as I entered the vast smoke-begrimed kitchen, lighted chiefly by the
flame of the fire, but the great chain-pot sent forth a perfume that
was not offensive, although the soup was _maigre_. There was also fish
that had been freshly pulled out of the Lot. The cooking left
something to be desired, but the hostess, the wife of the Harmonious
Blacksmith, had thrown her best intentions into it. A rosy light wine
grown upon the side of a neighbouring hill compensated for the lack of
culinary art. It was a rather rough inn, but I had been in many worse.
Seated in the chimney-corner after dinner, and sending the smoke of my
pipe to join the sparks of the blazing wood up the yawning gulf where
the soot hung like stalactites below the calm sky and twinkling stars,
I had a long talk with the aubergiste, who told me that he had been
taken prisoner at Sedan, and had, in consequence, spent eight months
in Germany. He considered that he had been as well treated by the
Germans as a prisoner could expect to be. He had always enough to eat,
but there was no soup, and, lacking this, he thought it impossible for
any civilized stomach to be happy.
Rural inns have charms, especially when they are old and picturesque,
and smell of the Middle Ages; but to be kept a prisoner in one of them
by rainy weather is apt to plunge a restless wanderer into the Slough
of Despond. The chances are that the inn itself becomes at such times
a slough, so that Bunyan's expression is then applicable in a real as
well as in a figurative sense. There is a constant coming in and going
out of peasants with dripping sabots, of dogs with wet paws, and
draggle-tailed hens with miry feet; geese, and even pigs, not
unfrequently venture inside, and have a good walk round before their
presence is noticed and they are treated to quotations from Rabelais,
enforced with the broomstick. Then the rain beats in at the open door,
which nobody troubles to close. Under these circumstances, the rural
inn becomes detestable. So I found the auberge at Saint-Géry, where I
waited long hours for the weather to change, after having received a
soaking while climbing the escarped cliffs which rise so grandly on
one side of the little town.
A fortified cavern and a ruined castle tempted me up the rocks. On my
way I passed a small Gothic house, dating apparently from the
fourteenth or fifteenth century, with pointed arched doorway and
window lights separated by slender columns with foliated capitals
carved by no clumsy rustic workman. The boy who accompanied me had the
key. As I entered I was met on the threshold by the fragrant odour of
the tobacco-plant; I perceived that the mediaeval house was used for
drying tobacco-leaves--a purpose that could never have been in the
imagination of the original owner, for those stones were laid together
long before the herb, now so precious to the French Government, was
brought to Europe. The stalks with all the leaves attached were hung
to strings stretched from wall to wall. There is much tobacco grown
hereabouts in the valley of the Lot, but it is considered too strong
for smoking purposes, and is therefore made into snuff. When the
utmost care has been used in its cultivation and drying the price paid
by the Government to the grower does not exceed half a franc the
pound. Those who enjoy the privilege of raising it consider the money
very hardly earned.
I reached the ruined castle at the foot of the limestone buttresses
supporting the plateau above. Enough is left of the wall to show that
it must have been a strong place at one time. It is attributed by
common consent to the English. Protected on one side by the abrupt
rock, it overlooked the valley from a height that to an enemy must
have been very difficult of access. The fortified cavern is in the
escarped cliff above the castle, with which there was, perhaps, a
secret communication. The upper part of the wall is gone, but what
remains is about ten feet high and nine feet thick. Swallows build
their nests in the roof of the cavern, and the spot is noisy with the
harsh cries of countless jackdaws. These sagacious birds can doubtless
tell many stories of the English which they received from their
ancestors.
When I returned to the auberge wet and shivering, I found no sympathy,
the thoughts of the hostess being occupied by a matter that interested
her more deeply. The badgers had eaten her maize which she needed for
fattening the geese, and her tongue was busily employed in wishing
them every misfortune, both in time and eternity. Badgers are very
numerous in the district, and they continue to increase and multiply,
while the peasants jeopardise their immortal interests by cursing them
every time they see a spike of ripening maize pulled down and half
stripped of its corn. In the daytime these animals sleep comfortably,
digesting their ill-gotten meal in the holes of the rocks, which are
so honeycombed that dogs cannot easily get at the hermits. Moreover,
it is not every dog that likes the prospect of being bitten nearly in
half, the badger being much better known than trusted by the canine
race.
Another animal that flourishes here, in spite of the hatred in which
it is held by the inhabitants, is the fox, which likewise finds the
valley an Elysium on account of the convenient neighbourhood of the
rocks pierced with multitudinous holes. Badgers and foxes, with all
their vices, are preferable to the hyenas which used to infest this
part of France, as is proved by the bones found in the larger caverns.
The present inhabitants ought to take comfort from this reflection,
but they do not.
While the aubergiste's wife, a little woman who carried about with her
the outline of a wine-cask, was breathing maledictions upon the
badgers, and venting her fury upon the little boy-of-all-work--who,
being used to such outbursts, ate his morning allowance of soup with
philosophic indifference--I took up my place again in the
chimney-corner, and endeavoured to dry myself on all sides by somewhat
imitating the movement of a fowl turning on the spit.
At length the heavy pall of cloud lifted, and when the first yellow
gleam of sunshine filtering through vapour was reflected by the
puddles and streaming roofs, I walked out of Saint-Géry. When the last
houses were out of sight, solitude added to the desolate grandeur of
the scenery. It was a relief to be alone with Nature, dripping as she
was with recent tears, after the depressing influences of the inn--the
dimness, dampness, and dirt, the unreasoning anger of ignorance, the
dull routine of human beings whose chief concern was to feed
themselves and the animals which helped them to live. As an alterative
to the mind, rural life is of real value in the case of those who have
been carried round and round in the whirlpool of a great city until
they have had more than enough of the sensation; but, like other
useful medicines, rusticity is best when taken in moderate doses, and
at judicious intervals. I had stayed at Saint-Géry long enough to feel
like a fish that in jumping out of water for the sake of variety had
fallen upon the mud.
The sun that changes the face of all things, and warms the ideas no
less than the earth, now shone out from a blue sky, spreading fire
over the ruddy tops of the chestnut woods, and flashing into the dark
caverns of the ancient crags, fringed with box, sumach and juniper. I
noticed that one of these caverns had been fortified, but my curiosity
was satisfied with the distant view. A yellow chicory, quite leafless,
was still blooming on the stony banks, and I also, found a white
scabious. Green hellebore and wild madder flourished amidst the broken
limestone. A forest of brown maize-stalks, from which the golden corn
had been gathered, followed the windings of the river, now turgid and
tumultuous, and dyed sienna-red by the washings from the hills. Every
day the increasing water as it descended the weirs made a wilder
tumult. These weirs are a great beauty to the Lot, for they generally
form an angle or the arc of a circle, and the river tumbles over the
rough blocks like a natural cascade. They are connected with a series
of locks, which render the stream navigable from the sea; but one
rarely sees a barge upon it now, the railway having completely ruined
the water traffic, and caused a most elaborate and costly piece of
engineering to be practically useless.
The valley now widened out, and a village came into view, together
with a ruined castle upon a mamelon, that rose like a volcanic cone
from the plain. On the castle wall an immense wooden cross had been
set, showing against the sky with an effect truly grand. The village
was Vers, and the castle, which was built by the English, is called
the Château de Béars.
At Vers I was met by an old man, who insisted upon showing me another
cave fortified by the English, after taking the precaution of telling
me that he would accept nothing for his trouble. He was long and lean
and brown, and had a 'glittering, eye' like the Ancient Mariner, but
his conversation was much more cheerful than that of the hero who shot
the albatross. He was a born actor, for he accompanied his talk with
magnificent dramatic gestures, and, after letting his voice drop
suddenly to a tragic whisper, he would raise it again to the most
gusty and blustering heights of sound. He was a strong type of the
Southerner, inasmuch as all this amazing vehemence and gesticulation
was quite uncalled for. It is remarkable, however, how much may be
done by mere action and intonation to impress the listener with the
idea that the speaker must be a person of uncommon intelligence. But
when half a dozen such talkers are engaged in discussion upon some
trivial topic, and each employs the same means to enforce his views
upon the rest (this occurs nightly in the _cafés_ at Cahors), the
Northerner is inclined to think that they are all mad. The wiry old
man explained to me, in order to account for the ease and agility with
which, notwithstanding his years and his awkward _sabots_, he stepped
from block to block in the ascent, that he had been all his life a
rock-blaster. At length we reached the cavern. The English, who used
it as a refuge, had shown much sagacity in its selection, for the
enemy that attacked them there would have been compelled to climb up
the face of the rock beneath by following zigzag ledges, while the
besieged behind their loopholed wall were raining arrows and bolts
upon them. The wall, as it exists, is twenty or thirty feet high.
There is a doorway protected by an inner wall. To reach the upper
loopholes and parapet the men mounted upon oak beams resting crosswise
between the masonry and the rock. One massive beam, crumbling and
worm-eaten, as may be supposed after the centuries that it has been
there, may still be seen serving as the lintel of a window.
I made a rather long stay at Vers, in order to visit the site of a
Celtic town on the _causse_; but I did not start upon this journey
until the next day. The inn where I put up was much more comfortable
than some others which I had chosen for night-quarters while wandering
down the valley. To anybody fresh from London it would have seemed
primitive indeed, with its broad hearth and massive iron dogs, its
enormous fire built with logs and the roots of trees, and its cosy
chimney-corners, where the sitters' heads were from time to time
enveloped with wreathing smoke; but I had grown so accustomed to such
sights that this hostelry seemed to contain all the blessings and
commodities of an advanced state of civilization.
The hostess was a good and sprightly cook, and I watched her
proceedings with a keen interest as I sat upon one of the seats in the
chimney. Having hitched the pot that contained the soup upon the hook
at the end of the sooty chain, she raked out embers from the centre of
the burning mass, and made separate fires with them upon the hearth.
Others she carried to a range of small charcoal fireplaces on one side
of the spacious kitchen, and very soon afterwards she had sauce-pans
and a frying-pan and a gridiron all murmuring or hissing together.
There was too much garlic in her cookery, but I had also grown used to
that. Although the phylloxera had blighted nearly all the vineyards in
this region, the landlord here was able to put upon the table some
wine, grown upon his own hillside, not unworthy of the ancient
reputation of the Cahors district for its vintage.
After dinner I returned to the chimney-corner which was decidedly the
most comfortable place in the inn, in spite of the smoke and the close
neighbourhood of soot, and set about obtaining information from the
aubergiste and his cronies who had dropped in concerning the exact
whereabouts of a Celtic town whose ruined fortifications, I knew, were
to be found somewhere among the barren hills to the west of Vers. It
was some time before I could make these men understand what I was
really in search of, and when they understood they seemed to think I
was a little mad, until the idea struck them that I might be a dealer
in antiquities, hoping to pick up certain odds and ends that would
repay me for the trouble of walking to such a desolate and
uninteresting spot.
At length I gathered that the site of the ancient _oppidum_ was at
Murcens, a hamlet upon a hill, half a day's walk away to the west, and
that the best way to reach it was to follow the valley of the Vers. At
about seven o'clock the next morning I started, and, having been
warned that I should find no inn where I could get a meal, I took with
me some provisions.
It was a gray, dreary morning, and at that hour the weather could not
have been more November-like had I been upon the banks of the Severn
or the Trent, instead of being by one of the rivers of our ancient
southern province of Guyenne.
As I turned westward up the valley of the Vers, I passed under
detached fragments of the aqueduct built by the Romans to carry water
to Cahors. By taking advantage of the rocks which hem in the narrow
valley, they saved themselves the trouble of raising arches to the
desired height to ensure the flow. The conduit is carried along upon a
ledge hewn out of the natural wall, projecting masses of rock being
cut through with the hammer and chisel. The masonry is of undressed
stone, but so firmly cemented that it is scarcely less solid than the
rock itself.
Where an inconvenient buttress projected, a narrow passage was cut
through it for the channel, and the marks of the chisel look as fresh
as if they had been lately made. Much of this aqueduct was destroyed
in quite recent days, when the rocks were blasted to make room for the
road to Cahors. The Romans may have thought of many destructive
agencies being employed upon their work, but dynamite was certainly
not one of them. Box and hellebore, bramble and dogwood, moss and
ferns, have been striving for centuries to conceal all trace of the
conduit, and those whose foreknowledge did not lead them to look for
it might easily pass by without observing it.
The road followed the stream, now a furious torrent that a man on
horseback could hardly ford without risk of being carried away. Two or
three weeks previously a mere thread of water wound its way amongst
the stones in the centre of the channel. It is one of the many streams
which in Guyenne gradually disappear in summer, but at the return of
winter fill the long-scorched and silent valleys with the sound of
roaring waters. On either side of the gorge rose abrupt stony hills
thinly wooded, chiefly with stunted oak, or escarped craggy cliffs
pierced with yawning caverns. There was no sunshine, but the multitude
of lingering leaves lit up all the desert hills with a quiet, solemn
flame. Here and there, amidst the pale gold of the maple or the
browner, ruddier gold of the oak, glowed darkly the deep crimson fire
of a solitary cornel. In steady, unchanging contrast with these
colours was the sombre green of the box.
The stream descends in a series of cascades, and there is a mighty
roar of waters. For many yards I have for a companion a little wren,
that flies from twig to twig through the well-nigh naked hedge along
the wayside, now hidden behind a bramble's crimson-spotted leaf, now
mingled with a tracery of twigs and thorns. I can almost believe it to
be the same wren that kept up with me years ago in English lanes, and
since then has travelled with me so many miles in France, vanishing
for long periods, but reappearing as if by enchantment in some
roadside hedge, its eyes bright with recognition, and every movement
friendly. Whimsical little bird, or gentle spirit in disguise, we may
travel many a mile together yet.
My thoughts were turned from the wren by a carrier's cart, which the
people of the country would term a _diligence_. It was like a great
oblong box with one end knocked out, set on wheels. The interior was a
black hole, crammed with people and bundles. When I looked for my
little feathered friend it was gone, but we shall meet again.
Two or three miles farther up the valley, near a small village or
hamlet, I crossed a low bridge over the Vers, and by following the
road on the other side, still ascending the course of the stream, I
came to a spot where a volume of water that would soon have filled a
large reservoir flowed quietly out of a little hollow at the foot of
great rocks. It was the Fountain of Polémie which, on account of its
abundant flow in all seasons, is supposed to have been the source from
which the Romans led their aqueduct to Divona--now called Cahors. The
water of this fountain, which derives its name from Polemius, a Roman
functionary, is of limpid purity, and its constancy proves that it
rises from a great depth. The Romans must have carried the water on
arches across the valley, and probably for a considerable distance
down it, before they made use of the natural wall of rock in the
manner described, but not a trace remains of the arches, or even of
the piers.
In order to reach the tableland of Murcens, it was necessary to cross
again the roaring torrent of the Vers, and after several vain attempts
to do so, by means of the rocks lying in its bed, I came to a bridge
which solved the difficulty. The scene was now sublimely rugged and
desolate. On each side the majestic rocks reared their ever-varying
fantastic shapes towards the sky.
I knew, from what I had been told, that Murcens lay somewhere above
the escarped cliff on my left, and at no great distance, but the
difficulty was to reach it. I had heard of a path, but I soon gave up
the attempt to find it. As there was not a human being to be seen who
could give me any counsel, I commenced climbing the hill in the
direction that I wished to take. It was anything but straightforward
walking. The lower part of the steep was strewn with loose stones like
shingle, that slipped under the feet, so that I had to proceed in
zigzag fashion, taking advantage of every bush of juniper and box and
root of hellebore as a foothold. But the vegetation grew denser as I
ascended, and I had soon plenty of box and dwarf oak to help me.
Before attempting to climb the upper wall of solid limestone, I sat in
the mouth of a small cavern to eat the frugal lunch I had brought with
me, and to contemplate at my leisure the wild grandeur of the valley.
I could not have chosen a better place for feeling in one sense
dwindled, in another expanded, by the majesty of the stony solitude.
Suddenly, while I gazed, the sun breaking through the clouds made
every yellow tree brighten like melting gold, and drew a voice of joy
from all the dumb and solemn rocks.
I leave the remnants of my feast for the foxes and magpies to quarrel
over, and feel prepared to put forth a vigorous effort to reach the
_causse_. I work my way up by the clefts of the rocks, hanging on to
the tough box, and getting thoroughly asperged by the dew that has not
yet dried upon it. I have not ascended fifty feet in this manner
before I am as wet as if I had been walking in a thunderstorm. I creep
along ledges, now to the right and now to the left, and presently I am
only about twenty-five feet from the top of the rock that prevents me
from attaining my object. It is pleasanter to look up than to look
down, for, being no climber of mountain peaks, I do not enjoy the
sensation of clinging to the side of a precipice like a caterpillar to
a leaf. Now comes the real trial. The rest of the rock above me is
quite bare of vegetation. By making four or five steps upwards to the
left, then to the right, a spot can be reached where the trouble will
be over; but some of these steps need a considerable stretch of leg,
and the eye cannot measure the distance with certainty. Time is on the
wing, and the days are short. I am strongly tempted to make the essay,
but doubt holds me back. What if I, were to get half-way, and were
unable to go on or to retreat? What if I were to slip and roll down
the rocks? If I were not killed outright, who would be likely to come
to my aid in such a solitude? The ravens would have ample time to pick
my bones before those interested in my existence would know what had
happened to me. I resolve that I will not give the birds of ill omen a
chance of so rare a meal. In descending, the cold showers from the box
bushes add to my humiliation and discomfiture.
Keeping on the side of the hill, I went farther up the valley, seeking
a place where I could with better chance of success make another
attack upon the difficulties of this rocky wall. I found what I wanted
at no great distance, the only objection to the spot being the dense
growth of shrubs laden with moisture. It was almost like wading
through a stream. At length the line of high rocks was passed, and I
was upon land that, notwithstanding its steepness and the multitude of
stones with which it was strewn, had undergone some cultivation. That
wine had not long since been grown here was evident from the numerous
stumps of vines which had been killed by the phylloxera. A few
lingering flowers of hawkweed relieved the monotony of the dreary
waste. But if, while looking before me, the scene was saddening, in
looking back there was a sublime and soul-lifting picture which the
forces of Nature had been painting unmolested for ages. I can do no
more than suggest to the imagination the combined effect of those
fantastic rocks rising from the foaming torrent to the drifting,
tinted clouds; buttresses and bastions of the ancient earth laid bare
in the mysterious night of the inconceivable past, some black and
gloomy as the walls of a feudal moat, others yellow like ochre;
others, again, sun-bleached almost to whiteness, yet streaked with
ruddy veins--all flashed here and there with burning oak and maple, or
sprinkled with the purple blood of the dogwood's dying leaves.
Half an hour later I reached Murcens, only inhabited nowadays by a few
peasants in two or three scattered hovels, which are nevertheless
called farms. I had no difficulty in finding the wall of the Gaulish
town. It is broken down completely in places, but the almost circular
line is plainly marked. The site of the _oppidum_ is a little
tableland raised above the surrounding soil by a natural embankment.
The circumvallation in its best preserved places is now from seven to
ten feet high. The materials used were such as Caesar mentions as
having been employed by the Gauls in the fortification of their
_oppida_, namely, timber and rough stone. I looked for some traces of
the wooden uprights, but although there is ample proof that they
existed there down to our own time, my search was vain. Many stones
measuring several feet in length were set in a perpendicular position
to give extra stability to the wall. The ancient rampart is in places
completely overgrown with juniper. Within the wall is nothing but
level field. No trace remains of any buildings that stood there in the
far-off days when the spot was the scene of all passions and vanities,
the tragedy and comedy of human life, even as we know it now. The
peasant as he ploughs or digs turns up from time to time a bit of
worked metal, such as a coin, or a ring, but the hands which held them
may or may not be mingled with the soil that supports the buckwheat
and enables the peasant to live. The Gaulish city has no history.