the side of the highway on a strip of waste land. There were no tents;
but there were four or five miserable little caravans, roofed over
with tattered and dirty canvas. They were tents on wheels. Some thin
and ascetic-looking old mules and wizen donkeys had been taken out of
the shafts, and were now nibbling the short wayside grass, the young
burdocks and mulleins, which, but for the rain, would have filled
their mouths with dust. Small portable stoves--alas! not the
traditional fire with three stakes set in the ground and tied at the
top, with the pot swinging therefrom--had been lighted outside the
caravans, and gipsy women were making the evening soup. Bright-eyed,
shock-headed, uncombed, unwashed, but exceedingly happy gipsy children
were tumbling over one another on the wet turf, showing so much of
their brown skin between their rags that they would have been more
comfortable and quite as decent had they been naked. A hideous old
man, merely skin and bones, sitting nose and knees together upon a
sack, did not take my curiosity in good part, but glared at me
morosely. The younger men of this interesting community were
elsewhere--perhaps mending saucepans, or reassuring ducks alarmed by
the thunderstorm. A musician of the party must have been kept in by
the bad weather, for from one of the caravans came the diabolic
screech of a wheezing concertina that had got rid of all its ideals
and dreams of distinction.
The bright line in the west moved very slowly upwards, and the rain
continued to fall, although less drenchingly than before. The setting
sun strove with the cloud-rack and coloured the veil of vapour that
its rays could not pierce. The nightingales and thrushes in the
shrubs, and the finches amidst the later blossoms of the may, took
heart again, and the song rose from so many throats near and far that
the whole valley of the Dordogne was filled with warbling. As the
birds grew drowsy the frogs came out to spend a happy night on the
margins of the pools and the brooks, until their joyful screaming and
croaking was a universal chorus. I was by the side of the broad river
that flowed calmly through the fairest meadows. The face of the
stream, the pools in the road, the grass and the leaves, were
brightened with the orange glow of a veiled light as of some sacred
fire shining in the dusk through clouds of incense. It grew warmer and
warmer until it purpled and died away in grayness and mournful shadow.
The beauty of nature at such moments, when the colours brighten and
fade like the powers of the mind as the human day is closing, takes a
solemnity that is unearthly, and it is good to be alone with the
mystery.
It was dark when I reached Carennac. I did not realize how wet I was
until I sat down in an auberge and tried to make myself comfortable
for the night. It is not easy, however, to be happy under such
circumstances. When the fire on the hearth was stirred up and fed with
fresh wood to cook my dinner of barbel that had just had time to die
after being pulled out of the Dordogne, I placed myself in the
chimney-corner to dry before the welcome blaze. How cheering is a
fire, even in June and in Southern France, on a rainy night, when the
sound of sighing trees comes down the chimney and the tired wayfarer's
clothes are sticking to his legs and back! How cheering, too, at such
a time is a dinner, however modest, in the light and warmth of the
fire. A humble barbel has then a more delicate flavour than a
salmon-trout cooked with consummate art for people who never know what
it is to be hungry.
The next morning I was in the cloisters belonging to the Benedictine
priory of Carennac, of which Fénélon was the titular prior. Hither he
came for quietude, and here he wrote his 'Télémaque,' a historical
trace of which is found in a little island of the Dordogne, which is
called 'L'Ile de Calypso.' It is recorded that the mother of the great
Churchman and writer, when she feared that she would be childless,
went on a pilgrimage to Roc-Amadour, and that Fénélon was the
consequence of that act of devotion.
The cloisters of Carennac, built from plans furnished by that fountain
of ecclesiastical art in the Middle Ages, the monastery of Cluny,
must, judging from the remnants of tracery in the arcades, and the
delicately carved bosses of the vaults, have been once a spot where
the spirit of Gothic architecture found delight. Now the spirit of
ruin dwells there, leading the bramble and the celandine to conquer,
year after year, some fresh territory upon the ancient quadrangle's
crumbling wall. Above, where the sunbeam strikes upon the wrinkled
stone, the lizard basks and the bee fresh from its hive hums as
blithely among the yellow flowers of the celandine as if the blocks
raised by men in their reaching towards Heaven were nothing more than
the rocks that cast their shadows upon the Dordogne. Upon the ground,
man, by using no rein of respect to curb the lower needs of life, has
desecrated the spot with pigsties! Some inhabitant of Carennac, into
whose hands the cloisters passed in recent times, thought that a place
which was good enough for Benedictine monks to walk in might, with a
little fresh masonry, be made fit for pigs to feed and sleep in. But
an end had come to this idyllic state of things. The cloisters of
Carennac had just been placed on the list of historic monuments. The
adjoining church had been 'classed' long before.
This church, a small Gothic edifice of the twelfth century, has a
far-projecting porch enriched with a specimen of mediaeval carving
which is a long delight to the few archaeologists who find their way
to the almost forgotten village of Carennac. The composition, which
fills the tympan of the scarcely-pointed arch, represents Christ
surrounded by the twelve Apostles. The influence of Byzantine art is
perceptible in the treatment. Very few such masterpieces of
twelfth-century carving have been so well preserved as this. The
seated figure of Christ in the act of blessing His Apostles, the right
hand upraised, the left resting upon a clasped book, impresses the
beholder by its majesty and serenity. Very different are the figures
of the Apostles: these are men, and of a very common type too, such as
the Benedictines were accustomed to see in their own cloisters, or
among their dependents at Carennac. But how animated are the forms,
and how expressive the faces! The mouldings which serve as a border to
the composition are much more Romanesque or Byzantine than Gothic, and
the columns that support it have capitals which are purely Romanesque.
In the interior of the church is a fifteenth-century group of seven
figures, representing the scene of the Holy Sepulchre; an admirable
composition, showing to what a high degree of excellence French
sculpture had attained even at the dawn of the Renaissance.
WAYFARING UNDERGROUND.
Upon the stony plateau above Roc-Amadour is a cavern well known in the
district as the Gouffre de Révaillon. It had for me a peculiar
attraction on account of the gloomy grandeur of the scene at the
entrance. When I saw it for the first time I understood at once the
supernatural horror in which the peasant has learnt to hold such
places. It responds to impressions left on the mind of the 'Stygian
cave forlorn,' the entrance to Dante's 'City of Sorrow,' and that
other cave where Aeneas witnessed in cold terror the prophetic fury of
the Sibyl.
This effect of gloom, horror and sublimity is the result of geological
conditions and the action of water, which together have produced many
similar phenomena in the region of the _causses_, but in no other
case, I believe, with such power in composing the picturesque. Imagine
an open plain which in the truly Dark Ages whereof man has had no
experience, but of whose convulsions he has learnt to read a little
from the book whose leaves are the rocks, cracked along a part of its
surface as a drying ball of clay might do, the fissure finishing
abruptly and where it is deepest in front of a mass of rock that
refused to split. This was apparently the beginning of the Gouffre de
Révaillon. Then came another submersion which greatly modified the
appearance of things. There was evidently a deluge here after the land
had dried and cracked, and it must have lasted a very long time for
the waves to have hollowed, smoothed and polished the rocks inside the
caverns and elsewhere as we now see them. Those who have observed with
a little attention a rugged coast will, without being geologists,
recognise the distinctly marine character of the greater number of
these orifices in the calcareous district of the _causses_. The
washing and smoothing action of the sea along the sides of the gorges
which cut up the surface of the country in such an astonishing manner
is not so easy to distinguish. But the reason is obvious. This
limestone rock is by its nature disintegrating wherever it is exposed
to the air and frost, and the foundations of the bastions which
support the _causses_ are being continually sapped by water which
carries away the lime in solution and deposits a part of it elsewhere
in the form of stalactite and stalagmite in the deep galleries where
subterranean rivers often run, and which probably descend to the
lowest part of the formation. Thus by the dislodgment of huge masses
of rock which have rolled down from their original positions, and the
breaking away of the surfaces of others, the most convincing traces of
the sea's action here have nearly disappeared. In the gorge of the
Alzou, however, near Roc-Amadour, about 100 feet above the channel of
the stream, there is a considerable reach of hard rock approaching
marble, the polished and undulating surface of which tells the story
of the ocean, just as the sides of the caverns in much more elevated
positions tell it.
In the rock where the fissure ends at Révaillon is an opening like a
vast yawning mouth, the roof of which forms an almost perfect dome.
Adown this a stream trickles towards the end of summer, but plunges
madly and with a frightful roar in winter and spring. The steep sides
of the narrow ravine are densely wooded, and the light is very dim at
the bottom when the sun is not overhead. I made my first attempt to
descend the dark passage in the early summer, but there was too much
water, and I was soon obliged to retreat. One afternoon in October I
returned with a companion, and we took with us a rope and plenty of
candles. We carried the rope in view of possible difficulties in the
shape of rocks inside the cavern, for it should be borne in mind that
in _gouffres_ of this character the stream frequently descends by a
series of cascades. The weather was very sultry, and the sky towards
the west was of a slaty blue. A fierce storm was threatening, but we
paid no attention to it--a mistake which others bent on exploring
caverns where streams still flow should be warned against. There is
probably no force in nature more terrible, or which makes a man's
helplessness more miserably felt, than water suddenly rushing towards
him when he is underground.
The sun was still shining, however, when we reached the Gouffre de
Révaillon and descended into the ravine over roots of trees coiling
upon the moss like snakes, some arching upward as if about to spring
at the throat of those who disturbed the elfish solitude. At our
coming there rose from the great rock such a multitude of jackdaws
that for some seconds they darkened the air. With harsh screams the
birds soared higher and higher above their fortress, which they had
possessed for ages in perfect security. We reached the bed of the
stream, where scattered threads of water tinkled as they fell over
huge blocks into little pools below, and then went whispering on their
way towards the darkness. At the botton of a long slant of greenish
slimy stone, patched here and there with moss, I stopped a few
minutes, feeling that I could not grasp without an effort the deep
gloom and grandeur of my surroundings. The jackdaws had all flown
away, and there was no sound now but the tinkle and gurgle of the
water. Great snails crawled upon the tufts of rank grass wet with the
autumnal dews that the sun had failed to dry, and upon the glistening
hart's-tongue ferns, and they looked just the kind of snails that
witches would collect to make a hell-broth. Dark ivy hung down from
the rocks, and under the vaulted entrance of the cavern was a clump of
elders, very sinister-looking, and giving forth when touched an evil
narcotic odour. Near these forlorn shrubs was a solitary plant of
angelica, now woebegone, its fringed leaves drooping, waiting for the
rising water to wash it into the darkness. There were willow-herbs
still in bloom, but the crane's-bill struggled with the gloom farther
than any other flowering plant, and its bright little purple lamps
shone in the very mouth of Night. Gnats there were too, spinning in
the semi-darkness, now sinking, now rising, keeping together, a merry
band of musicians, each with a small flute, piping perhaps to the
little goblins that swung on spiders' webs, and slept upon the fronds
of the ferns.
Candles were now lighted, and we left the glimmer of day behind us. A
little beyond the great dome the roof became so low that we had to
creep along almost on hands and knees, but it presently rose again,
and to a great height. The first obstacle--the one that sent me back a
few months before--was a steep rock down which the water then fell in
such a cascade that there was no getting a foothold upon it. Now the
water scarcely covered it, and there was no difficulty in reaching the
bottom. Here, however, was a pool through which we had to wade
knee-deep. The cavern continued, and the stalagmite became interesting
by its fantastic shapes. Here was a mass like an immense sponge, even
to the colour, and there, descending from the roof down the side of
the rock, was the waved hair of an undine that had been changed into
white and glistening stone. The stalactites were less remarkable. The
sound of dropping water told us that another cascade was near. This we
left behind by climbing along the side of the gallery, clinging to the
rock, and in the same way four more obstacles of precisely the same
character were overcome. All the distance the slope was rapid, but at
intervals there was a sudden fall of from ten to fifteen feet, with a
black-looking pool at the foot of the rock, hollowed out by the action
of the tumbling torrent. The last of these falls was the worst to
cross. To this point the cavern had been already explored, but no
farther apparently, the local impression being that it ended just
beyond. It was an ugly place. The rock over which the water fell was
almost perpendicular, and the pool at the bottom was larger and deeper
than the others. Seen by the light of day, any schoolboy might have
scoffed at the difficulty of getting beyond it, but when you are
descending into the bowels of the earth, where the light of two
candles can only dissolve the darkness a few yards around you, every
form becomes fantastic and awful, and the effect of water of unknown
depth upon the imagination is peculiarly disturbing. But we made up
our minds to go on if it were possible. The passage was very narrow,
and the sides offered few salient points to which one could cling. We
moved along a very narrow ledge in a sitting posture, and then, when
we had gone as far as we could in this way, and there was nothing
beyond to sit upon, we made a spring. My companion, being the more
agile, nearly cleared the pool, but I went in with a great splash, as
I expected, and thought myself lucky in being only wetted to the
waist. The water was not very cold, the temperature of the cavern
being much higher than that of the outer air.
We reckoned that we had by this time travelled underground about half
a mile, and as we had been descending rapidly all the way, the
distance beneath the surface must have been considerable. My theory
with regard to this stream was that it was a tributary of the
subterranean Ouysse; but the fact that the cavern ran north-west made
me change my opinion, and conclude that this water-course took an
independent line towards the Dordogne.
A little beyond the last pool the running water suddenly vanished. We
looked around to see if it had taken any side passage; but no: it
simply disappeared into the earth, although no hole was perceptible in
its stony channel. It passed by infiltration into some lower gallery,
where the light of a candle had never shone, and is never likely to
shine. But we had not reached the end of the cavern, although the
passage became so low that we had now really to go down on all-fours
in order to proceed. We had not to keep this posture long, for again
the roof rose, although to no great height. We walked on about fifty
yards or more, and then came to the end. There was no opening anywhere
except by the way we entered. We were like flies that had crawled into
a bottle, and a very unpleasant bottle it might have proved to us. We
noticed--at first with some surprise--that, although there was not a
drop of water now in this _cul-de-sac_, our feet sank into damp sand
that had evidently been carried there by water. Sticks were also lying
about, and the walls up to the roof were covered with a muddy slime.
It was evident that this hole had been filled with water, and not very
long ago; probably the last thunderstorm accounted for the signs of
recent moisture. While we were talking about this, a strange, muffled,
moaning sound reached our ears. We looked at one another over the tops
of two candles. 'Thunder,' said my companion. In a few minutes the
same dismal moan, long drawn out, came down the cavern, which acted
like a speaking-tube between us and the outer world, and conveyed a
timely warning. Was it in time? We were not quite sure of this, for as
we issued from the _cul-de-sac_ we heard the water coming down the
rocks with a very different voice from that which it had not many
minutes before. It was clear that the storm was beginning to tell upon
the stream, and if the rain had been falling for half an hour, as I
had already seen it fall in the Quercy, we might find the work of
recrossing those pools and climbing up the cascades anything but
cheerful. Already where we had been able to walk on dry stones the
water was now up to our ankles. The first cascade to surmount was the
worst. We decided to try it on the side opposite to the one by which
we descended, for we observed a jutting and highly-polished piece of
stalagmite, which promised to help the manoeuvre. One went first, and
the other waited, holding the candle. I was in the rear. When my
companion had reached the top of the cascade, I threw him the coil of
rope--a useless encumbrance, as it happened--and in so doing put out
the candle. Before I was sure that I had a dry match upon me, I failed
to seize the humour, although I felt the novelty of the situation.
During those seconds of uncertainty, the sound of the water--really
fast increasing--seemed to become a deafening roar. However, we both
had dry matches, and were able to relight our candles; but it might
have been otherwise, wet as we were. Without light we should have been
as helpless beneath those rocks as mice in a pitcher. The first
cascade conquered, we felt much more comfortable, for the picture of
being washed into that _cul-de-sac_ had flashed upon the mind of each.
As the next and the next cascade were passed, our spirits rose still
more; and when we saw the gray daylight in the distance, our gaiety
was quite genuine, and we no longer 'laughed yellow,' as the French
phrase it. The stream was rapidly becoming a frantic torrent, but we
were not afraid of it now. On reaching the dome, we saw the water
pouring over rocks that were dry when we entered, and the clouds
seemed to be emptying their rain in frenzy.
An hour later the stream that was lisping so innocently as it threaded
its way amongst the stones, and dropped from rock to rock before the
storm, sent up a wild roar from the bottom of the valley, and shrieked
like a tormented fiend, as it leaped into the black mouth of the
Gouffre de Révaillon. Tons of water had probably collected there at
the bottom of the gulf. And I, in my shortsightedness, had hoped that
the cavern was two or three miles long! I had great reason to be
thankful that it ended where it did, for the excitement of adventure
would have carried us on, and we might have gone too deep into the
earth to hear the thunder.
On emerging from the darkness, we made all the haste we could to reach
the nearest inn. The storm was still at its height; the thunder was an
almost continuous roar; and the quick lightning-flashes lit up the
streaming country. We were quite drenched on reaching a little wayside
auberge. Water was soon boiling upon the wood-fire, and having set
rheumatism at defiance with steaming glasses of grog, we left for
Roc-Amadour, where, on our arrival, we found our friends about to
start with lanterns to look for us in the Gouffre de Révaillon.
* * * * *
Noticing one day a low cavern in the rocks beside the Ouysse, I asked
if anyone had ever entered it, and was told that a man had done so;
that he had found a long, low gallery, which he followed for two or
three hundred yards, and then gave up the attempt to reach the end. It
was well known that the hole, being on a level with the water, was
much used by otters. The desire to explore this cavern becoming
strong, I spoke to Decros about the adventure. He was ready to go with
me; and so we started, taking with us enough candles to light a
ball-room.
On our way over the hills from Roc-Amadour, we passed two dolmens, one
of which was in good preservation. There are several hundred of them
in the Quercy; and the peasants, who call them _pierros levados_
(raised stones), also 'tombs of the giants' and _caïrous_, in which
last name the Celtic word _cairn_ has been almost preserved, treat
them now with indifference, although it is recorded of one of the
early bishops of Cahors that he caused a menhir to be broken to pieces
because it was an object of idolatrous worship. Those who have been to
the trouble of excavating have almost invariably found in each dolmen
a _cella_ containing human bones. In some of them flint implements
have been discovered; in others iron implements and turquoise
ornaments, showing that the tombs, although all alike, belong to
different periods. Tumuli are also numerous, but only a few menhirs
and traces of cromlechs are to be seen.
Close to the Gouffre de Cabouy, whose outflow forms a tributary of the
Ouysse, is a cottage where a man lives whose destiny I have often
envied. When he is tired of fishing or shooting, he works in his
thriving little vineyard, which he increases every year. The river is
as much his own as if it belonged to him; he gets all he wants by
giving himself very little trouble, and has no cares. We needed this
man's boat for our expedition, and we found it drawn into a little
cove beside the ruined mill, long since abandoned. It was a somewhat
porous old punt, with small fish swimming about in the bottom; but it
was well enough for our purpose. In the warm sunshine of the October
afternoon we glided gently down the quiet stream, which is very deep,
but so clear that you can see all the water-plants which revel in it,
down to the sand and pebbles. Near the banks we passed over masses of
watercress, and what might be likened to floating fields of lilies and
pond-weed.