blocks being laid together without mortar. On entering it such a
dimness falls, with such a sacred silence; the air is so heavy with
dampness and the odour of mildew, that you feel as if you were already
in the vestibule of the Halls of Death, where darkness and stillness
have never known the sound of a human voice or the blessed light of
the sun. The design of the building is that of a nave with transept
and apse. At each end of the transept is some curious cross-vaulting.
The columns have all very large capitals in proportion to the diameter
and height; some are ornamented with plain acanthus leaves, others are
carved with numerous small figures of men and animals, ideally uncouth
and typical of the fantastic medley of Christian symbolism and the
barbaric imagination that found a mystical relationship between the
monsters of its own creation and the problems of the universe. The
exterior of the church is not less interesting than the interior. The
charming Romanesque apse, with its three narrow windows, its blind
arcade, the capitals ornamented with the acanthus, the row of
fantastic modillions above carried all round the building, their
sculpture exhibiting the strangest variety of ideas--heads of men,
women, beasts, birds, and fabulous monsters; and then the venerable
portal, with its elaborate bas-relief of the Last Judgment, furnish
much matter for reflection and study. In this 'Judgment' Christ is
standing in the midst of the Apostles, and the dead are rising from
the tombs below. Fiends are pulling the wicked out of their coffins,
and others are throwing the condemned into the wide-opened jaws of a
frightful monster. Above are numerous figures separated by various
mouldings forming archivolts. The arch of the door is Gothic, but all
the other work is Romanesque. The belfry is simply a roofed wall
pierced with four arched openings for bells.
Espalion had once its strong fortress on a neighbouring hill--the
Castle of Calmont d'Olt. It is now a ruin. I climbed to it, and found
the undertaking more tedious than I had supposed. The narrow path
winding through the vineyards was bordered with cat-mint, agrimony,
vervain, and camomile. Then it passed through a little village, where
there were old walnut-trees and mossy walls, and a small church with
these words over the door: 'C'est ici la maison de Dieu et la porte du
ciel.' After the village, the path was almost lost amidst blocks of
sandstone and the _débris_ of the fortress, where snakes basking in
the sun slid away at my approach, hissing indignantly at the intruder.
On the summit there had been in the far-off ages an outpour of basalt,
which had crystallized into columnar prisms, and upon this foundation
of ancient lava the castle was built. A good deal of wall and the
lower part of a rectangular keep remain of this fortress, which dates
from the twelfth century. The outer wall was strengthened with
semicircular bastions, the ruins of which are seen. Fennel now thrives
amongst the fallen stones, which were dumb witnesses of so much that
was human.
Returning to the inn, I resisted the temptation held out to stop and
lunch, although the preparations in the kitchen were far advanced, and
started off on the road to Estaing. I was again following the Lot,
which here flows between high vine-clad hills. After walking a few
miles, I saw a bush over the door of a roadside cottage, and,
entering, found that the only person in charge of this very rustic inn
was a pretty girl of about seventeen. She looked a little scared at
first; but when I had sat down with the evident intention of making
myself at home, she became reconciled to the sight of me, and
consented to let me have what there was in the house to eat. This was
not much, as she took care to point out. The nearest approach to meat
there was eggs, excepting, of course, the fat bacon--quite uneatable
in the English fashion--which is the basis of all the soup made
throughout a great part of France. Having lighted a fire on the
hearth, and fried me some eggs with bits of fat bacon instead of
butter, she said she must go and call 'papa,' who was working in the
vineyard. So she left me in charge of the inn while she went to fetch
her father on the hillside. While I was alone, I looked at the sunny
view of green meadows and trees through the open door that faced the
shining river, and easily fancied that what I saw was a bit of verdant
England. In the room, too, the twittering of a pair of canaries
recalled impressions of other days; but the plague of flies was
thoroughly French, and it soon brought me back to realities. When the
girl returned with her father, she gave me some excellent goat-cheese,
and for my dessert some hazelnuts, together with a spirit distilled
from plums, similar to the _quertch_ of Alsace.
I had not been long in the sunshine again, when I noticed a large
house in the midst of the vines not far off the road. On drawing near
I found that it was ruinous, and had been long since abandoned. It had
been a rather grand house once, and must have belonged to people of
importance in the country. There was a finely-carved scutcheon with
arms over the Gothic door, and the mullioned windows, which had lost
all their glass, had something of the pathos of gentility that,
becoming poor and old, has been abandoned to all winds and weathers.
The little courtyard was full of high weeds and shrubs, and the wild
flags that grow on the rocks had laid their green leaves together to
hide the wounds of the old walls. Swallows, sparrows, and bats were
now the tenants of this mysterious house, which must have had a
troubled history. The picture has since haunted my memory; the mind
goes back to it in a strange way, and the sentiment of it, as it was
communicated to me, I find perfectly expressed in these lines by
Alphonse Karr:
'De la solitaire demeure
Une ombre lourde d'heure en heure,
Se détache sur le gazon,
Et cet ombre, couchée et morte
Est la seule chose qui sorte
Tout le jour de cette maison.'
Some distance farther I passed another deserted dwelling. It was
perched upon rocks, and was overgrown with ivy and clematis. The road
led me down beside the Lot, which now began to rush again over rocks
as the hills drew closer, and the valley became once more a gorge. On
one side were dense woods; on the other vines reached up to the sky.
At length I saw before me a row of houses beside the river in a bright
bit of valley hemmed in by high cliffs. On the rocks behind the houses
were a church and a castle.
This was Estaing. It is a little place full of originality, and looks
as if it had been built to set forth the dream of some old writer of
romance. The late-Gothic church is more quaint and odd than beautiful.
The architect sported with the laws of symmetry, and revelled in the
fanciful. The nave is much wider at one end than the other. The great
sundial over the door, bearing the date 1636, is scarcely less useful
now than when it was placed there. The castle is a strange pile, all
the more picturesque by its incongruity. It stands upon a mass of
schistous rock about fifty feet above the river. Most of the visible
portion of the building is late Gothic and Renaissance; but this was
grafted upon the lower walls and arches of a feudal fortress. Towers
rise from towers, mullioned windows have their lines cut in the shadow
of beetling machicolations, and higher still are dormer windows with
graceful Gothic gables. This castle is now a convent and village
school. From the court I could see the Sisters' little garden, where
flowers and melons and potherbs were curiously mixed without the
gardener's systematic art, which is so often a deadly thing to beauty;
and nasturtiums climbing the weedy walls from rough deal boxes were
basking in the steady glow of afternoon sun, which seemed to me so
intensely brilliant because I was in the dark shadow. A Sister
consented to let me go to the top of the highest tower, and she went
before me rattling her keys officially. On the way she showed me a
fine Renaissance chimney-piece with florid carvings.
After Estaing the valley became wilder, and the river fell over rocks
in a series of cascades. Clouds came up and hid the sun; a rainy wind
made the willows hoary, and set all the poplar leaves sighing and
quivering. The vines had disappeared, and the wooded gorge became very
solemn in the fading light. There was one figure in the
landscape--that of a peasant woman bending and rolling up into bundles
the hemp that had been spread out to dry. It added the human touch of
melancholy to the sadness of the picture. More and more gloomy became
the scene. Great black precipitous rocks of schist, their hollows
filled with sombre foliage, rose in solemn grandeur far above me, and
in the bottom the plunging stream foamed and roared. The mad wind
caught up the dust from the road and whirled it onward, and then the
rain began to fall. Rockier and darker became the way, and louder the
roar of the stream. So narrow was the gorge at length that the road
ran along a ledge that had been cut in the gneiss.
When I was still some miles from Entraygues (called by the peasants
Entrayou), I met a young gendarme. He did not ask me for my papers,
for he was a native of the district of Lourdes, and had been brought
into contact with so many English people at Pau that he detected at
once my Britannic accent, which has not been worn away by many years'
residence in France. To him the fact of my being an Englishman was a
sufficient assurance that I was respectable. He was a rakish,
devil-may-care fellow, who, after being a sub-officer in the army, had
lately been moved into the gendarmerie. His heart had been deeply
touched by an English governess whom he had met at Pau, and he spoke
to me about her with 'tears in his voice.' He talked much about
Lourdes, where he said the people were sincerely religious, and not
hypocritical. His opinion of the Aveyronnais was somewhat different,
but perhaps unjust, for as yet he could not have had much experience
of them. Having taken the precaution to tell me that he was anything
but a strict Catholic himself, he declared that he was a believer in
miracles.
'Why?' I asked.
'Because,' said he, 'my father saw Bernadette go up a rock on her
knees--one that no man could climb--and I myself have been a witness
of miracles at Lourdes. I have seen at least twenty people cured at
the fountain. One was a captain, who was so paralyzed that he had to
be carried to the water, and when he came away he walked as if nothing
had been the matter with him.'
Thus talking we reached Entraygues. I allowed the gendarme to take me
to the inn of his fancy, which he praised with true Southern warmth
for its comfort and good cheer. The large kitchen as we entered was
only lighted by the flame of the wood-fire on the hearth, in front of
which a fowl and a piece of veal were turning on the same spit, moved
by clockwork that said 'click-clack, click-clack;' which was as genial
an invitation to dinner as any I had ever heard. Presently the lamp
was lighted, the table was laid, and I sat down to dinner with the
innkeeper and the gendarme from the Basses Pyrénées. The meal was of
the substantial kind, such as gives complete satisfaction to the
wayfarer at the end of his day's wandering, after putting up with
frugal fare on the road. The aubergiste brought out his best wine, and
his best cheeses made from goat's milk, and which had been kept
carefully wrapped up in vine leaves. These little cheeses, when they
have been allowed to mature in a wrapping of vine or plane leaf, are
among the best made. The landlord had studied all matters relating to
the stomach within the range of his experience. He said that hares
were not fit to eat unless they had fed chiefly on thyme, and that a
starling had no value in the kitchen until it had been feeding on
juniper berries.
This night when I went to bed I had not the frantic crowing of cocks
to keep me awake, but the soft murmuring of the flowing river to lull
me asleep. The weather being now fair and calm after the troubled
evening, I threw the window open, so that I could feel the wafting of
the great invisible wings of the summer night, and listen to the
soothing song of the water repeating the tales that were told to it by
the rocks and the woods on its way down from the Lozère mountains.
I was again on the banks of this beautiful river--at no place more
beautiful than at Entraygues--when the rising sun was gilding only the
topmost vines of the high western hill that shadows it. The little
town of 2,000 inhabitants is close to the spot where the Thuyère falls
into the Lot. It lies in the angle where two lovely valleys meet. The
Thuyère comes down from the Cantal mountains, and as it reaches
Entraygues it spreads out over a broad smooth bed of pebbles, its
water as clear as rock-crystal; and when the morning sun looks down
upon it over the vine-clad hills, it is like something that has been
seen in the happiest of dreams. There is a castle at Entraygues, and,
as in the case of the one at Estaing, it is now used as a convent and
school. The archaeologist will find perhaps more to interest him in
the two thirteenth-century bridges which span the Lot and the Thuyère,
both noble specimens of Gothic work.
As I left Entraygues the bells in the church-tower were ringing--not
the monotonous ding-dong with which French people generally have had
to content themselves since the Revolutionists turned the old
bell-metal into sous, but a blithe and joyous peal of high silvery
tones that seemed to belong to the blue air, and to be the voices of
the little spirits that flutter about the morning's rosy veil. My
design was to reach the abbey of Conques before evening, but instead
of going directly towards it over the hills, I preferred to keep as
long as possible in the valley of the Lot, which is here of such
witching loveliness. As there was a road on the river-bank for many
miles, I could follow this fancy, and yet feel the comfort of walking
on good ground. Although the season was getting late, I found the
valley below Entraygues very rich in flowers. Agrimony, mint, and
marjoram, with a tall inula, and the pretty, sweet-scented white
melilot, were in great abundance along the bank. Upon the rocks, which
now bordered the road, were the deep red blossoms of the orpine sedum,
and a small crimson-flowered stock with very hoary stem. A tall
handsome plant about three feet high, with large white flowers, drew
me down a bank to where it was growing near the water. I found that it
was a very luxuriant specimen of the thorn-apple (_datura_). While I
was admiring its poisonous beauty a woman stopped on the road just
above me, and, after contemplating me in silent curiosity for a few
minutes, said to me first in _patois_ and then in French (when I
replied to her in this language):
'It is a wicked plant, that! The beasts will not touch it, so you had
better leave it alone.'
Although I did not think this association of ideas very complimentary
to myself, I thanked her for her good advice. I nevertheless took away
as a souvenir a flower and one of the thorny apples, seeing which the
peasant trudged on her way, saying no doubt that it was wasting time
and words to give advice to lunatics. Again the cliffs drew very close
together, and the valley was nothing more than a deep crack in the
earth's crust. On one side was unbroken forest; on the other vines
were terraced up the rocky steep to the height of seven or eight
hundred feet. Even amidst the jutting crags the adventurous vine
lifted its sunny leaves; but, alas! here, too, the phylloxera had
begun its work of desolation, and I had little doubt that these hills
laden with fruit were destined in a few years to become a waste of
stones like so many others that I had seen nearer the plains which had
once streamed with wine. The cultivated land by the river was only a
narrow strip, and the crops were chiefly maize and buckwheat. At
length the vine cultivation was only carried on at intervals. Then the
long blue line of water lay between high rocky hills covered with box
and broom, bracken and heather. A stream came tumbling down a deep
ravine over blocks of gneiss to join the Lot, and a little beyond this
was a hamlet.
The morning was now far advanced; so, as I was passing a cottage inn,
I wavered a minute, and the result of the wavering was that I crossed
the threshold. I said to myself: 'Perhaps I may walk on for miles, and
not find another chance so good as this.' It was one of the poorest of
inns, but it was able to give me a meal of bread and cheese and eggs,
which was as much as I could expect hereabouts. There was also a light
wine of local growth--sparkling, fragrant, and deliciously cool. What
more could I want? Two motherless girls looked after this waterside
inn, and also the ferry belonging to it. The boat lay a few feet from
the door. When I was ready to leave, the younger of the two girls
ferried me to the other side of the river, and a very pretty figure
she made for an artist to sketch--the simplicity of childhood in her
face, and the strength of a woman in her bare sunburnt arms. As is the
case with so many of the peasants in this district, where the old
Gaulish stock (the _Ruteni_ and the _Cadurci_) has been much less
influenced than in the towns by the tumultuous passage of races from
the south, the east, and the north, she was fair-haired, and naturally
fair-skinned; but exposure to the sun had darkened her by many shades.
I had been walking for some time in the department of the Cantal, but
the ferry landed me on the Aveyron side of the river. I had now
seriously to consider the shortest way to Conques, separated from me
by very rough hill country and an uncertain number of miles. I was on
a narrow path skirting the forest and the water, when I met a peasant
family dressed in their best clothes, and on their way, as I learnt,
to the village of Notre Dame, where the _fête patronale_ was being
held. The man, who seemed well pleased with himself in his new black
blouse, carried the sleeping baby, and his wife held a great coloured
umbrella over it. They were followed by a girl of about fourteen, who
wore the open-work hand-made white stockings which the young women of
these southern villages use on festive occasions as soon as they begin
to grow coquettish. I fell into conversation with these people, who
told me that, after reaching the village, I must commence the ascent
through the forest. Speaking to the man about the trout, which are
plentiful in this part of the river, he entertained me with a story of
a selfish angler who once came there, and who had a fish on his hook
as soon as he threw a fly. The people of the district--who, it seems,
know nothing about fly-fishing--watched his success with wonder and
admiration, and asked him to explain to them how he managed to catch
fish in that way; but he was surly, and refused to give them any
lessons. He had imitators, nevertheless; but after spending many hours
vainly endeavouring to hook the crafty trout, they lost patience, and
gave up the attempt.
Two or three score of houses huddled together at the foot of a rocky
cliff, a little above the water, was Notre Dame. The village was all
in movement. The space in front of the church was crowded with peasant
figures; a bell was swinging backward and forward in the wall-belfry,
as though it was trying to turn right over; stall-keepers with cakes,
barley-sugar, and other dainties dear to the village child, to whom
the opportunity of feasting even his eyes upon such things comes very
seldom, were surrounded by eager little faces, and outstretched
sunburnt hands, each clutching the sou that offered such a bewildering
field for dissipation. In the auberge hard by was a noisy throng, of
peasants sitting and standing in a cloud of smoke. Serving-women,
hired for the occasion, gaily coifed and be-ribboned, holding bottles
and glasses elbowed their way to the men who shouted the loudest for
drink, and, catching the jest in the air, gave one as good or as bad
in exchange. The scene was one for another Teniers to paint, although
there were no costumes to give a local colour to the picturesque. Most
of the older men wore the ugly short blouse--generally black in this
part of France; but ambitious youths of eighteen or twenty showed a
preference for the cloth coat which the village tailor had tried to
cut according to the Paris fashion.
Leaving the rustic revellers, the queer little church, with its
ancient calvary, rudely carved, and resting upon a single column, I
was soon in the shadow of the old chestnut forest that covered the
steep side of the high cliffs above the Lot. The path was very rocky
and toilsome. A young man, who was hastening down from his home on the
hills to join the merrymakers, said to me, in allusion to the
roughness of the way: 'Le bon Dieu ne passe pas souvent par ici,'
thereby expressing the sentiment of the peasant, who associates all
that is wild and rugged in nature with the devil. While still in the
forest, and not a little puzzled by its paths, I met a woman and a
youth, and asked them if the way I was taking led to Conques. '_Apé_'
(yes) was the reply. Not a word of French could I draw from them. When
the cliffs were at length scaled, and I was on the open tableland, I
found the south wind blowing there with great violence, although in
the valley there was scarcely breeze enough to ripple the river pools.
The sun was falling into the yellow haze of the west as I began to
descend towards the valley of the Dourdou. I came upon a tributary of
this stream in the bottom of a deep and solemn gorge, whose steep
sides were densely wooded except where the rock jutted out and
revealed its dark nakedness, and where higher, near the sky, showed
here and there a patch of heather-purple waste, on which the brilliant
light was softening into evening tones. But in the depth of the gorge,
where the redly-running stream was nearly hidden under the tent of
leaves, the air was already dim, and the forms of the trees were
beginning to blend with their own shadows.
Following the stream in its course, I found the Dourdou, and then
turned down the broader valley. I was tramping wearily on my way,
which seemed endless, when, clustered on the side of another wild and
thickly wooded gorge running up amidst the hills, I saw many houses,
and a dark pile of masonry, rising far above their roofs. I knew that
this must be Conques; it showed its religious origin so plainly in the
choice of the site. This was selected not because Nature was gentle
and pitiful to man in the cleft of those savage hills, but because she
was stern and solemn, and the veil that hides the supernatural was
felt to be thinner there, where the rocks and forest seemed to the
mediaeval mind to have remained just as the Almighty hand had
fashioned them. A monastery arose in the desert, then the abbey
church, and gradually a little lay community placed itself under the
protection of the religious one.