Caen seated in its plain, wearing its crown of steeples—this was our last glimpse of the beautiful city. Our way to Bayeux was strewn thick with these Normandy jewels; with towns smaller than Caen; with Gothic belfries; with ruined priories, and with castles, stately even when tottering1 in decay. When the last castle was lost in a thicket2, we discovered that our iron horse was stopping in the very middle of a field. If the guard had shouted out the name of any American city, built overnight, on a Western prairie, we should have felt entirely3 at home in this meadow; we should have known any clearing, with grass and daisies, was a very finished evidence of civilization at high pressure.
But a lane as the beginning of a cathedral town!
Evidently Bayeux has had a Ruskinian dread4 of steam-whistles, for this ancient seat of bishops5 has succeeded in retaining the charms of its old rustic6 approaches, whatever else it may have sacrificed on the altar of modernness.
An harangue7, at the door of the quaint8 old Normandy omnibus, by the driver of the same, was proof that the lesson of good oratory10, administered by generations of bishops, had not been lost on the Bayeux inhabitants. Two rebellious11 English tourists furnished the text for the driver's sermon; they were showing, with all the naive12 pride of pedestrians13, their intention of footing the distance between the station and the cathedral. This was an independence of spirit no Norman could endure to see. What? these gentlemen proposed to walk, in the sun, through clouds of dust, when here was a carriage, with ladies for companions, at their command? The coach had come down the hill on purpose to conduct Messieurs les voyageurs; how did these gentlemen suppose a père de famille was to make his living if the fashion of walking came in? And the rusty14 red vest was thumbed by the gnarled hand of the father, who was also an orator9; and a high-peaked hat swept the ground before the hard-hearted gentlemen. All the tragedy of the situation had come about from the fact that the tourists, also, had gotten themselves up in costume. When two fine youths have risen early in the day to put on checked stockings, leggings, russet walking-shoes, and a plaited coat with a belt, such attire15 is one to be lived up to. Once in knickerbockers and a man's getting into an omnibus is really too ignominious16! With such a road before two sets of such well-shaped calves—a road all shaped and graded—this, indeed, would be flying in the face of a veritable providence17 of bishop-builders intent on maintaining pastoral effects.
The knickerbockers relentlessly18 strode onward19; the driver had addressed himself to hearts of stone. But he had not yet exhausted20 his quiver of appeal. Englishmen walk, well! there's no accounting21 for the taste of Britons who are also still half savages22; but even a barbarian23 must eat. Half-way up the hill, the rattle24 of the loose-jointed vehicle came to a dead stop. With great gravity the guard descended25 from his seat; this latter he lifted to take from the entrails of the old vehicle a handful of hand-bills. He, the horse, the omnibus, and we, all waited for, what do you suppose? To besprinkle the walking Englishmen as they came within range with a shower of circulars announcing that at "midi, chez Nigaud, il y aura un dejeuner chaud."
The driver turned to look in at the window—and to nod as he turned—he felt so certain of our sympathy; had he not made sure of them at last?
A group of gossamer26 caps beneath a row of sad, gray-faced houses was our Bayeux welcome. The faces beneath the caps watched our approach with the same sobriety as did the old houses—they had the antique Norman seriousness of aspect. The noise we made with the clatter27 and rattle of our broken-down vehicle seemed an impertinence, in the face of such severe countenances28. We might have been entering a deserted29 city, except for the presence of these motionless Normandy figures. The cathedral met us at the threshold of the city: magnificent, majestic30, a huge gray mountain of stone, but severe in outline, as if the Norman builders had carved on the vast surface of its facade31 an imprint32 of their own grave earnestness.
We were somewhat early for the hot breakfast at Nigaud's. There was, however, the appetizing smell of soup, with a flourishing pervasiveness33 of onion in the pot, to sustain the vigor34 of an appetite whetted35 by a start at dawn. The knickerbockers came in with the omelette. But one is not a Briton on his travels for nothing; one does not leave one's own island to be the dupe of French inn-keepers. The smell of the soup had not departed with our empty plates, and the voice of the walkers was not of the softest when they demanded their rights to be as odorous as we. There is always a curiously36 agreeable sensation, to an American, in seeing an Englishman angry; to get angry in public is one thing we do badly; and in his cup of wrath37 our British brother is sublime—he is so superbly unconscious—and so contemptuous—of the fact that the world sometimes finds anger ridiculous.
At the other end of the long and narrow table two other travellers were seated, a man and a woman. But food, to them, it was made manifestly evident, was a matter of the most supreme39 indifference40. They were at that radiant moment of life when eating is altogether too gross a form of indulgence. For these two were at the most interesting period of French courtship—just after the wedding ceremony, when, with the priest's blessing41, had come the consent of their world and of tradition to their making the other's acquaintance. This provincial42 bride and her husband of a day were beginning, as all rustic courting begins, by a furtive43 holding of hands; this particular couple, in view of our proximity44 and their own mutual45 embarrassment46, had recourse to the subterfuge47 of desperate lunges at the other's fingers, beneath the table-cloth. The screen, as a screen, did not work. It deceived no one—as the bride's pale-gray dress and her flowery bonnet48 also deceived no one—save herself. This latter, in certain ranks of life, is the bride's travelling costume, the world over. And the world over, it is worn by the recently wedded49 with the profound conviction that in donning it they have discovered the most complete of all disguises.
This bride and groom50 were obviously in the first rapture51 of mutual discovery. The honey in their moon was not fresher than their views of the other's tastes and predilections52.
"Ah—ah—you like to travel quickly—to see everything, to take it all in a gulp—so do I, and then to digest at one's leisure."
The bride was entirely of this mind. Only, she murmured, there were other things one must not do too quickly—one must go slow in matters of the heart—to make quite sure of all the stages.
But her husband was at her throat, that is, his eyes and lips were, as he answered, so that all the table might partake of his emotion—"No, no, the quicker the heart feels the quicker love comes. Tiens, voyons, mon amie, toi-même, tu m'as confié"—and the rest was lost in the bride's ear.
Apparently53 we were to have them, these brides, for the rest of our journey, in all stages and of all ages! Thus far none others had appeared as determined54 as were these two honey-mooners, that all the world should share their bliss55. They were cracking filberts with their disengaged fingers, the other two being closely interlocked, in quite scandalous openness, when we left them.
That was the only form of excitement that greeted us in the quiet Bayeux streets. The very street urchins56 invited repose57; the few we saw were seated sedately58 on the threshold of their own door-steps, frequent sallies abroad into this quiet city having doubtless convinced them of the futility59 of all sorties. The old houses were their carved facades60 as old ladies wear rich lace—they had reached the age when the vanity of personal adornment61 had ceased to inflate62. The great cathedral, towering above the tranquil63 town, wore a more conscious air; its significance was too great a contrast to the quiet city asleep at its feet. In these long, slow centuries the towers had grown to have the air of protectors.
The famous tapestries64 we went to see later, might easily enough have been worked yesterday, in any one of the old mediaeval houses; Mathilde and her hand-maidens would find no more—not so much—to distract and disturb them now in this still and tranquil town, with its sad gray streets and its moss-grown door-steps, as they must in those earlier bustling65 centuries of the Conqueror66. Even then, when Normandy was only beginning its career of importance among the great French provinces, Bayeux was already old. She was far more Norse then than Norman; she was Scandinavian to the core; even her nobles spoke67 in harsh Norse syllables68; they were as little French as it was possible to be, and yet govern a people.
Mathilde, when she toiled69 over her frame, like all great writers, was doubtless quite unconscious she was producing a masterpiece. She was, however, in point of fact, the very first among the great French realists. No other French writer has written as graphically71 as she did with her needle, of the life and customs of their day. That long scroll72 of tapestry73, for truth and a naive perfection of sincerity—where will you find it equalled or even approached? It is a rude Homeric epic74; and I am not quite certain that it ought not to rank higher than even some of the more famous epics75 of the world—since Mathilde had to create the mould of art into which she poured her story. For who had thought before her of making women's stitches write or paint a great historical event, crowded with homely76 details which now are dubbed77 archaeological veracities78?
Bayeux and its tapestry; its grave company of antique houses; its glorious cathedral dominating the whole—what a lovely old background against which poses the eternal modernness of the young noon sun! The history of Bayeux is commonly given in a paragraph. Our morning's walk had proved to us it was the kind of town that does more to re-create the historic past than all the pages of a Guizot or a Challamel.
The bells that were ringing out the hour of high-noon from the cathedral towers at Bayeux were making the heights of St. Lo, two hours later, as noisy as a village fair. The bells, for rivals, had the clatter of women's tongues. I think I never, before or since, have beheld79 so lively a company of washerwomen as were beating their clothes in Vire River. The river bends prettily80 just below the St. Lo heights, as if it had gone out of its way to courtesy to a hill. But even the waters, in their haste to be polite, could not course beneath the great bridge as swiftly as ran those women's tongues. There were a good hundred of them at work beneath the washing-sheds. Now, these sheds, anywhere in France, are really the open-air club room of the French peasant woman; the whole dish of the village gossip is hung out to dry, having previously81 been well soused and aired, along with the blouses and the coarse chemises. The town of St. Lo had evidently furnished these club members of the washing-stones with some fat dish of gossip—the heads were as close as currants on a stem, as they bent82 in groups over the bright waters. They had told it all to the stream; and the stream rolled the volume of the talk along as it carried along also the gay, sparkling reflections of the life and the toil70 that bent over it—of the myriad83 reflections of those moving, bare-armed figures, of the brilliant kerchiefs, of the wet blue and gray jerseys84, and of the long prismatic line of the damp, motley-hued clothes that were fluttering in the wind.
The bells' clangor was an assurance that something was happening on top of the hill. Just what happened was as altogether pleasing a spectacle, after a long and arduous85 climb up a hillside, as it has often been my good fortune to encounter.
The portals of the church of Notre Dame86 were wide open. Within, as we looked over the shoulders of the townspeople who, like us, had come to see what the bells meant by their ringing, within the church there was a rich and sombre dusk; out of this dusk, indistinctly at first, lit by the tremulous flicker87 of a myriad of candles, came a line of white-veiled heads; then another of young boys, with faces as pale as the nosegays adorning88 their brand-new black coats; next the scarlet-robed choristers, singing, and behind them still others swinging incense89 that thickened the dusk. Suddenly, like a vision, the white veils passed out into the sunlight, and we saw that the faces beneath the veils were young and comely90. The faces were still alternately lighted by the flare91 of the burning tapers92 and the glare of the noon sun. The long procession ended at last in a straggling group of old peasants with fine tremulous mouths, a-tremble with pride and with feeling; for here they were walking in full sight of their town, in their holiday coats, with their knees treacherously93 unsteady from the thrill of the organ's thunder and the sweetness of the choir-boys' singing.
Whether it was a pardon, or a fête, or a first communion, we never knew. But the town of St. Lo is ever gloriously lighted, for us, with a nimbus of young heads, such as encircled the earlier madonnas.
After such a goodly spectacle, the rest of the town was a tame morsel94. We took a parting sniff95 of the incense still left in the eastern end of the church's nave96; there was a bit of good glass in a window to reward us. Outside the church, on the west from the Petite Place, was a wide outlook over the lovely vale of the Vire, with St. Lo itself twisting and turning in graceful97 postures98 down the hillside.
On the same prospect99 two kings have looked, and before the kings a saint. St. Lo or St. Laudus himself, who gave his name to the town, must, in the sixth century, have gazed on virgin100 forests stretching away from the hill far as the eye could reach. Charlemagne, three hundred years later, in his turn, found the site a goodly one, one to tempt38 men to worship the Creator of such beauty, for here he founded the great Abbey of St. Croix, long since gone with the monks101 who peopled it. Louis XI, that mystic wearing the warrior's helmet, set his seal of approval on the hill, by sending the famous glass yonder in the cathedral, when the hill and the St. Lo people beat the Bretons who had come to capture both.
Like saint, and kings, and monks, and warriors102, we in our turn crept down the hill. For we also were done with the town.
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1
tottering
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| adj.蹒跚的，动摇的v.走得或动得不稳( totter的现在分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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thicket
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| n.灌木丛，树林 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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bishops
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| （基督教某些教派管辖大教区的）主教( bishop的名词复数 )； （国际象棋的）象 | |
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rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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harangue
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| n.慷慨冗长的训话，言辞激烈的讲话 | |
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quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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orator
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| n.演说者，演讲者，雄辩家 | |
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oratory
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| n.演讲术；词藻华丽的言辞 | |
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rebellious
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| adj.造反的，反抗的，难控制的 | |
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naive
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| adj.幼稚的，轻信的；天真的 | |
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pedestrians
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| n.步行者( pedestrian的名词复数 ) | |
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rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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ignominious
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| adj.可鄙的，不光彩的，耻辱的 | |
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providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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relentlessly
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| adv.不屈不挠地；残酷地；不间断 | |
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onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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accounting
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| n.会计，会计学，借贷对照表 | |
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savages
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| 未开化的人，野蛮人( savage的名词复数 ) | |
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barbarian
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| n.野蛮人；adj.野蛮(人)的；未开化的 | |
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rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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gossamer
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| n.薄纱，游丝 | |
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clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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countenances
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| n.面容( countenance的名词复数 )；表情；镇静；道义支持 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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facade
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| n.(建筑物的)正面，临街正面；外表 | |
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imprint
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| n.印痕，痕迹；深刻的印象；vt.压印，牢记 | |
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pervasiveness
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| n.无处不在，遍布 | |
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vigor
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| n.活力，精力，元气 | |
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whetted
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| v.（在石头上）磨（刀、斧等）( whet的过去式和过去分词 )；引起，刺激（食欲、欲望、兴趣等） | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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tempt
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| vt.引诱，勾引，吸引，引起…的兴趣 | |
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supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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41
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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42
provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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43
furtive
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| adj.鬼鬼崇崇的，偷偷摸摸的 | |
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44
proximity
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| n.接近，邻近 | |
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mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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subterfuge
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| n.诡计；藉口 | |
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48
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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49
wedded
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| adj.正式结婚的；渴望…的，执著于…的v.嫁，娶，（与…）结婚( wed的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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50
groom
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| vt.给（马、狗等）梳毛，照料，使...整洁 | |
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51
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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52
predilections
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| n.偏爱，偏好，嗜好( predilection的名词复数 ) | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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56
urchins
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| n.顽童( urchin的名词复数 )；淘气鬼；猬；海胆 | |
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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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sedately
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| adv.镇静地，安详地 | |
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futility
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| n.无用 | |
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facades
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| n.（房屋的）正面( facade的名词复数 )；假象，外观 | |
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adornment
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| n.装饰；装饰品 | |
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inflate
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| vt.使膨胀，使骄傲，抬高（物价） | |
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tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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tapestries
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| n.挂毯( tapestry的名词复数 )；绣帷，织锦v.用挂毯（或绣帷）装饰( tapestry的第三人称单数 ) | |
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65
bustling
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| adj.喧闹的 | |
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conqueror
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| n.征服者，胜利者 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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68
syllables
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| n.音节( syllable的名词复数 ) | |
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toiled
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的过去式和过去分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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graphically
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| adv.通过图表；生动地，轮廓分明地 | |
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scroll
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| n.卷轴，纸卷；(石刻上的)漩涡 | |
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tapestry
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| n.挂毯，丰富多采的画面 | |
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epic
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| n.史诗，叙事诗；adj.史诗般的，壮丽的 | |
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epics
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| n.叙事诗( epic的名词复数 )；壮举；惊人之举；史诗般的电影（或书籍） | |
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homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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dubbed
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| v.给…起绰号( dub的过去式和过去分词 )；把…称为；配音；复制 | |
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veracities
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| n.诚实，真实( veracity的名词复数 ) | |
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beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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prettily
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| adv.优美地；可爱地 | |
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previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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myriad
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| adj.无数的；n.无数，极大数量 | |
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jerseys
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| n.运动衫( jersey的名词复数 ) | |
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arduous
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| adj.艰苦的，费力的，陡峭的 | |
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dame
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| n.女士 | |
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flicker
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| vi./n.闪烁，摇曳，闪现 | |
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adorning
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| 修饰，装饰物 | |
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incense
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| v.激怒；n.香，焚香时的烟，香气 | |
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comely
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| adj.漂亮的，合宜的 | |
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flare
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| v.闪耀，闪烁；n.潮红；突发 | |
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tapers
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| （长形物体的）逐渐变窄( taper的名词复数 )； 微弱的光； 极细的蜡烛 | |
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treacherously
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| 背信弃义地； 背叛地； 靠不住地； 危险地 | |
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morsel
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| n.一口，一点点 | |
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sniff
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| vi.嗅…味道；抽鼻涕；对嗤之以鼻，蔑视 | |
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nave
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| n.教堂的中部；本堂 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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postures
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| 姿势( posture的名词复数 )； 看法； 态度； 立场 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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monks
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| n.修道士，僧侣( monk的名词复数 ) | |
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warriors
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| 武士，勇士，战士( warrior的名词复数 ) | |
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