Works of Ellen Wood

by Ellen Wood

  CHAPTER X

  “Thrice blest whose lives are faithful prayers,

  Whose loves in higher love endure;

  What souls possess themselves so pure,

  Or is there blessedness like theirs?”

  BUT the scene changed sometimes. They would leave home for occasional visits into neighbouring lands: more often than not Savoie or Switzerland. Mrs. Henry Wood specially delighted in the mountains, valleys, and lakes of the smaller country; and all the charming scenes around Chambery were explored. The place itself, with its quaint arcades and ancient fountains, knew her well. Amongst and the rare beauties of the country might sink into heart and memory.

  The scenery was often wild in the extreme. Wonderful mountains towered on all sides, and many a pass tried the mettle of the horses. Often the river rushed past them, frothing and foaming over its rocky bed. Smiling valleys opened out, with picturesque farmhouses and cultivated fields, in which the peasants worked from sunrise to sunset, with no interests beyond; to whom the outer world was as distant as the stars, as unknown and mysterious. They tended their cattle and sought their goats and cows on the mountain side, and towards evening many a ranz des vaches rose musically upon the air. The greatest change to-day is in the people themselves — their occupations are much the same; mountains, valleys and rivers have not altered; but even in these remote districts the country folk have become less primitive, more awake to their own interests. The outer world is no longer a sealed mystery, far off as the stars.

  One day Mr and Mrs. Wood were walking on the road to Mouxy in one of their numerous excursions near Aix-les-Bains, when they lighted upon a group of reapers resting for a moment from their labour. They looked simple, picturesque and interesting, more or less young, five or six in all. The women wore bodices and short petticoats, very much like the costumes of the sister country, their feet, encased in small wooden sabots, displaying neat, well-turned ankles. The men wore breeches, with broad belts at their waists, and having thrown jackets aside were in shirt sleeves.

  The group looked so shyly and wistfully at our travellers that, even had it not been their custom to stop and exchange sentences with many who crossed their path, they must have done so on this occasion. They were not only an interesting, but a handsome group, who had just taken their midday meal on the roadside bank, beyond which lay the rich, ripe cornfields, and were making the most of their short leisure. As the travellers paused, they rose, and the men doffed their broad-brimmed hats, baring dark curly heads, with a “Bon jour, monsieur et dame,” in the dialect of the neighbourhood.

  The greeting was duly returned. “It is your leisure hour?” added Mrs. Wood. “You have been taking your dinner, and are now resting?”

  “Yes,” they replied. “They had eaten their soup, and were allowed half an hour’s repose after it. It wasn’t too much for those who rose at four in the morning, and began work at sunrise.”

  “You must often be more than tired before night comes,” was the rejoinder.

  “We are used to it,” returned the spokeswoman of the party — a tall, handsome Savoyarde, with a sunburnt face and dark eyes. “Work does not tire us; we rise early, but we go to bed early — often before the sun goes down. And we have all Sunday for reposing. We never work on Sunday.”

  “You are married,” said Mrs. Wood, observing a wedding-ring upon the woman’s finger.

  “Oui, Madame. I was foolish enough to marry ten years ago, when I was only seventeen. And here is the man who persuaded me to the folly.” She grasped her husband’s arm, who stood near her, and turned him towards her questioner.

  “I am not surprised,” laughed Mrs. Wood. “He is very handsome. I hope he is good too, and makes you a kind husband.”

  “I cannot complain,” returned the woman, who seemed proud of her husband. “He works well, and is industrious.”

  “Madame had better ask if she makes me a good wife,” said the man. “That is a much more important matter, Rosalie.”

  “Madame can judge for herself,” laughed Rosalie confidently. “It is needless to ask. Madame,” turning to her questioner, “there is not a cleaner and more comfortable chaumiere than ours, and no one wears better clothes than we do. We are the envy of the village. We save, too, and have some economies put by. Yet we always have meat on Sundays when we want it.”

  “Have you any children?”

  “Two little angels, Madame, six and eight years old, a boy and a girl, and the boy is the eldest. They stay with the old mother, who looks after them when we are working in the fields. Presently, when we grow aged and cannot work, if we have not saved enough they will work for us. Children never forsake their parents in our village.”

  “And you,” said Mrs. Wood, turning to the younger woman, still quite a girl; “you probably live at home with your mother, and help with the manage.”

  “Ah, Madame,” returned the elder woman, “you have guessed, but you have not guessed all. She lives with la mére, and helps with the manage when there is no sowing or reaping or weeding going on; but she is not content with her happy life. She is my sister, and is ten years younger than I. That is just the age when I married, and she is about to commit the same imprudence — with less excuse. My husband was handsome and hard-working — no one could resist him. But, Thomme de la soeur — there he stands,” pointing to a small but good-looking youth of some twenty years, whose chief characteristic seemed an amiably weak expression. “There he is, Madame; jugez.”

  The girl laughed, and seemed satisfied. “You cannot blame me for doing what you did yourself,” she remarked to her elder sister. “And there is no need to look on the dark side of things.”

  “Not at all,” cried the young man, whose name was Francois. “When I marry, and life becomes serious, I shall be as industrious as your Marius, our chaumiere as well kept as yours. Madame, I shall do my duty, and Jeanne will have no cause to repent.”

  “When are you to be married?” asked Mrs. Wood, interested in this modem Phyllis and Corydon.

  “At the St. Martin,” replied Jeanne. “It is our Ducasse, and we shall take a week’s holiday, and spend part of it at Chambery, where Francois has an uncle living. We shall be happy and have the needful,” she cried, with the hopefulness of youth. “I am not afraid.”

  “Marius?” said Mrs. Wood, turning to the husband. “I heard you called Marius. But that is a Marseilles name, is it not? I do not remember to have met with it before in Savoie.”

  “Very probably, Madame,” returned Marius. “My mother was a Marseillaise. She came to Savoie with a noble family as femme de chambre to the lady. Here she met my father and married him; and when I was born she would insist upon calling me Marius. ‘He will be as out of place as a crab on dry land,’ said my father; ‘I don’t believe there is a single Marius in Savoie. People will call him an alien.’

  ‘Not at all,’ returned the mother; ‘he will set the fashion.’ But no other Marius has sprung up — the name won’t take root here. And my mother wouldn’t take root. With all her will, she couldn’t help fretting after her own town and people; the love was stronger than herself, and, though she was happy with her husband, after three or four years, one fine morning, she quietly sat down in her chair and died.”

  “Died! So suddenly? Of what?”

  “Of mal du pays,” returned Marius simply. “She is not the first one who has died of the complaint, Madame. It is common enough in our country. The doctor pretended it was the heart, and so it was, but not just in the way he meant. Not that I should die of the same. I could be happy anywhere — with the wife.”

  So here too was a humble romance, of which the world is full. It appealed to Mrs. Wood, and henceforth the little group had a place in her memory. Her sympathies went out to the woman who had died more than twenty years ago of love for her people. In the imagination of the listener a romance weaved itself; here was a life that had been an unwritten poem.

  Sometimes they would extend their walk into the heights, a qu
iet, sure-footed pony helping Mrs. Wood through the fatigue of climbing. Amidst the unmelted snows they would come upon a small village, wonderfully out of the world. Nothing could be more beautiful and romantic, more suggestive than this cluster of houses, for which the cold of winter and the heat of summer marked the sole calendar of the year. Often the patois of such a village puzzled even Mr. Wood, whose quick ear had soon mastered very many of the provincialisms surrounding his foreign home. The inhabitants of these elevated abodes were in the last degree primitive, life being kept together by the simplest and barest necessaries. But the religious element was ever present amongst them, and at eventide the Angelus bell never failed to ring out from the tiny church scarcely any village was without, and all the people would turn to prayer. To Mrs. Wood, with her responsive, reverent nature, there was something very moving in the faith of this simple people, who worshipped and never questioned, and in great measure carried out their religion in the quiet consistency of their lives; without aspirations, it is true; with no certainty beyond the day, but no undue or anxious thought for the morrow; simply trusting for the supply of their daily needs. How was it possible not to be deeply interested in all human concerns, when such evidences of good abounded?

  The incident we have given may be thought almost too trifling for record, but it is an instance of much of what Mrs. Wood’s life then was, and as such fulfils the purpose of these pages and cannot be uninteresting. Through such scenes she was constantly passing; with such characters and events she came into frequent contact; no doubt gaining experience, extending her knowledge of human nature, just as the bee flies from flower to flower extracting honey. She entered into all the society of the neighbourhood; enjoying it, but never developing into a mere lover of fashion — a woman of the world. That could never have been; life was at all times too serious and earnest — its issues too momentous; and as the bee takes its best from the flower, so she managed to take the best from her surroundings.

  It was a very active life in those days; as much so as when, in later years, she began to write and found she had not strength both for work and the world, it became comparatively quiet and retired. But by that time she had had a long and varied experience, had seen society in all its phases, and gathered up mental pictures for use. These her memory placed entirely at her command.

  She became interested in the little group of which we have been writing. Their village was near at hand; and that evening in their walk they found them out and entered into closer acquaintance with their histories.

  The old mother was seen, and the two cherubs. The dame was bowed and wrinkled, and seemed to have lived a hard life, which was the general rule; but with it all she looked placid and contented — an expression so many of the French peasants possess when the evening of life is closing round them. Her little thatched cottage, with its two rooms — a but and a ben, as the Scotch would say — was clean and spotless. Its outside walls might have been white-washed once a week — another prominent mark of the peasantry. If they possess any self-respect, or wish to be well considered, their first thought is to have an irreproachable tenement, however humble. And it is thorough; if the outside be fair to look upon, depend upon it the interior is equally so. The inmates of an untidy house are held in small esteem. It is astonishing how much pride in their own little way distinguishes the best of them.

  This old woman, evidently very poor, was as neat and clean in her dress as her walls were unblemished. She felt honoured by the notice given her by visitors, but, like most of her class, was not overwhelmed. In France there is no antagonism between the classes, but, on the contrary, an amicable feeling — a bien entendu which makes intercourse very possible and pleasant. The Lady Bountiful is less visible than in England. She is less needed, for the peasantry are industrious and saving, and generally fall into poverty only through some serious fault, such as dishonesty or idleness, both exceptions to the rule. The great lady of the chateau, therefore, visits them less to minister to their wants than because she takes a lively interest in their welfare.

  “Monsieur et Madame were very good to visit her,” said the old woman, coming out of her chimney-corner, where she was building up a peat fire which threw out a delicious scent suggestive of quiet neighbourhoods. “There were not many gentlefolk in the voisinage to take an interest in them. Monsieur and Madame de Pierrefond at the chateau were both too old now to go about much. Yes, her daughter was going to be married, though she might have waited until her old mother was under earth. You see, her husband died when Jeanne was a baby, and she had had nothing else to care for all these years — her other daughter married soon. But it was the way with young people; their mothers and grandmothers had done the same before them; it was hereditary. On s’y attendait. And after all it would be very nearly the same as before. Jeanne was going to have the house next door, and it would be almost as one manage. She would still help her old mother. A good girl would make a good wife, and no doubt she would always be a daughter to her.”

  And with words of sympathy for the old woman, and words of encouragement for the daughter, the visitors wended their way back to Aix-les-Bains, through the charming valley, beside the waters of the Lac du Bourget, more solemn and frowning than ever in the falling twilight; the solitary pile of the Haute Combe across the lake, rising amidst the whispering pine-trees. Round about them towered the lovely mountains of Savoie, outlined in beauty and majesty against the darkening sky.

  CHAPTER XI

  “And, doubtless, unto thee is given

  A life that bears immortal fruit

  In those great offices that suit

  The full-grown energies of heaven.”

  THE day after the village episode our travellers continued their journey towards Annecy, host and hostess, backed by the whole personnel of the hotel, assembling to speed them on their way.

  Those were days of simple manners and customs, yet of true dignity and consideration, notwithstanding that in France all classes were more or less in touch with each other. It was a usual thing for the entire establishment to turn out and group round the door of the inn to wish “Bon voyage” to the departing guests, especially if by a gracious amiability they had made themselves popular and esteemed.

  Mr and Mrs. Wood continued their journey towards Annecy, the wildest and grandest part opening up towards the end — that narrow pass in which the Gorges du Fier entered upon the scene. Now the railway hurries past the openings in the rocks, giving the unfortunate traveller a momentary glimpse of falling water and roaring torrents; but in those days there was nothing to break the solitude or intrude upon the majesty of the landscape. At rare intervals a diligence or travelling carriage would pass their own, and that was all.

  Villages here and there rose on the plains — the picturesque Alpine villages of Savoie with their simple inhabitants. Rumours seldom reached them from the outside world; newspapers were unknown; wars might be going on of which they knew nothing until all was over. The fame even of a Napoleon was dimly understood, never realised unless he passed with his armies on his way to fresh victories. Then cottage doors would close, alarmed faces peered through drawn blinds, and the simple people would crouch before a crucifix or an image of the Virgin, praying for deliverance and prosperity. Seed-time and harvest, tending cattle, eating the hard-earned daily bread — such was their life. Always the same simple nature; and to this hour there are little out-of-the-way spots where the peasants are less changed than would seem possible.

  The Gorges du Fier, approaching Annecy, was, we have said, the wildest part of the journey. Mr and Mrs. Wood always planned to reach it in the morning, and would linger long. A roaring torrent leaped madly between its rocky walls, washing over great boulders smooth as ivory; frothing and seething as it tumbled into whirling eddies, and coursed onwards. Here, whilst the sun sensibly climbed higher, they would stand upon the old Roman bridge, gazing upon the Chateau of Montrottier and all the wonderful view disclosed. The rushing sound, the sense of power never
absent from the torrent, delighted Mrs. Wood. Sometimes her husband would climb down impossible precipices, whilst she looked on in terror lest a false step should plunge him into the wild waters; to return presently with hands full of rare and beautiful ferns, more difficult to reach than the mountain Edelweiss. The roads, even in those days, were excellent, and had to be so, for they were the only means of communication with the outside world.

  The travellers were wont to linger by their favourite torrent. Hours would glide away, the carriage wait and walk, and the postilions wonder what Monsieur et Madame saw in the unhappy rocks they could never pass without wasting a whole day in this barren wilderness. At last it would be over, and the final stage entered; and the horses, perhaps as impatient as the men, would start off with spirit. When the sun was declining, quaint old Annecy was reached, with its gateways and arcades, streets intersected by canals, and many signs and vestiges of the past. Here, in a church dedicated to him, lies St. Francis de Sales, and near him the remains of saintly Mere Chantal, for whom he had so great a regard and fervent friendship. Here came Rousseau, after escaping from Geneva, before taking up his abode at the unpretending Charmettes: scenes and influences that find their record in his Confessions. The ancient castle on the lake still throws its reflections on the calm waters, but has lost much of its romantic interest in its latter-day destiny. Yet it still takes one back in spirit to feudal ages, and to times when cruelty and torture were rife in the land. Many horrible instruments are yet shown.

  Passing beyond all this, skirting the borders of the lake — smiling as the Lac du Bourget was the opposite — they presently reached a chateau in the hills, where dwelt an intimate friend of Mr. Henry Wood, and all the refinements of life were found allied to a singular simplicity: where existence was a sort of pastoral symphony, with the hours unnumbered and the days unchecked.