Mina Benson Hubbard (Mrs. Leonidas Hubbard, Junior) - "A Woman's Way Through Unknown Labrador"

Rudyard Kipling - "Soldiers Three"

Gaston Leroux - "The Mystery of the Yellow Room"

A. E. Housman - "A Shropshire Lad"

The Days Before Yesterday

L >> Lord Frederic Hamilton >> The Days Before Yesterday




The judicial system of France is not as concentrated as ours.
Every Sous-prefecture in France has its local Civil Court with a
Presiding Judge, an Assistant Judge, and a "Substitut." The
latter, in small towns, is the substitute for the Procureur de la
Republique, or Public Prosecutor. The legal profession in France
is far more "clannish" than with us, for lawyers have always
played a great part in the history of France. The so-called
"Parlements" (not to be confounded with our Parliament) had had,
up to the time of the French Revolution, very large powers indeed.
They were originally Supreme Courts of Justice, but by the
fifteenth century they could not only make, on their own account,
regulations having the force of laws, but had acquired independent
administrative powers. Originally the "Parlement de Paris" stood
alone, but as time went on, in addition to this, thirteen or
fourteen local "Parlements" administered France. After the
Revolution, the term was only applied to Supreme Courts, without
administrative powers. M. Ducros was Assistant Judge of the Nyons
Tribunal, and the Ducros were rather fond of insisting that they
belonged to the old noblesse de robe.

As a child I could speak French as easily as English, and even
after eight years of French lessons at school, my French was still
tucked away in some corner of my head; but I had, of course, only
a child's vocabulary, sufficient for a child's simple wants. Under
Madame Ducros' skilful tuition I soon began to acquire an adult
vocabulary, and it became no effort to me whatever to talk.

The French judicial system seems to demand perpetual judicial
inquiries (enquetes) in little country places. M. Ducros invited
me to accompany him, the President, and the "Substitut" on one of
these enquetes, and these three, with their tremendous spirits,
their perpetual jokes, and above all with their delightful gaiete
francaise, amused me so enormously, that I jumped at a second
invitation. So it came about in time, that I invariably
accompanied them, and when we started in the shabby old one-horse
cabriolet soon after 7 a.m., "notre ami le petit Angliche" was
always perched on the box. My suspicions may be unfounded, but I
somehow think that these enquetes were conducted not so much on
account of legal exigencies as for the gastronomic possibilities
at the end of the journey, for all our inquiries were made in
little towns celebrated for some local chef. These three merry
bons-vivants revelled in the pleasures of the table, and on our
arrival at our destinations, before the day's work was entered
upon, there were anxious and even heated discussions with "Papa
Charron," "Pere Vinay," or whatever the name of the local artist
might be, as to the comparative merits of truffles or olives as an
accompaniment to a filet, or the rival claims of mushrooms or
tunny-fish as a worthy lining of an omelet. The legal business
being all disposed of by two o'clock, we four would approach the
great ceremony of the day, the midday dinner, with tense
expectancy. The President could never keep out of the kitchen,
from which he returned with most assuring reports: "Cette fois ca
y est, mes amis," he would jubilantly exclaim, rubbing his hands,
and even "Papa Charron" himself bearing in the first dish, his
face scorched scarlet from his cooking-stove, would confidently
aver that "MM. les juges seront contents aujourd'hui."

The crowning seal of approbation was always put on by M. Ducros,
who, after tasting the masterpiece, would cry exultantly, "Bravo!
Slop-basin! Slop-basin!" should it fulfil his expectations. I have
previously explained that M. Ducros' solitary word of English
expressed supreme satisfaction, whilst his friends looked on, with
unconcealed admiration at their colleague's linguistic powers. It
sounds like a record of three gormandising middle-aged men; but it
was not quite that, though, like most French people, they
appreciated artistic cookery. It is impossible for me to convey in
words the charm of that delightful gaiete francaise, especially
amongst southern Frenchmen. It bubbles up as spontaneously as the
sparkle of champagne; they were all as merry as children, full of
little quips and jokes, and plays upon words. Our English "pun" is
a clumsy thing compared to the finesse of a neatly-turned French
calembour. They all three, too, had an inexhaustible supply of
those peculiarly French pleasantries known as petites
gauloiseries. I know that I have never laughed so much in my life.
It is only southern Frenchmen who can preserve this unquenchable
torrent of animal spirits into middle life. I was only seventeen;
they were from twenty to thirty years my seniors, yet I do not
think that we mutually bored each other the least. They did not
need the stimulus of alcohol to aid this flow of spirits, for,
like most Frenchmen of that class, they were very abstemious,
although the "Patron" always produced for us "un bon vieux vin de
derriere les fagots," or "un joli petit vin qui fait rire." It was
sheer "joie de-vivre" stimulated by the good food and that
spontaneous gaiete francaise which appeals so irresistibly to me.
The "Substitut" always preserved a rather deferential attitude
before the President and M. Ducros, for they belonged to the
magistrature assise, whilst he merely formed part of the
magistrature debout The French word magistrat is not the
equivalent of our magistrate, the French term for which is "Juge
de Paix." A magistrat means a Judge or a Public Prosecutor.

From being so much with the judges, I grew quite learned in French
legal terms, talked of the parquet (which means the Bar), and
invariably termed the grubby little Nyons law-court the Palais. I
rather fancy that I considered myself a sort of honorary member of
the French Bar. Strictly speaking, Palais only applies to a Court
of Law; old-fashioned Frenchmen always speak of the Chateau de
Versailles, or the Chateau de Fontainbleau, never of the Palais.

There was always plenty to see in these little southern towns
whilst the judges were at work. In one village there was a perfume
factory, where essential oils of sweet-scented geranium, verbena,
lavender, and thyme were distilled for the wholesale Paris
perfumers; a fragrant place, where every operation was carried on
with that minute attention to detail which the French carry into
most things that they do, for, unlike the inhabitants of an
adjacent island, they consider that if a thing is worth doing at
all, it is worth taking trouble over.

In another village there was a wholesale dealer in silkworms'
eggs, imported direct from China. Besides the eggs, he had a host
of Chinese curios to dispose of, besides quaint little objects in
everyday use in China.

Above all there was Grignan, with its huge and woefully
dilapidated chateau, the home of Mme. de Sevigne's daughter, the
Comtesse de Grignan. It was to Grignan that this queen of letter-
writers addressed much of her correspondence to her adored
daughter, between 1670 and 1695, and Mme. de Sevigne herself was
frequently a visitor there.

Occasionally the judges, the Substitut, and I made excursions
further afield by diligence to Orange, Vaucluse, and Avignon,
quite outside our judicial orbit. Orange, a drowsy little spot,
has still a splendid Roman triumphal arch and a Roman theatre in
the most perfect state of preservation. Orange was once a little
independent principality, and gives its name to the Royal Family
of Holland, the sister of the last of the Princes of Orange having
married the Count of Nassau, whence the House of Orange-Nassau.
Indirectly, sleepy little Orange has also given its name to a
widely-spread political and religious organisation of some
influence.

Vaucluse, most charming of places, in its narrow leafy valley,
surrounded by towering cliffs, is celebrated as having been the
home of Petrarch for sixteen years during the thirteen hundreds.
We may hope that his worshipped Laura sometimes brightened his
home there with her presence. The famous Fountain of Vaucluse
rushes out from its cave a full-grown river. It wastes no time in
infant frivolities, but settles down to work at once, turning a
mill within two hundred yards of its birthplace.

Avignon is another somnolent spot. The gigantic and gloomy Palace
of the Popes dominates the place, though it is far more like a
fortress than a palace. Here the Popes lived from 1309 to 1377
during their enforced abandonment of Rome, and Avignon remained
part of the Papal dominions until the French Revolution. The
President took less interest in the Palace of the Popes than he
did in a famous cook at one of the Avignon hotels. He could hardly
recall some of the plats of this noted artist without displaying
signs of deep emotion. These ancient towns on the banks of the
swift-rushing green Rhone seemed to me to be perpetually dozing in
the warm sun, like old men, dreaming of their historic and varied
past since the days of the Romans.

My French legal friends were much exercised by a recent decision
of the High Court. M. Thiers had been President of the Republic
from 1870 to 1873. A distant cousin of his living in Marseilles,
being in pecuniary difficulties, had applied ineffectually to M.
Thiers for assistance. Whereupon the resourceful lady had opened a
restaurant in Marseilles, and had had painted over the house-front
in gigantic letters, "Restaurant tenu par la cousine de Monsieur
Thiers." She was proceeded against for bringing the Head of the
State into contempt, was fined heavily, and made to remove the
offending inscription. My French friends hotly contested the
legality of this decision. They declared that it was straining the
sense of the particular Article of the Code to make it applicable
in such a case, and that it was illogical to apply the law of
Lese-majeste to the Head of a Republican State. The President
pertinently added that no evidence as to the quality of food
supplied in the restaurant had been taken. If bad, it might
unquestionably reflect injuriously on the Head of the State; if
good, on the other hand, in view of the admitted relationship of
the proprietress of the restaurant to him, it could only redound
to M. Thiers' credit. This opens up interesting possibilities. If
relationship to a prominent politician may be utilised for
business purposes, we may yet see in English watering-places the
facades of houses blazoned with huge inscriptions: "This Private
Hotel is kept by a fourth cousin of Lord Rose--," whilst facing
it, gold lettering proudly proclaims that "The Proprietress of
this Establishment is a distant relative of Mr. Ar--Bal--"; or,
to impart variety, at the next turning the public might perhaps be
informed in gleaming capitals that "The Cashier in this Hotel is
connected by marriage with Mr. As---." The idea really offers an
unlimited field for private enterprise.

The political situation in France was very strained at the
beginning of 1874. Marshal MacMahon had succeeded M. Thiers as
President of the Republic, and it was well known that the Marshal,
as well as the Royalist majority in the French Chamber, favoured
the restoration of the Bourbon Monarchy, represented by the Comte
de Chambord, as head of the elder branch. People of the type of M.
Ducros, and of the President of the Nyons Tribunal, viewed the
possible return of a Legitimist Bourbon Monarchy with the gravest
apprehension. Given the character of the Comte de Chambord, they
felt it would be a purely reactionary regime. Traditionally, the
elder branch of the Bourbons were incapable of learning anything,
and equally incapable of forgetting anything. These two shrewd
lawyers had both been vigorous opponents of the Bonapartist
regime, but they pinned their faith on the Orleans branch,
inexplicably enough to me, considering the treacherous record of
that family. They never could mention the name of a member of the
Orleans family without adding, "Ah! les braves gens!" the very
last epithet in the world I should have dreamed of applying to
them. All the negotiations with the Comte de Chambord fell
through, owing to his obstinacy (to which I have referred earlier)
in refusing to accept the Tricolor as the national flag. Possibly
pig-headed obstinacy; but in these days of undisguised
opportunism, it is rare to find a man who deliberately refuses a
throne on account of his convictions. I do not think that the
Comte de Chambord would have been a success in present-day British
politics. A crisis was averted by extending Marshal MacMahon's
tenure of the Presidency to seven years, the "Septennat," as it
was called. Before two years the Orleanists, who had always a keen
appreciation of the side on which their bread was buttered,
"rallied" to the Republic. I rather fancy that some question
connected with the return of the confiscated Orleans fortunes came
into play here. The adherents of the Comte de Chambord always
spoke of him as Henri V. For some reason (perhaps euphony) they
were invariably known as "Henri Quinquists." In the same way, the
French people speak of the Emperor Charles V. as "Charles Quint,"
never as "Charles Cinq."

My friends the Nyons lawyers were fond of alluding to themselves
as forming part of the bonne bourgeoisie. It is this bonne
bourgeoisie who form the backbone of France. Frugal, immensely
industrious, cultured, and with a very high standard of honour,
they are far removed from the frivolous, irresponsible types of
French people to be seen at smart watering-places, and they are
less dominated by that inordinate love of money which is an
unpleasant element in the national character, and obscures the
good qualities of the hard-working French peasants, making them
grasping and avaricious.

It must be admitted that this class of the French bourgeoisie
surveys the world from rather a Chinese standpoint. The Celestial,
as is well known, considers all real civilisation confined to
China. Every one outside the bounds of the Middle Kingdom is a
barbarian. This is rather the view of the French bourgeois. He is
convinced that all true civilisation is centred in France, and
that other countries are only civilised in proportion as French
influence has filtered through to them. He will hardly admit that
other countries can have an art and literature of their own,
especially should neither of them conform to French standards.
This is easily understood, for the average Frenchman knows no
language but his own, has never travelled, and has no curiosity
whatever about countries outside France. When, in addition, it is
remembered how paramount French literary and artistic influence
was during the greater portion of the seventeenth and eighteenth
centuries, and how universal the use of the French language was in
Northern Continental Europe amongst educated people, the point of
view becomes quite intelligible.

In spite of this, I enjoyed my excursions with these delightful
French lawyers quite enormously. The other pupils never
accompanied us, for they found it difficult to keep up a
conversation in French.

The average intellectual level is unquestionably far higher in
France than in England, nor is it necessary to give, to a people
accustomed for generations to understand a demi-mot, the elaborate
explanations usually necessary in England when the conversation
has got beyond the mental standards of a child six years old. The
French, too, are not addicted to perpetual wool-gathering. Nor can
I conceive of a Frenchwoman endeavouring to make herself
attractive by representing herself as so hopelessly "vague" that
she can never be trusted to remember anything, or to avoid losing
all her personal possessions. Idiocy, whether genuine or feigned,
does not appeal to the French temperament. The would-be
fascinating lady would most certainly be referred to as "une dinde
de premiere classe."

The French are the only thoroughly logical people in the world,
and their excessive development of the logical faculty leads them
at times into pitfalls. "Ils ont lesdefauts de leurs qualites." In
this country we have found out that systems, absolutely
indefensible in theory, at times work admirably well in practice,
and give excellent results. No Frenchman would ever admit that
anything unjustifiable in theory could possibly succeed in
practice--"Ce n'est pas logique," he would object, and there would
be the end of it.

The Substitut informed me one day that he was making a "retreat"
for three days at the Monastery of La Trappe d'Aiguebelle, and
asked me if I would care to accompany him. To pass three days in a
Trappist Monastery certainly promised a novel experience, but I
pointed out that I was a Protestant, and that I could hardly
expect the monks to welcome me with open arms. He answered that he
would explain matters, and that the difference of religion would
be overlooked. So off we started, and after an interminable drive
reached a huge, gaunt pile of buildings in very arid surroundings.
The "Hospice" where visitors were lodged stood apart from the
Monastery proper, the Chapel lying in between. It was explained to
me that I must observe the rule of absolute silence within the
building, and that I would be expected to be in bed by 8.15 p.m.
and to rise at 5 a.m. like the rest of the guests. It was further
conveyed to me that they hoped that I would see my way to attend
Chapel at 5.30 a.m., afterwards I should be free for the remainder
of the day. Talking and smoking were both permitted in the garden.
I was given a microscopic whitewashed cell, most beautifully
clean, containing a very small bed, one chair, a gas-jet, a prie-
Dieu, a real human skull, and nothing else whatever. We went to
dinner in a great arched refectory, where a monk, perched up in a
high pulpit, read us Thomas a Kempis in a droning monotone.
Complete silence was observed. At La Trappe no meat or butter is
ever used, but we were given a most excellent dinner of vegetable
soup, fish, omelets, and artichokes dressed with oil, accompanied
by the monks' admirable home-grown wine. There were quite a number
of visitors making "retreats," and I had hard work keeping the
muscles of my face steady, as they made pantomimic signs to the
lay-brothers who waited on us, for more omelet or more wine. After
dinner the "Frere Hospitalier," a jolly, rotund little lay-
brother, who wore a black stole over his brown habit as a sign
that he was allowed to talk, drew me on one side in the garden. As
I was a heretic (he put it more politely) and had the day to
myself, would I do him a favour? He was hard put to it to find
enough fish for all these guests; would I catch him some trout in
the streams in the forest? I asked for nothing better, but I had
no trout-rod with me. He produced a rod, SUCH a trout-rod! A long
bamboo with a piece of string tied to it! To fish for trout with a
worm was contrary to every tradition in which I had been reared,
but adaptability is a great thing, so with two turns of a spade I
got enough worms for the afternoon, and started off. The Foret
d'Aiguebelle is not a forest in our acceptation of the term, but
an endless series of little bare rocky hills, dotted with pines,
and fragrant with tufts of wild lavender, thyme and rosemary. It
was intersected with two rushing, beautifully clear streams. I
cannot conceive where all the water comes from in that arid land.
In sun-baked Nyons, water could be got anywhere by driving a
tunnel into the parched hillsides, when sooner or later an
abundant spring would be tapped. These French trout were either
ridiculously unsophisticated, or else very weary of life: they
simply asked to be caught. I got quite a heavy basket, to the
great joy of the "Frere Hospitalier," and I got far more next day.
Though we had to rise at five, we got no breakfast till eight, and
a very curious breakfast it was. Every guest had a yard of bread,
and two saucers placed in front of him; one containing honey, the
other shelled walnuts. We dipped the walnuts in the honey, and ate
them with the bread, and excellent they were. In the place of
coffee, which was forbidden, we had hot milk boiled with borage to
flavour it, quite a pleasant beverage. The washing arrangements
being primitive, I waited until every one was safely occupied in
Chapel for an hour and a half, and then had a swim in the
reservoir which supplied the monastery with water, and can only
trust that I did not dirty it much. I was greatly disappointed
with the singing in the severe, unadorned Chapel; it was
plainsong, without any organ or instrument. The effect of so great
a body of voices might have been imposing had not the intonation
(as kindly critics say at times of a debutante) been a little
uncertain. As Trappists never speak, one could understand their
losing their voices, but it seems curious that they should have
lost their ears as well, though possibly it was only the visitors
who sang so terribly out of tune.

I was taken all over the Monastery next day by the "Pere
Hospitalier," who, like his brown-frocked lay-brother, wore a
black stole over his white habit, as a badge of office. With the
exception of the fine cloisters, there were no architectural
features whatever about the squat, massive pile of buildings. The
modern chapel, studiously severe in its details, bore the
unmistakable imprint of Viollet-le-Duc's soulless, mathematically
correct Gothic. Personally, I think that Viollet-le-Duc spoiled
every ancient building in France which he "restored." I was taken
into the refectory to see the monks' dinners already laid out for
them. They consisted of nothing but bread and salad, but with such
vast quantities of each! Each monk had a yard-long loaf of bread,
a bottle of wine and an absolute stable-bucket of salad, liberally
dressed with oil and vinegar. The oil supplied the fat necessary
for nutrition, still it was a meagre enough dinner for men who had
been up since 3 a.m. and had done two hours' hard work in the
vegetable gardens. The "Pere Hospitalier" told me that not one
scrap of bread or lettuce would be left at the conclusion of the
repast. The immense austerity of the place impressed me very much.
The monks all slept on plank-beds, but they were not allowed to
remain on these hard resting-places after 3 a.m. Their "Rule" was
certainly a very severe one. I was told that the monks prepared
Tincture of Arnica for medicinal purposes in an adjoining factory,
arnica growing wild everywhere in the Forest, and that the sums
realised by the sale of this drug added materially to their
revenues.

Next day both the Substitut and I were to be received by the
Abbot. It struck me as desirable that we should have our
interviews separately, for as the Substitut was making a
"retreat," he might wish to say many private things to the Abbot
which he would not like me, a heretic, to overhear. As soon as he
had finished, I was ushered in alone to the Abbot's parlour. I
found the Abbot very dignified and very friendly, but what
possible subject of conversation could a Protestant youth of
seventeen find which would interest the Father Superior of a
French Monastery, presumably indifferent to everything that passed
outside its walls? Suddenly I had an inspiration: the Arian
Heresy! We had had four lessons on this interesting topic at
Chittenden's five years earlier (surely rather an advanced subject
for little boys of twelve!), and some of the details still stuck
in my head. A brilliant idea! Soon we were at it hammer and tongs;
discussing Arius, Alexander, and Athanasius; the Council of
Nicaea, Hosius of Cordova, homo-ousion and homoi-ousion; Eusebius
of Nicomedia, and his namesake of Caesarea.

Without intending any disrespect to these two eminent Fathers of
the Church, the two Eusebius' always reminded me irresistibly of
the two Ajaxes of Offenbach's opera-bouffe. La Belle Helene, or,
later on, of the "Two Macs" of the music-hall stage of the
"nineties." I blessed Mr. Chittenden for having so thoughtfully
provided me with conversational small-change suitable for Abbots.
The Abbot was, I think, a little surprised at my theological lore.
He asked me where I had acquired it, and when I told him that it
was at school, he presumed that I had been at a seminary for
youths destined for the priesthood, an idea which would have
greatly shocked the ultra-Evangelical Mr. Chittenden.

I was very glad that I had passed those three days at La Trappe,
for it gave one a glimpse into a wholly unsuspected world. The
impression of the tremendous severity with which the lives of the
monks were regulated, remained with me. The excellent monks made
the most absurdly small charges for our board and lodging. Years
afterwards I spent a night in an Orthodox Monastery in Russia,
when I regretfully recalled the scrupulous cleanliness of La
Trappe. Never have I shared a couch with so many uninvited guests,
and never have I been so ruthlessly devoured as in that Russian
Monastery.

With June at Nyons, silkworm time arrived. Three old women,
celebrated for their skill in rearing silkworms, came down from
the mountains, and the magnanerie, as lofts devoted to silkworm
culture are called, was filled with huge trays fashioned with
reeds. The old women had a very strenuous fortnight or so, for
silkworms demand immense care and attention. The trays have to be
perpetually cleaned out, and all stale mulberry leaves removed,
for the quality and quantity of the silk depend on the most
scrupulous cleanliness. To preserve an even temperature, charcoal
fires were lighted in the magnanerie, until the little black
caterpillars, having transformed themselves into repulsive flabby
white worms, these worms became obsessed with the desire to
increase the world's supply of silk, and to gratify them, twigs
were placed in the trays for them to spin their cocoons on. The
cocoons spun, they were all picked off, and baked in the public
ovens of the town, in order to kill the chrysalis inside. Nothing
prettier can be imagined than the streets of Nyons, with white
sheets laid in front of every house, each sheet heaped high with
glittering, shimmering, gleaming piles of silk-cocoons, varying
in shade from palest straw-colour to deep orange. If pleasant to
the eye, they were less grateful to the nose, for freshly baked
cocoons have the most offensive odour. The silk-buyers from Lyons
then made their appearance, and these shining heaps of gold thread
were transformed into a more portable form of gold, which found
its way into the pockets of the inhabitants.

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