One cannot but regret that in most parts of France to-day, the
picturesque costumes of the peasants are almost a thing of the past. In
out-of-the-way districts, it is true, they still linger here and there,
but they have to be searched for, as a rule, to be seen.
"_Ah! ces jolies costumes sont perdues_," said the manageress of our
hotel at Poitiers, and she assured us they were only now to be found
far away in the country. However, we discovered a few examples at
market time in the city. Some of the caps fit close to the head, and
have a frill round the face. The opportunity for a little individuality
in pattern occurs at the back, where is the fullness and body of the
cap. Some again consist only of a plain fold of linen, and boast two
long streamers at the back; while others have the added dignity of a
high peak (as given in picture,) which always confers a certain air
upon its wearer, "an air of distinguishment" which impresses itself
always upon the beholder.
The long, striped, navy-blue blouses which the men affect here, reach
to below the knees, and are loose and open at the neck. Over them they
wear, in bad weather, the invariable loose black cape with pointed
hood drawn over the head. I saw one or two blouses of soft lilac silk,
fastened at the neck with quaintly shaped little silver buckles.
A French market is the purgatory of the innocent.
This was ruthlessly shewn forth on market day at Poitiers. The
squealing, the clucking, the squawking are unceasing and insistent
everywhere. No one can fail to hear them. But it requires the quiet,
observant, sympathetic eye to see the other, less evident, forms of
distress. By means of this last, however, one sees the mute suffering
in the eyes of the turkeys, for instance. Sometimes a turkey would be
blinking hard with one eye, while the lid of the other rose miserably
every now and again. While I was standing by, some passing boy, with
fiendish cruelty, set his dog at a pair of turkeys lying close at his
feet, helpless and terrified, their feet tied tightly together. At a
little distance off I could see one of these unhappy creatures hanging
head downwards, its poor limp wing being brushed roughly and jerked
carelessly by all who passed that way.
Then there were the rabbits. What words could describe the excruciating
panic to which they are subjected, when one remembers their timidity
and nervousness in a wild state. No worse misery could be devised for
them than the prodding and punching and tossing up and down which they
receive on all hands as they await, amidst the babel of noise around
them, their last fate. The only members of the dumb creation who seemed
fairly indifferent to their surroundings, and indeed to regard them
with a certain grim humour, were the ducks. Everyone is aware that
there exists in France the equivalent of our Society for Prevention
of Cruelty to Animals, but my experience convinced me that it is not
_nearly_ so energetic as is our own society.
Many of the men were shouting their loudest at the stalls over which
they presided. One, I noticed, who offered for sale a curious little
collection of odds and ends was proclaiming their value thus:--
"_Voila! toute la service--Toute la Séminée! Tous les articles! Tous
les articles!_"
Another was crying out, "_Toute la soir!_" as he lifted on high a
bundle of coloured measures.
The "coloured end" of the market was undeniably the fruit and vegetable
stalls. There, side by side, everywhere one's eye roamed, lay long
sticks of celery, cooked brown pears, little flat straw baskets
full of neat little, bright green broccoli; the soft olive green of
the heart shaped leaves of the fig throwing into vivid contrast the
delicate peach and tawny brown of the _déneufles_ (medlars). Here,
the deep flaring orange of the sliced _citronne_ would jostle the cool
white, veined, and unobtrusive green of a neighbouring leek, its long,
trailing roots lying on the counter like unravelled string. There,
would be the _céleri rave_ with its round, bulgy, cream-coloured stumps
exchanging contrasts with the deep myrtle tint of the crinkled leaves,
puckered and rugged, of a certain species of broccoli.
All around reigned a pandemonium of sound. Upon a cart close to the
grey old church of Notre Dame, stood a woman singing "_Des Chants
Républicans_," to the accompaniment of a concertina. Her audience was
mixed, and somewhat inattentive. It consisted of soldiers, market
women, children, all jabbering, jostling, laughing, and singing little
catchy bits of the song. Overhead was a gigantic, brilliant red
umbrella. The whole scene was fenced by market carts of all sizes and
shapes whose coverings presented to the eye every variety of green
linen.
The Church of Notre Dame has three magnificent doorways, full of the
most exquisite design and moulding, in perfect preservation. Indeed
the whole outward presentment of the church is exceedingly fine, so
that one is sensible of keen disappointment, when, on going inside,
one is confronted with painted pillars and tawdry, artificial flowers
flaunting everywhere. The singing here is very inferior to that which
we heard in the churches of Bordeaux; and in neither Notre Dame, nor
the cathedral, was the great organ used at High Mass, nor at Vespers.
During the service of Vespers at which I was present, one of the
priests played the harmonium, surrounded by a number of choir boys.
Whenever it seemed to him that some boy was not attending, he would
strike a note, reiteratingly, until he managed to catch that boy's eye,
when he frowned in reproof. It was a case of the many suffering because
of the misdoings of the one! One of the oldest of the smaller churches
at Poitiers is that of St. Parchaise. This church, I found, is kept
open all night, and a stove kept burning during the winter months, for
the sake of the aged and infirm poor, who have no other refuge.
When I went in at five in the afternoon, it was already growing dark,
and a priest was just lighting the lamps; the stove had already
comfortably warmed the building, and I could see sitting about in
obscure corners, old peasant women. Others were standing quietly before
some pictures, or kneeling before a side altar.
By far the most interesting building to the antiquary in Poitiers,
is the curious old Baptistery de St. Jean, dating back to the fourth
century. It is filled with old stone tombs of the seventh or eighth
century, and some as early as the sixth. Upon one of the latter is
the inscription: "_Ferro cinetus filius launone_." On another was:
"_Aeternalis et servilla vivatisiendo_." I noticed a curious double
tomb for a man and a woman: in length about five feet. Père Camille de
la Croix discovered this baptistery, and was instrumental in having it
preserved, and the tombs carefully examined.
Père Camille himself is one of those striking personalities at whose
presence the great dead past lights its torch, and once more stands,
a living power, before the eyes of the present. Such a personality
breathes upon the dry bones beside our path to-day, and they rise from
silent oblivion and lay their arresting hands upon our sleeves.
He is a splendid-looking old man, with long white beard and eyes that
are living fires of energy and enthusiasm. When I first met him, he
was sitting cataloguing MSS at a side table, in the _musée_, in a
very minute, neat handwriting, sombrero on head. I stayed talking to
him for some little time, and amongst other things, he said rather
bitterly, "The monuments and baptistery belonged to France; if they
had belonged to Poitiers they'd have been destroyed long ago." I had
made a few little rough sketches of the tombs, and as he turned over
the leaves of my sketch-book to tell me the probable dates of each,
he gave vent to a resounding "_Hurr--!_" and pursed his lips together.
When I mentioned that I had been told by someone that he spoke three
languages, he said decisively and emphatically, "_Il dit faux_."
He lives in a curious, high, narrow house by the river, with small
windows and iron gates; and the greater part of his time is given up
to the deciphering of old manuscripts, and writing records of them;
records which will be an invaluable gift to posterity.