perpetually _en fête_. Religiously or patriotically, it is always
celebrating something; and it does so in a splendid whole-hearted
fashion, concentrating all the energy of a town into a few days or a
few hours of ardent demonstration. _Les fêtes religieuses_ are without
doubt the most charming and picturesque; and the smaller the place, the
more curious and time-honored the observances. It is wonderful, too, to
note the resources of even the poorest community. Auray, with its few
straggling streets, is little better than a village; yet here, on the
Fête du Sacré Cœur, I saw a procession so beautiful and so admirably
organized that it would have done credit to any city of France. Scores
of priests and hundreds of weather-beaten men and women moved slowly
through the narrow lanes, or knelt before the rude altars that had
been erected at every turning. Not a house in Auray that had not been
hung with linen sheets; not a rood of ground that was not strewn with
flowers and fresh green leaves. Bands of little girls, dressed in blue
and white, surrounded the statue of the Madonna, and the crimson banner
of the Sacred Heart was borne by tiny boys, with red sashes around
their waists and wreaths of red roses on their curly heads, looking
absurdly like Bonfigli’s flower-crowned angels. One solemn child
personated the infant St. John. He wore a scanty goatskin, and no more.
A toy lamb, white and woolly, was tucked under his arm, and a slender
cross grasped in his baby hand. By his side walked an equally youthful
Jeanne d’Arc, attired in a blue spangled skirt and a steel breastplate,
with a helmet, a nodding plume, a drawn sword, and a pair of gauzy
wings to indicate that approaching beatification which is the ardent
desire of every French Catholic.
“Notre mère, la France, est de Jeanne la fille,”
and she is to be congratulated on so blithely forgetting the unfilial
nature of her conduct. At every altar benediction was given to the
kneeling throng, and a regiment of boys beat their drums and sounded
their trumpets shrilly to warn those who were too far away for sight
that the sacred moment had come. It seemed incredible that so small
a place could have supplied so many people, until I remembered what
an American is wont to forget,--that in Auray there were no two
ways of thinking. Spectators, affected or disaffected, there were
none. Everybody old enough and strong enough to walk joined in the
procession; just as everybody at Lourdes joined in the great procession
of the Fête Dieu, when the hundreds were multiplied to thousands, when
the mountain side at dusk seemed on fire with myriads of twinkling
tapers, and the pilgrim chant, plaintive, monotonous, and unmusical,
was borne by the night winds far away over the quiet valley of the Gave.
On these occasions I have been grateful to the happy accident, or
design, that made me a participant in such scenes. But there have been
other days when provincial towns _en fête_ meant the acme of discomfort
for wearied travelers. It was no especial grievance, indeed, that
Compiègne should continue to celebrate the 14th of July long after
it had merged into the 15th, by playing martial airs, and firing off
guns directly under my bedroom window. I felt truly that I should have
been but little better off elsewhere; for there is not a corner of
France, nor a single French dependency, that does not go mad annually
with delight because a rabble destroyed one of the finest fortresses
in Europe. But it did seem hard that we should reach Amiens just when
the combined attractions of the races and a fair had filled that quiet
spot with tumult and commotion. Amiens is not a town that takes kindly
to excitement. It is contemplative in character, and boisterous gayety
sits uneasily upon its tranquil streets. Even the landlady of our very
comfortable hotel appeared to recognize and deplore the incongruity of
the situation. Her house was full to overflowing; her dining-room could
not hold its famished guests; yet, instead of rejoicing, she bewailed
the hungry crowds who had wrecked the harmony of her well-ordered inn.
“If madame had only come two days ago,” she protested, “madame would
then have seen Amiens at its best; and, moreover, she would have been
properly waited on. My servants are trained, they are attentive, they
are polite, they would have taken care that madame had everything
she required. But now! What, then, does madame think of this so sad
disorder?”
Madame assured her she thought the servants were doing all that could
be required of mortal men; and, indeed, these nimble creatures fairly
flew from guest to guest, and from room to room. I never saw one of
them even lapse into a walk. I tried to describe to her the behavior of
domestics in our own land, recalling to memory a sudden invasion of one
of the Yellowstone Park hotels by a band of famished tourists,--their
weary waiting, their humble attitude, their meek appeals for food,
and the stolid indifference of the negro waiters to their most urgent
needs. But this imperious little Frenchwoman merely held up her hands
in horror at such anarchical conduct. A mob of communists engaged in
demolishing the cathedral of Amiens would have seemed less terrible
to her than a mob of servants refusing to wait swiftly upon hungry
travelers. She was so serious in her anxiety for our comfort that her
mind appeared visibly relieved when, on the second day, we decided
that we too were weary of noise and excitement, and would move on that
afternoon to Douai. There, at least, we told ourselves, we should find
the drowsy quiet we desired. The image of the dull old town--which we
had never seen--rose up alluringly before us. We pictured even the
station, tranquil and empty like so many stations in rural France, with
a leisurely little engine sauntering in occasionally, and a solitary
porter roused from his nap, and coming forward, surprised but smiling,
to handle our numerous bags. These pretty fancies soothed our nerves
and beguiled our idle idleness until the three hours’ trip was over,
and Douai was reached at last. Douai! Yes; but Douai in a state of
apparent frenzy, with a surging crowd whose uproar could be heard above
our engine’s shriek,--hundreds of people rushing hither and thither,
climbing into cars, clamoring over friends, laughing, shouting, blowing
trumpets, and behaving generally in a fashion which made Amiens silent
by comparison. For one moment we stood stunned by the noise and
confusion; and then the horrid truth forced itself upon our unwilling
minds: Douai was _en fête_.
We made our way through the throng of people into the square outside
the station, and took counsel briefly with one another. We were tired,
we were hungry, and it was growing late; but should we ignore these
melancholy conditions, and push bravely on for Lille? Lille, says
Baedeker, has “two hundred thousand inhabitants,” and cities of that
size have grown too big for play. We thought of the discomforts which
probably awaited us at Douai in a meagre inn, crowded with noisy
_bourgeois_, and were turning resolutely back, when suddenly there
came the sound of drums playing a gay and martial air, and in another
minute, surrounded by a clamorous mob, the Sire de Gayant and his
family moved slowly into sight.
Thirty feet high was the Sire de Gayant, and his nodding plumes
overtopped the humble roofs by which he passed. His steel breastplate
glittered in the evening sun; his mighty mace looked like a May-pole;
his countenance was grave and stern. The human pygmies by his side
betrayed their insignificance at every step. They ran backward and
forward, making all the foolish noises they could. They rode on
hobby-horses. They played ridiculous antics. They were but children,
after all, gamboling irresponsibly at the feet of their own Titanic
toy. Behind the Sire de Gayant came his wife, in brocaded gown, with
imposing farthingale and stomacher. Pearls wreathed her hair and fell
upon her massive bosom. Earrings a handbreadth in size hung from her
ears, and a fan as big as a fire-screen was held lightly by a silver
chain. Like Lady Corysande, “her approaching mien was full of majesty;”
yet she looked affable and condescending, too, as befitted a dame of
parts and noble birth. Her children manifested in their bearing more of
pride and less of dignity. There was even something theatrical in the
velvet cap and swinging cloak of her only son; and Mademoiselle Gayant
held her head erect in conscious complacency, while her long brown
ringlets fluttered in the breeze.
“Of course the village girls
Who envy me my curls,”
she seemed to murmur as she passed stiffly by.
Happily, however, there was still another member of this
ancient family, more popular and more well beloved than all the
rest,--Mademoiselle Thérèse, “_la petite Binbin_,” who for two
hundred years has been the friend and idol of every child in Douai. A
sprightly and attractive little girl was Mademoiselle Thérèse, barely
eight feet high, and wearing a round cap and spotless pinafore. In
her hand she carried a paper windmill, that antique Douai toy with
which we see the angels and the Holy Innocents amusing themselves in
Bellegambe’s beautiful old picture, the Altar-piece of Anchin. She ran
hither and thither with uncertain footsteps, pausing now and then to
curtsy prettily to some admiring friends in a doorway; and whenever
the pressure of the crowd stopped her progress, the little children
clamored to be held up in their fathers’ arms to kiss her round,
smooth cheeks. One by one they were lifted in the air, and one by one
I saw them put their arms around la Binbin’s neck, and embrace her so
heartily that I wondered how she kept herself clean and uncrumpled amid
these manifold caresses. As she went by, the last of that strange
procession, we moved after her, without another thought of Lille and
its comfortable hotels. Comfort, forsooth! Were we not back in the
fifteenth century, when comfort had still to be invented? Was that not
the Song of Gayant which the drums were beating so gayly? And who yet
ever turned their backs upon Douai when the famous Ranz des Douaisiens
was ringing triumphantly in their ears?
For this little French town, smaller than many a ten-year-old city in
the West, has an ancient and honorable past; and her martial deeds
have been written down on more than one page of her country’s history.
The Fête de Gayant is old; so old that its origin has been lost in an
obscurity which a number of industrious scholars have tried in vain to
penetrate.
“Ce que c’est que Gayant? Ma foi, je n’en sais rien.
Ce que c’est que Gayant? Nul ne le sait en Flandre.”
The popular belief is that a knight of gigantic size fought valorously
in behalf of Douai when the city, spent and crippled, made her splendid
defense against Louis XI., and that his name is still preserved with
gratitude by the people whom he helped to save. Certain it is that the
fête dates from 1479, the year that Louis was repulsed; and whether
or not a real Gayant ever stood upon the walls, there is little doubt
that the procession celebrates that hard-won victory. But the Church
has not been backward in claiming the hero for her own, and identifying
him with St. Maurand, the blessed patron of Douai. St. Maurand, it
is said, fought for the welfare of his town as St. Iago fought for
the glory of Spain; and there is a charming legend to show how keenly
he watched over the people who trusted to his care. In 1556, on the
night following the feast of the Epiphany, Admiral Coligny planned to
surprise the city, which, ignorant of its danger, lay sleeping at the
mercy of its foe. But just as St. George, St. Mark, and St. Nicholas
aroused the old fisherman, and went out into the storm to do battle
with demons for the safety of Venice, so St. Maurand prepared to defeat
the crafty assailant of Douai. At midnight he appeared by the bedside
of the monk whose duty it was to ring the great bells of St. Amé, and
bade him arise and call the brethren to matins. The monk, failing to
recognize the august character of his visitor, protested drowsily that
it was too early, and that, after the fatigue and lengthy devotions of
the feast, it would be but humanity to allow the monastery another hour
of slumber. St. Maurand, however, insisted so sternly and so urgently
that the poor lay brother, seeing no other way to rid himself of
importunity, arose, stumbled into the belfry, and laid his hands upon
the dangling ropes. But hardly had he given them the first faint pull
when, with a mighty vibration, the bells swung to and fro as though
spirits were hurling them through the air. So furiously were they
tossed that the brazen clangor of their tongues rang out into the night
with an intensity of menace that awoke every man in Douai to a swift
recognition of his peril. Soldiers sprang to arms; citizens swarmed
out of their comfortable homes; and while the bells still pealed forth
their terrible summons, those who were first at the defenses saw for
one instant the blessed St. Maurand standing in shining armor on the
ramparts, guarding the city of his adoption as St. Michael guards the
hidden gates of paradise.
So the Church will have it that the knight Gayant is no other than the
holy son of Adalbald; and as for Madame Gayant and her family, who seem
like a questionable encumbrance upon saintship, it is clearly proved
that Gayant had neither wife nor child until 1665, when the good people
of Douai abruptly ended his cheerful days of celibacy. Indeed, there
are historians so lost to all sense of honor and propriety as to insist
that this beloved Titan owes his origin neither to Flemish heroism nor
to the guardianship of saints, but to the efforts made by the Spanish
conquerors of Douai to establish popular pastimes resembling those
of Spain. According to these base-minded antiquarians, Gayant was an
invention of Charles V., who added a variety of pageants to the yearly
procession with which the city celebrated its victory over Louis XI.;
and when the Spaniards were finally driven from the soil, the knight
remained as a popular hero, vaguely associated with earlier deeds of
arms. That he was an object of continual solicitude--and expense--is
proven by a number of entries in the archives of Douai. In 1665,
seven florins were paid to the five men who carried him through the
streets, and twenty pastars to the two boys who danced before him,
to say nothing of an additional outlay of six florins for the white
dancing-shoes provided for them. Moreover, this being his wedding year,
two hundred and eighty-three florins--a large sum for those days--were
spent on Madame Gayant’s gown, besides seventeen florins for her wig,
and over forty florins for her jewels and other decorations. A wife is
ever a costly luxury, but when she chances to be over twenty feet high,
her trousseau becomes a matter for serious consideration. In 1715, the
price of labor having risen, and the knight’s family having increased,
it cost thirty-three florins to carry them in procession, Mademoiselle
Thérèse, who was then too young to walk, being drawn in a wagon,
probably for the first time. The repainting of faces, the repairing of
armor, the replacing of lost pearls or broken fans, are all accounted
for in these careful annals; and it is through them, also, that we
learn how the Church occasionally withdrew her favor from the Sire de
Gayant, and even went so far as to place him under a ban. M. Guy de
Sève, Bishop of Arras, in 1699, and M. Louis François Marc-Hilaire de
Conzié, Bishop of Arras in 1770, were both of the opinion that the fête
had grown too secular, not to say licentious in its character, and, in
spite of clamorous discontent, the procession was sternly prohibited.
But French towns are notably wedded to their idols. Douai never ceased
to love and venerate her gigantic knight; and after a time, perhaps
through the good offices of St. Maurand, he overcame his enemies,
reëstablished his character with the Church, and may be seen to-day, as
we had the happiness of seeing him, carried in triumph through those
ancient streets that welcomed him four hundred years ago.
The Fête de Gayant is not a brief affair, like Guy Fawkes day or the
Fourth of July. It lasts from the 8th of July until the 11th, and is
made the occasion of prolonged rejoicing and festivity. In the public
square, boys are tilting like knights of old, or playing antiquated
games that have descended to them from their forefathers. Greased poles
hung with fluttering prizes tempt the unwary; tiny donkeys, harnessed
and garlanded with flowers, are led around by children; and a discreet
woman in spangled tights sits languidly on a trapeze, waiting for the
sous to be collected before beginning her performance. From this post
of vantage she espies us standing on the outskirts of the crowd, and
sends her little son, a pretty child, brave in gilt and tinsel, to beg
from us.
As it chances, I have given all my sous to earlier petitioners, and I
open my collapsed pocket book to show him how destitute I am. With a
swift corresponding gesture he turns his little tin canister upside
down, and shakes it plaintively, proving that it is even emptier than
my purse. This appeal is irresistible. In the dearth of coppers, a
silver coin is found for him, which his mother promptly acknowledges
by going conscientiously through the whole of her slender répertoire.
Meanwhile, the child chatters fluently with us. He travels all the
time, he tells us, and has been to Italy and Switzerland. His father
can speak Italian and a little English. He likes the English people
best of all,--a compliment to our supposed nationality; they are the
richest, most generous, most charming and beautiful ladies in the
world. He says this, looking, not at my companions, who in some sort
merit the eulogium, but straight at me, with a robust guile that is
startling in its directness. I have given the franc. To me is due the
praise. Poor little lad! It must be a precarious and slender income
earned by that jaded mother, even in time of fête; for provincial
France, though on pleasure bent, hath, like Mrs. Gilpin, a very frugal
mind. She does not fling money about with British prodigality, nor
consume gallons of beer with German thirst, nor sink her scanty savings
in lottery tickets with Italian fatuity. No, she drinks her single
glass of wine, or cider, or syrup and water, and looks placidly at all
that may be seen for nothing, and experiences the joys of temperance.
She knows that her strength lies in husbanding her resources, and that
vast are the powers of thrift.
Meanwhile, each day brings its allotted diversions. Gayly decorated
little boats are sailing on the Scarpe, and fancying themselves a
regatta. Archers are contesting for prizes in the Place St. Amé, where,
hundreds of years ago, their forefathers winged their heavy bolts.
A _carrousel vélocipédique_ is to be followed by a ball; carrier
pigeons are being freed in the Place Carnot; a big balloon is to
ascend from the esplanade; and excellent concerts are played every
afternoon in the pretty Jardin des Plantes. It is hard to make choice
among so many attractions, especially as two days out of the four the
Sire de Gayant and his family march through the streets, and draw us
irresistibly after them. But we see the archers, and the pigeons, and
the balloon, which takes three hours to get ready, and three minutes
to be out of sight, carrying away in its car a grizzled aeronaut,
and an adventurous young woman who embraces all her friends with
dramatic fervor, and unfurls the flag of France as she ascends, to the
unutterable admiration of the crowd. We hear a concert, also, sitting
comfortably in the shade, and thinking how pleasant it would be to have
a glass of beer to help the music along. But the natural affinity,
the close and enduring friendship between music and beer which the
Germans understand so well, the French have yet to discover. They are
learning to drink this noble beverage--in small doses--and to forgive
it its Teutonic flavor. I have seen half a dozen men sitting in front
of a restaurant at Lille or at Rouen, each with a tiny glass of beer
before him; but I have never beheld it poured generously out to the
thunderous accompaniment of a band. Even at Marseilles, where, faithful
to destiny, we encountered a musical fête so big and grand that three
hotels rejected us, and the cabmen asked five francs an hour,--even
amid this tumult of sweet sounds, from which there was no escaping, we
failed ignominiously when we sought to hearten ourselves to a proper
state of receptivity with beer.
At the Douai concerts no one dreamed of drinking anything. The
townspeople sat in decorous little groups under the trees, talking
furtively when the loudness of the clarionets permitted them, and
reserving their enthusiastic applause for the Chant de Gayant, with
which, as in honor bound, each entertainment came to a close. Young
girls, charmingly dressed, lingered by their mothers’ sides, never even
lifting their dark eyes to note the fine self-appreciation of the men
who passed them. If they spoke at all, it was in fluttering whispers
to one another; if they looked at anything, it was at one another’s
gowns. They are seldom pretty, these sallow daughters of France; yet,
like Gautier’s Carmen, their ugliness has in it a grain of salt from
that ocean out of which Venus rose. No girls in the whole wide world
lead duller lives than theirs. They have neither the pleasures of a
large town nor the freedom of a little one. They may not walk with
young companions, even of their own sex. They may not so much as to go
church alone. Novels, romances, poetry, plays, operas, all things that
could stimulate their imaginations and lift them out of the monotonous
routine of life, are sternly prohibited. Perpetual espionage forbids
the healthy growth of character and faculty, which demand some freedom
and solitude for development. The strict seclusion of a convent school
is exchanged for a colorless routine of small duties and smaller
pleasures. And yet these young girls, bound hand and foot by the
narrowest conventionalities, are neither foolish nor insipid. A dawning
intelligence, finer than humored precocity can ever show, sits on each
tranquil brow. When they speak, it is with propriety and grace. In the
restrained alertness of their brown eyes, in their air of simplicity
and self-command, in the instinctive elegance of their dress, one
may read, plainly written, the subtle possibilities of the future.
That offensive and meaningless phrase, the woman problem, is seldom
heard in France, where all problems solve themselves more readily than
elsewhere. Midway between the affectionate subservience of German wives
and daughters and the gay arrogance of our own, with more self-reliance
than the English, and a clearer understanding of their position than
all the other three have ever grasped, Frenchwomen find little need to
wrangle for privileges which they may easily command. The resources
of tact and good taste are well-nigh infinite, and to them is added
a capacity for administration and affairs which makes the French
gentleman respect his wife’s judgment, and places the French shopkeeper
at the mercy of his spouse. In whatever walk of life these young
provincial girls are destined to tread, they will have no afflicting
doubts as to the limits of their usefulness. They will probably never
even pause to ask themselves what men would do without them, nor to
point a lesson vaingloriously from the curious fact that Douai gave
Gayant a wife.
CAKES AND ALE.
“The Muses smell of wine.”