IN THE VALLEY OF THE TARN
A NEW road leads from Pont de Montvert to Florac by the valley of
the Tarn; a smooth sandy ledge, it runs about half-way between the
summit of the cliffs and the river in the bottom of the valley; and
I went in and out, as I followed it, from bays of shadow into
promontories of afternoon sun. This was a pass like that of
Killiecrankie; a deep turning gully in the hills, with the Tarn
making a wonderful hoarse uproar far below, and craggy summits
standing in the sunshine high above. A thin fringe of ash-trees
ran about the hill-tops, like ivy on a ruin; but on the lower
slopes, and far up every glen, the Spanish chestnut-trees stood
each four-square to heaven under its tented foliage. Some were
planted, each on its own terrace no larger than a bed; some,
trusting in their roots, found strength to grow and prosper and be
straight and large upon the rapid slopes of the valley; others,
where there was a margin to the river, stood marshalled in a line
and mighty like cedars of Lebanon. Yet even where they grew most
thickly they were not to be thought of as a wood, but as a herd of
stalwart individuals; and the dome of each tree stood forth
separate and large, and as it were a little hill, from among the
domes of its companions. They gave forth a faint sweet perfume
which pervaded the air of the afternoon; autumn had put tints of
gold and tarnish in the green; and the sun so shone through and
kindled the broad foliage, that each chestnut was relieved against
another, not in shadow, but in light. A humble sketcher here laid
down his pencil in despair.
I wish I could convey a notion of the growth of these noble trees;
of how they strike out boughs like the oak, and trail sprays of
drooping foliage like the willow; of how they stand on upright
fluted columns like the pillars of a church; or like the olive,
from the most shattered bole can put out smooth and youthful
shoots, and begin a new life upon the ruins of the old. Thus they
partake of the nature of many different trees; and even their
prickly top-knots, seen near at hand against the sky, have a
certain palm-like air that impresses the imagination. But their
individuality, although compounded of so many elements, is but the
richer and the more original. And to look down upon a level filled
with these knolls of foliage, or to see a clan of old unconquerable
chestnuts cluster 'like herded elephants' upon the spur of a
mountain, is to rise to higher thoughts of the powers that are in
Nature.
Between Modestine's laggard humour and the beauty of the scene, we
made little progress all that afternoon; and at last finding the
sun, although still far from setting, was already beginning to
desert the narrow valley of the Tarn, I began to cast about for a
place to camp in. This was not easy to find; the terraces were too
narrow, and the ground, where it was unterraced, was usually too
steep for a man to lie upon. I should have slipped all night, and
awakened towards morning with my feet or my head in the river.
After perhaps a mile, I saw, some sixty feet above the road, a
little plateau large enough to hold my sack, and securely parapeted
by the trunk of an aged and enormous chestnut. Thither, with
infinite trouble, I goaded and kicked the reluctant Modestine, and
there I hastened to unload her. There was only room for myself
upon the plateau, and I had to go nearly as high again before I
found so much as standing-room for the ass. It was on a heap of
rolling stones, on an artificial terrace, certainly not five feet
square in all. Here I tied her to a chestnut, and having given her
corn and bread and made a pile of chestnut-leaves, of which I found
her greedy, I descended once more to my own encampment.
The position was unpleasantly exposed. One or two carts went by
upon the road; and as long as daylight lasted I concealed myself,
for all the world like a hunted Camisard, behind my fortification
of vast chestnut trunk; for I was passionately afraid of discovery
and the visit of jocular persons in the night. Moreover, I saw
that I must be early awake; for these chestnut gardens had been the
scene of industry no further gone than on the day before. The
slope was strewn with lopped branches, and here and there a great
package of leaves was propped against a trunk; for even the leaves
are serviceable, and the peasants use them in winter by way of
fodder for their animals. I picked a meal in fear and trembling,
half lying down to hide myself from the road; and I daresay I was
as much concerned as if I had been a scout from Joani's band above
upon the Lozere, or from Salomon's across the Tarn, in the old
times of psalm-singing and blood. Or, indeed, perhaps more; for
the Camisards had a remarkable confidence in God; and a tale comes
back into my memory of how the Count of Gevaudan, riding with a
party of dragoons and a notary at his saddlebow to enforce the oath
of fidelity in all the country hamlets, entered a valley in the
woods, and found Cavalier and his men at dinner, gaily seated on
the grass, and their hats crowned with box-tree garlands, while
fifteen women washed their linen in the stream. Such was a field
festival in 1703; at that date Antony Watteau would be painting
similar subjects.
This was a very different camp from that of the night before in the
cool and silent pine-woods. It was warm and even stifling in the
valley. The shrill song of frogs, like the tremolo note of a
whistle with a pea in it, rang up from the river-side before the
sun was down. In the growing dusk, faint rustlings began to run to
and fro among the fallen leaves; from time to time a faint chirping
or cheeping noise would fall upon my ear; and from time to time I
thought I could see the movement of something swift and indistinct
between the chestnuts. A profusion of large ants swarmed upon the
ground; bats whisked by, and mosquitoes droned overhead. The long
boughs with their bunches of leaves hung against the sky like
garlands; and those immediately above and around me had somewhat
the air of a trellis which should have been wrecked and half
overthrown in a gale of wind.
Sleep for a long time fled my eyelids; and just as I was beginning
to feel quiet stealing over my limbs, and settling densely on my
mind, a noise at my head startled me broad awake again, and, I will
frankly confess it, brought my heart into my mouth.
It was such a noise as a person would make scratching loudly with a
finger-nail; it came from under the knapsack which served me for a
pillow, and it was thrice repeated before I had time to sit up and
turn about. Nothing was to be seen, nothing more was to be heard,
but a few of these mysterious rustlings far and near, and the
ceaseless accompaniment of the river and the frogs. I learned next
day that the chestnut gardens are infested by rats; rustling,
chirping, and scraping were probably all due to these; but the
puzzle, for the moment, was insoluble, and I had to compose myself
for sleep, as best I could, in wondering uncertainty about my
neighbours.
I was wakened in the grey of the morning (Monday, 30th September)
by the sound of foot-steps not far off upon the stones, and opening
my eyes, I beheld a peasant going by among the chestnuts by a
footpath that I had not hitherto observed. He turned his head
neither to the right nor to the left, and disappeared in a few
strides among the foliage. Here was an escape! But it was plainly
more than time to be moving. The peasantry were abroad; scarce
less terrible to me in my nondescript position than the soldiers of
Captain Poul to an undaunted Camisard. I fed Modestine with what
haste I could; but as I was returning to my sack, I saw a man and a
boy come down the hillside in a direction crossing mine. They
unintelligibly hailed me, and I replied with inarticulate but
cheerful sounds, and hurried forward to get into my gaiters.
The pair, who seemed to be father and son, came slowly up to the
plateau, and stood close beside me for some time in silence. The
bed was open, and I saw with regret my revolver lying patently
disclosed on the blue wool. At last, after they had looked me all
over, and the silence had grown laughably embarrassing, the man
demanded in what seemed unfriendly tones:
'You have slept here?'
'Yes,' said I. 'As you see.'
'Why?' he asked.
'My faith,' I answered lightly, 'I was tired.'
He next inquired where I was going and what I had had for dinner;
and then, without the least transition, 'C'EST BIEN,' he added,
'come along.' And he and his son, without another word, turned off
to the next chestnut-tree but one, which they set to pruning. The
thing had passed of more simply than I hoped. He was a grave,
respectable man; and his unfriendly voice did not imply that he
thought he was speaking to a criminal, but merely to an inferior.
I was soon on the road, nibbling a cake of chocolate and seriously
occupied with a case of conscience. Was I to pay for my night's
lodging? I had slept ill, the bed was full of fleas in the shape
of ants, there was no water in the room, the very dawn had
neglected to call me in the morning. I might have missed a train,
had there been any in the neighbourhood to catch. Clearly, I was
dissatisfied with my entertainment; and I decided I should not pay
unless I met a beggar.
The valley looked even lovelier by morning; and soon the road
descended to the level of the river. Here, in a place where many
straight and prosperous chestnuts stood together, making an aisle
upon a swarded terrace, I made my morning toilette in the water of
the Tarn. It was marvellously clear, thrillingly cool; the soap-
suds disappeared as if by magic in the swift current, and the white
boulders gave one a model for cleanliness. To wash in one of God's
rivers in the open air seems to me a sort of cheerful solemnity or
semi-pagan act of worship. To dabble among dishes in a bedroom may
perhaps make clean the body; but the imagination takes no share in
such a cleansing. I went on with a light and peaceful heart, and
sang psalms to the spiritual ear as I advanced.
Suddenly up came an old woman, who point-blank demanded alms.
'Good,' thought I; 'here comes the waiter with the bill.'
And I paid for my night's lodging on the spot. Take it how you
please, but this was the first and the last beggar that I met with
during all my tour.
A step or two farther I was overtaken by an old man in a brown
nightcap, clear-eyed, weather-beaten, with a faint excited smile.
A little girl followed him, driving two sheep and a goat; but she
kept in our wake, while the old man walked beside me and talked
about the morning and the valley. It was not much past six; and
for healthy people who have slept enough, that is an hour of
expansion and of open and trustful talk.
'CONNAISSEZ-VOUS LE SEIGNEUR?' he said at length.
I asked him what Seigneur he meant; but he only repeated the
question with more emphasis and a look in his eyes denoting hope
and interest.
'Ah,' said I, pointing upwards, 'I understand you now. Yes, I know
Him; He is the best of acquaintances.'
The old man said he was delighted. 'Hold,' he added, striking his
bosom; 'it makes me happy here.' There were a few who knew the
Lord in these valleys, he went on to tell me; not many, but a few.
'Many are called.' he quoted, 'and few chosen.'
'My father,' said I, 'it is not easy to say who know the Lord; and
it is none of our business. Protestants and Catholics, and even
those who worship stones, may know Him and be known by Him; for He
has made all.'
I did not know I was so good a preacher.
The old man assured me he thought as I did, and repeated his
expressions of pleasure at meeting me. 'We are so few,' he said.
'They call us Moravians here; but down in the Department of Gard,
where there are also a good number, they are called Derbists, after
an English pastor.'
I began to understand that I was figuring, in questionable taste,
as a member of some sect to me unknown; but I was more pleased with
the pleasure of my companion than embarrassed by my own equivocal
position. Indeed, I can see no dishonesty in not avowing a
difference; and especially in these high matters, where we have all
a sufficient assurance that, whoever may be in the wrong, we
ourselves are not completely in the right. The truth is much
talked about; but this old man in a brown nightcap showed himself
so simple, sweet, and friendly, that I am not unwilling to profess
myself his convert. He was, as a matter of fact, a Plymouth
Brother. Of what that involves in the way of doctrine I have no
idea nor the time to inform myself; but I know right well that we
are all embarked upon a troublesome world, the children of one
Father, striving in many essential points to do and to become the
same. And although it was somewhat in a mistake that he shook
hands with me so often and showed himself so ready to receive my
words, that was a mistake of the truth-finding sort. For charity
begins blindfold; and only through a series of similar
misapprehensions rises at length into a settled principle of love
and patience, and a firm belief in all our fellow-men. If I
deceived this good old man, in the like manner I would willingly go
on to deceive others. And if ever at length, out of our separate
and sad ways, we should all come together into one common house, I
have a hope, to which I cling dearly, that my mountain Plymouth
Brother will hasten to shake hands with me again.
Thus, talking like Christian and Faithful by the way, he and I came
down upon a hamlet by the Tarn. It was but a humble place, called
La Vernede, with less than a dozen houses, and a Protestant chapel
on a knoll. Here he dwelt; and here, at the inn, I ordered my
breakfast. The inn was kept by an agreeable young man, a stone-
breaker on the road, and his sister, a pretty and engaging girl.
The village schoolmaster dropped in to speak with the stranger.
And these were all Protestants - a fact which pleased me more than
I should have expected; and, what pleased me still more, they
seemed all upright and simple people. The Plymouth Brother hung
round me with a sort of yearning interest, and returned at least
thrice to make sure I was enjoying my meal. His behaviour touched
me deeply at the time, and even now moves me in recollection. He
feared to intrude, but he would not willingly forego one moment of
my society; and he seemed never weary of shaking me by the hand.
When all the rest had drifted off to their day's work, I sat for
near half an hour with the young mistress of the house, who talked
pleasantly over her seam of the chestnut harvest, and the beauties
of the Tarn, and old family affections, broken up when young folk
go from home, yet still subsisting. Hers, I am sure, was a sweet
nature, with a country plainness and much delicacy underneath; and
he who takes her to his heart will doubtless be a fortunate young
man.
The valley below La Vernede pleased me more and more as I went
forward. Now the hills approached from either hand, naked and
crumbling, and walled in the river between cliffs; and now the
valley widened and became green. The road led me past the old
castle of Miral on a steep; past a battlemented monastery, long
since broken up and turned into a church and parsonage; and past a
cluster of black roofs, the village of Cocures, sitting among
vineyards, and meadows, and orchards thick with red apples, and
where, along the highway, they were knocking down walnuts from the
roadside trees, and gathering them in sacks and baskets. The
hills, however much the vale might open, were still tall and bare,
with cliffy battlements and here and there a pointed summit; and
the Tarn still rattled through the stones with a mountain noise. I
had been led, by bagmen of a picturesque turn of mind, to expect a
horrific country after the heart of Byron; but to my Scottish eyes
it seemed smiling and plentiful, as the weather still gave an
impression of high summer to my Scottish body; although the
chestnuts were already picked out by the autumn, and the poplars,
that here began to mingle with them, had turned into pale gold
against the approach of winter.
There was something in this landscape, smiling although wild, that
explained to me the spirit of the Southern Covenanters. Those who
took to the hills for conscience' sake in Scotland had all gloomy
and bedevilled thoughts; for once that they received God's comfort
they would be twice engaged with Satan; but the Camisards had only
bright and supporting visions. They dealt much more in blood, both
given and taken; yet I find no obsession of the Evil One in their
records. With a light conscience, they pursued their life in these
rough times and circumstances. The soul of Seguier, let us not
forget, was like a garden. They knew they were on God's side, with
a knowledge that has no parallel among the Scots; for the Scots,
although they might be certain of the cause, could never rest
confident of the person.
'We flew,' says one old Camisard, 'when we heard the sound of
psalm-singing, we flew as if with wings. We felt within us an
animating ardour, a transporting desire. The feeling cannot be
expressed in words. It is a thing that must have been experienced
to be understood. However weary we might be, we thought no more of
our weariness, and grew light so soon as the psalms fell upon our
ears.'
The valley of the Tarn and the people whom I met at La Vernede not
only explain to me this passage, but the twenty years of suffering
which those, who were so stiff and so bloody when once they betook
themselves to war, endured with the meekness of children and the
constancy of saints and peasants.
