the plain near the Hospitalet
to receive the benediction of the Church. The ceremony is called _La
bénédiction des bêtes_. The animals are chiefly goats, sheep, donkeys,
and mules. They are sprinkled with holy water, and prayers are said,
so that they may increase and multiply or prosper in any other way
that their owners may desire. As the meeting of the beasts took place
very early in the morning, I reached the scene just as it was breaking
up, and the congregation was dispersing in various directions. I met
Decros coming down the hill with his donkey, and saw by the expression
of his lantern jaws--he never laughed outright--that something had
amused him very much.
'So you have been to the Blessing of the Beasts? said I.
'_He_ has been,' replied the man, pointing to the ass, and not wishing
to be confounded with the _bêtes_ himself.
The donkey stuck his long ears forward, which meant, 'Yes, I have,'
and there was a deal of humour in the expression.
'And how did he behave?'
'Beautifully; he sang the whole time. The men laughed, but the women
said, "Take the beast away!" "No, I won't," said" _Il chante la
bénédiction_."'
September brought the retreat, and the great pilgrimage, which lasts
eight days. The first visitors to arrive were the beggars and small
vendors of _objets de piété_. Some came in little carts, which looked
as if they had been made at home out of grocers' boxes, and to which
dogs were harnessed. At their approach all the Roc-Amadour dogs barked
bravely, just as in the old days when the song was written of the
'beggars coming to town.' Others trudged in with their bundles upon
their backs, hobbling, hungry and thirsty, but eager for the fray.
Some in a larger way of business came in all sorts of vehicles, and a
bazaar man arrived in a caravan of his own. Then followed the crowd of
genuine pilgrims, nearly all of them peasants, humbly clad, but with
money in their pockets which they were determined not to spend
foolishly upon meat, drink, and lodging, for the good of their souls
was uppermost in their minds, and the length of their stay would
depend upon their success in making the money last. By far the greater
number were women, and the many bent backs and withered faces among
them were a pretty safe sign that they had not all come to implore the
aid of the Virgin in that special form of domestic trouble from which
so many thousands have sought relief century after century in her
sanctuary of Roc-Amadour.
The plain white linen coif--very ugly, but delightfully
primitive--worn by a large proportion of these peasants showed that
they had crossed the Dordogne from the Bas-Limousin. Many had come all
the way on foot, taking a couple of days or more for the journey, and
a few had trudged over the hot roads and stony _causses_[*] barefoot,
just like pilgrims of the Middle Ages.
[*] This Languedocian word, which has come to be generally used in
describing the limestone uplands, as distinguished from the
valleys and gorges of a very extensive district of Southern
France, is said to be a corruption of _calx_.
Indeed, these people were essentially the same in all social and
mental characteristics as their predecessors of five or seven
centuries ago; their faith was the same, their daily habits were the
same, their language was the same, and their mode of dress, as far
as the women were concerned, had scarcely changed. They came down
the narrow street and under the old crumbling gateways in a
continuous stream, holding their rosaries in their hands, together
with their baskets and bundles, and praying aloud, even before they
reached the foot of the steps. Arriving there, they dropped down
upon their knees, and commenced the arduous ascent, interrupted by
two hundred genuflexions, during which they repeated an _Ave Maria_
and a special invocation to Notre Dame de Roc-Amadour. Although the
stranger belonging to the outer world--so different in every way
from that of these simple people--with his mind coloured by
particular prejudices, habits of thought, religious or philosophical
reasoning, may feel out of sympathy with such pilgrims, he cannot
but recognise their sincerity and the serene fulness of their faith.
Above all the pious murmuring rise the harsh voices of those who have
come to sell, and who, putting no restraint upon their eagerness to
get money, thrust their rosaries and medals almost in the pilgrims'
faces. Beggars squatting or lying against the wall on either side of
the steps exhibit the bare stump of a leg that wofully needs washing,
a withered arm, or the ravages of some incurable and gnawing disease.
Yet are they all terribly energetic, wailing forth prayers almost
incessantly, or screaming spasmodically an appeal to charity, and
adding to the dreadful din by jingling coppers in tin cups. In the
immediate precincts of the church, where the hurly-burly of piety,
traffic, and mendicity reaches its climax, are the vendors of candles
for the chapel and of food for the pilgrims, whose diet is chiefly
melon and bread. Creysse, by the Dordogne, produces melons in
abundance, which are brought to Roc-Amadour by the cartload, and sold
for two or three sous apiece. And to see these pilgrims devour the
fragrant fruit in the month of September makes one think that if Notre
Dame de Roc-Amadour were not very pitiful the consequences would be
disastrous to many.
There was a humorous beggar on the steps who amused me much, for I
watched him more closely than he supposed. He had something the matter
with his legs--paralyzed, perhaps--but the upper part of his body was
sound enough. With one hand he shook the tin cup, but the other, which
held a short pipe, he kept steadfastly behind his back. Now and again
he turned his face to the wall, as if to drop a tear unseen, but
really to take a discreet pull at the pipe. I think he must have
swallowed the smoke. Then he would face the crowd again, and repeat
his doleful cry:
'De la charité! de la charité! Chrétiens, n'oubliez pas le pauvre
estropié! Le bon Dieu vous bénira.'
After all, why should not a beggar smoke? If tobacco is a blessing,
why should a man be debarred from it because his legs are paralyzed,
and he is obliged to live on charity?
As one of the first thoughts of every genuine pilgrim to this ancient
sanctuary is to get shrived, the chaplains, who, with their Superior,
are ten in number, have something to do to listen to the story of sins
that is poured into their ears almost in a continuous stream during
the eight days of the retreat. The rush upon the confessionals begins
at five in the morning, and goes on with little intermission all day.
The penitents huddle together like sheep in a snowstorm around each
confessional, so that the foremost who is telling his sins knows that
there is another immediately behind him who, whenever he stops to
reflect, would like to give him a nudge m the back. The peasants,
whether it be that they have never cultivated the habit of whispering,
or whether their zeal be such as to chase from their minds all
considerations of worldly shame and human respect, say what they have
to say without regard to the rows of ears behind them, and what takes
place at these times is almost on a par with the public confessions of
the primitive Church.
It is at night, however, during the retreat that the visitor to
Roc-Amadour will see the strangest sight if he gives himself the
trouble, for then the church of St. Sauveur becomes a _hospice_ where
the weary may find the sleep that refreshes and restores the
faculties after the work of the day, as sung by St. Ambrose. The
church is filled with pilgrims lying upon the chairs, upon the bare
stones that the feet of other pilgrims have worn into hollows,
sitting with their backs against the walls and piers, snoring also in
the confessionals--the most comfortable quarters. Some remain awake
most of the night praying silently or aloud. This is how the
peasantry of the Quercy and the Limousin enter into the spirit of the
September pilgrimage to Roc-Amadour. It is not because they need the
money to pay for accommodation in the inns that they use the church
by night as well as by day, but because they wish to go through their
devotional programme thoroughly. And those who go to the inns often
make one room serve for a family of three or four grown-up persons.
If there vis one person who does not belong to the family, the others
see no harm in admitting him or her; indeed, they think that as
Christians they are almost bound to do so.
On the night following the opening of the retreat, Roc-Amadour is
illuminated, and the spectacle is one that renders the grandest
illuminations in Paris mean and vulgar by comparison. It is not in the
costliness of the display that its splendour lies; it is in what may
almost be termed the zeal with which Nature works with art towards the
same end. Without the rocks and precipices the spectacle would be
commonplace; but the site being what it is, the scene has a strange
and wonderful charm that may be called either fairylike or heavenly,
as the imagination may prefer. The artistic means employed are simple
enough--paper lanterns and little lamps of coloured glass; but what an
effect is produced when chains of fire have been stretched across the
gorge from the summits of the rocks on either side, when the long
succession of zigzags reaching up the cliff, and forming the Way of
the Cross, is also marked out with fire, when the ramparts on the
brink of the precipice are ablaze with coloured lamps, recalling some
old poetical picture of an enchanted castle, and a little to the
right, on the summit of the cliff where the Via Crucis ends at
Calvary, the great wooden cross which French pilgrims carried through
the streets of Jerusalem stands against the calm starlit sky like a
cross of blood-red flame!
A little below the summit of the cliff, from the large cavern which
has been fashioned to represent the Holy Sepulchre, there issues a
brilliant light, together with the sound of many voices singing the
'Tantum ergo.' A faint odour of incense wanders here and there among
the shrubs, and mingles with the fragrance of flowers upon the
terraces. Presently the clergy and the pilgrims come forth, and,
forming a long procession, descend the Way of the Cross; and as the
burning tapers that they carry shine and flash amongst the foliage,
these words, familiar to every pilgrim to Roc-Amadour, sung by
hundreds of voices, may be heard afar off in the dark desolate gorge:
'Reine puissante, Mère d'Amour,
Sois-nous compatissante,
O Vierge d'Amadour!'
It is now the vigil of All Souls--the 'Day of the Dead.' No more
pilgrims come to Roc-Amadour. A breeze would send the sapless
walnut-leaves whirling through the air, but there is no breeze; Nature
seems to hold her breath as she thinks of the dead whom she has
gathered to her earthy breast. At sundown the people creep out of
their houses silently and solemnly; they meet at the bottom of the
steps, and when they are joined by the clergy and choirboys, all move
slowly upward, praying for the dead and kneeling upon each step. As
their forms seen sideways show against the dusky sky, they look like
shadows from the ghostly world, and still more so when the rocks on
the other side of the gorge brighten again, as with the blood of the
pomegranate made luminous, and through the air there spreads a
beautiful solemn light that is tenderly yet deeply sad, and which adds
something unearthly, something that cannot be named, to the ascending
figures.
As the dusk deepens to darkness the funereal _glas_ begins to moan
from St. Saviour's Church. Two bells are rung together so as to make
as nearly as possible one clash of sound. At first it is a moan, but
it soon becomes a strident cry with a continuous under-wail. At the
Hospitalet on the hill the bell of the mortuary chapel is also
tolling. It is the bell of the dead who lie there in the stony
burying-ground upon the edge of the wind-blown _causse_, calling upon
the bells of Roc-Amadour to move the living to pity for those who have
left the earth.
As I return to my cottage the dim street is quite deserted, and the
arch of the ruined gateway, so often resounding with the voices that
come from light hearts, is now as dark and silent as a grave. For two
hours the bells continue to cry in the darkness, from the church
overhead and from the chapel by the tombs. I can neither read nor
write, but sit brooding over the fire on the hearth, piling on wood
and sending tall flames and many sparks up the chimney; for that
continuous undercry of the iron tongues, 'Pray for the dead! pray for
the dead!' fills the valley and seems to fill the world. No fireside
feeling can be kindled; it is wasting wood to throw it upon the hearth
to-night, for that doleful wail penetrates everywhere: even the demon
that lurks at the bottom of Pomoyssin must shudder as he hears it.
When at length the bells stop swinging and their vibrations die away,
a screech-owl flies close by the open gallery of the house, which we
call a balcony, and startles me with its ghostly scream.
The day comes again, fair and hopeful. I am waiting for the old
truffle-hunter, with whom I made an appointment for this morning.
Presently I see him coming up the bed of the stream, plodding over the
yellow stones, which have been dry for four months. I recognise him by
his pig, which walks by his side. They are both truffle-hunters, and
have both an interest in the business, as will be seen. The man is
gray and old, with a sharp prominent nose, suggestive of his chief
occupation, and with a bent back--the effect, perhaps, of stooping to
pull the pig's ear in the nick of time should the beast be tempted to
snap up one of the savoury cryptogams. When it is added that he wears
a short blouse and a low, broad-brimmed felt hat, I have described the
appearance of the truffle-hunter. Now, inasmuch as the pig is about to
play the most important part in the morning's work, its portrait
should likewise be drawn. The animal is of a dirty-white colour, like
all pigs in this part of France, and is utterly devoid of grace and
elegance. It is, in fact, an extremely ugly beast, with an arched back
and a very long turned-up nose; but it is four years old, and is
accounted 'serious.' Like all other pigs used for truffle-hunting, it
is of the female sex. The animal has been carefully educated; it wears
a leather collar as a mark of distinction, and is allowed the same
liberty as a dog.
We climb the rocky side of the gorge, which is hot work, for the south
wind is blowing, and the sun is blazing in a blue sky. The walnuts by
the line of the stream are changing colour, and the maples are already
fiery; but otherwise there are few signs of autumn. On reaching the
plateau we come at once to the truffle-ground. Here the soil is so
thin, so stony, and withal so arid, that, were it not for the scant
herbage upon which sheep and goats thrive, it would produce nothing
but stunted oak, juniper, and truffles. Even the oaks only grow in
patches where the rock is not close to the surface. The truffles are
never found except very near these trees, or, in default of them,
hazels. This is one of the mysteries of the cryptogamic kingdom, which
no one has yet been able to explain. The truffle-hunters believe that
it is the shade of the trees which produces the underground fruit, and
the opinion is based upon experience. When an oak has been cut down,
or even lopped, a spot near it that was rich in truffles year after
year is soon scoffed at by the knowing pig.
Our work lies amongst the dwarf oaks, for there are no hazels here. At
a sign from the old man, the pig sniffs about the roots of a little
tree, then proceeds to dig with her nose, tossing up the larger stones
which lie in the way as if they were feathers. The animal has smelt a
truffle, and the man seizes her by the ear, for her manner is
suspicious. This is the first time they have been out together since
last season, and the beast has forgotten some of her education. She
manages to get a truffle into her mouth; he tugs at her ear with one
hand, and uses his stick upon her nose with the other. The brute
screams with anger, but will not open her jaws wide enough for him to
slip his stick in and hook the truffle out. The prize is swallowed,
and the old man, forgetting all decorum, and only thinking of his
loss, calls his companion a pig, which in France is always an insult.
Our truffle-hunting to-day has opened badly, although one party thinks
differently. In a few minutes, however, another truffle is found, and
this time the old man delivers a whack on the nose at the right
moment, and, seizing the fungus, hands it to me. Now he takes from his
pocket a spike of maize, and, picking off a few grains, gives them to
the pig to soothe her injured feelings, and encourage her to hunt
again. This she is quite ready to do, for a pig has no _amour propre_.
We move about in the dry open wood, keeping always near the trees, and
truffle after truffle is turned up from the reddish light soil mixed
with fragments of calcareous rock. The forgotten training soon comes
back to our invaluable auxiliary; a mere twitch of the ear is a
sufficient hint for her to retire at the right moment, and wait for
the corn that is in variably given in exchange for the cryptogam.
Indeed, before we leave the ground, the animal has got so well into
work that when she finds a truffle she does not attempt to seize it,
but points to it, and grunts for the equivalent in maize. The pig may
be a correct emblem of depravity, but its intelligence is certainly of
a superior order.
FROM THE ALZOU TO THE DORDOGNE.
Although the last days of May had come, the Alzou, usually dry at this
time, was running with swift, strong current through the vale of
Roc-Amadour. There had been so many thunderstorms that the channel was
not large enough for the torrent that raced madly over its yellow
pebbles. I lingered awhile in the meadow by the stream, looking at the
rock-clinging sanctuary before wandering in search of the unknown up
the narrow gorge.
In a garden terraced upon the lower flank of the rock, the labour of
generations having combined to raise a soil there deep enough to
support a few plum, almond, and other fruit trees, a figure all in
black is hard at work transplanting young lettuces. It is that of a
teaching Brother. He is a thin grizzled man of sixty, with an
expression of melancholy benevolence in his rugged face. I have
watched him sitting upon a bench with his arm round some little
village urchin by his side, while the children from the outlying
hamlets, sprawling upon a heap of stones in the sun, ate their mid-day
meal of bread and cheese or buckwheat pancakes that their mothers had
put into their baskets before they trudged off in the early morning. I
have noticed by many signs that he is full of sympathy for the young
peasants placed in his charge. Yet with all his kindness he is
melancholy. So many years in one place, such a dull routine of duty,
such a life of abnegation without the honour that sustains and
encourages, such impossibility of being understood and appreciated by
those for whose sake he has been breaking self upon the wheel of
mortification since his youth, have made him old before the time and
fixed that look of lurking sadness in his warmly human eyes.
There are few problems more profound than that of the courage with
which men like him continue their self-imposed penal-servitude until
they become too infirm to work and are sent to die in some refuge for
aged _frères_. They have accepted celibacy and poverty, that they may
the better devote their lives to the instruction of children. They
have no sacerdotal state or ideal, no ecclesiastical nor social
ambition to help them. They must be always humble; they must not even
be learned, for much knowledge in their case would be considered a
dangerous thing. Their minds must not rise above their work. They
guide dirty little fists in the formation of pot-hooks, and when they
have led the boys' intelligence up a few more steps of scholarship the
end is achieved. The boy goes out into the world and refreshes his
mind with new occupation; but the poor Brother remains chained to his
dreary task, which is always the same and is never done.
And what are the wages in return for such a life? Food that many a
workman would consider insufficiently generous for his condition, a
bed to lie upon and clothes which call down upon the wearer the
sarcasms of the town-bred youth. What a land of contrast is France!
There are three Brothers here, but this one, the eldest, is the head.
Others come and go, but he remains. Most of his spare time is given to
the garden. When the eight o'clock bell begins to swing he will leave
his lettuces and soon perch himself on the little platform behind his
shabby old desk in the dingy schoolroom, which even in the holidays
cannot get rid of its ancient redolence of boys. The school-house, now
so much like a prison, was once a mansion, and the most modern part of
it is of the period which we should call in England Tudor. A Gothic
doorway leads into a hall arched and groined, the inner wall being the
bare rock, as is the case with most of the houses at Roc-Amadour. A
gutter cut in the stone floor to carry off the drippings formed by the
condensation of the air upon the cold surface shows that these
half-rock dwellings have their drawbacks.
I leave Roc-Amadour and take my way up the valley. Nature has now
reached all that can be attained in vernal pride and beauty here. In a
little while she will have put on the careworn look of the Southern
summer. Many a plant now in splendid bloom, animated by the spirit of
loveliness that presides over the law of reproduction, will soon be
casting its seed and bringing its brief destiny to a close. Now all is
coquetry, beauty, and ravishment. The rock-hiving bees, unconscious
instruments of a great purpose, are yellow with pollen and laden with
honey. They find more, infinitely more, nectar than they can carry
away. The days are long, and every hour is full of joy. But already
the tide is at the turn. The nightingale's rapturous song has become a
lazy twitter; the bird has done with courtship; it has a family in
immediate prospect, if not one already screaming for food, and the
musician has half lost his passion for music. It will come again next
year. How swiftly all this life and colour of spring passes away! So
much to be looked at and so little time!