Part 4 (1/2)
Fortunately Francis had a little sled which one of his cousins had sent him from America; and with that as a model, and many explanations, the wheelwright and the blacksmith produced really a very creditable sled--quite large, a seat for two in front, and one behind for the person who steered. Only when the sled was finished the snow had disappeared! It rarely lasts long in France.
We had the sled brought out--the runners needed a little repairing--and the next day made our first attempt. There was not much danger of meeting anything. A sort of pa.s.sage had been cleared, and gravel sprinkled in the middle of the road; but very few vehicles had pa.s.sed, and the snow was as hard as ice. All the establishment ”a.s.sisted” at the first trial, and the stable-boy accompanied us with the donkey who was to pull the sled up the hill.
We had some little difficulty in starting, Pauline and I in front, Francis behind; but as soon as we got fairly on the slope the thing flew. Pauline was frightened to death, screaming, and wanted to get off; but I held her tight, and we landed in the ditch near the foot of the hill. Half-way down (the hill is steep but straight, one sees a great distance) Francis saw the diligence arriving; and as he was not quite sure of his steering-gear, he thought it was better to take no risks, and steered us straight into the ditch as hard as we could go.
The sled upset; we all rolled off into the deep soft snow, lost our hats, and emerged quite white from head to foot.
The diligence had stopped at the foot of the hill. There were only two men in it besides the driver, the old Pere Jacques, who was dumbfounded when he recognized Madame Waddington. It seems they couldn't think what had happened. As they got to the foot of the hill, they saw a good many people at the gate of the chateau; then suddenly something detached itself from the group and rushed wildly down the hill. They thought it was an accident, some part of a carriage broken, and before they had time to collect their senses the whole thing collapsed in the ditch. The poor old man was quite disturbed--couldn't think we were not hurt, and begged us to get into the diligence and not trust ourselves again to such a dangerous vehicle. However we rea.s.sured him, and all walked up the hill together, the donkey pulling the sled, which was tied to him with a very primitive arrangement of ropes, the sled constantly swinging round and hitting him on the legs, which he naturally resented and kicked viciously.
We amused ourselves very much as long as the snow lasted, about ten days--coasted often, and made excursions to the neighbouring villages with the sled and the donkey. We wanted to skate, but that was not easy to arrange, as the ponds and ”tourbieres” near us were very deep, and I was afraid to venture with the children. I told Hubert, the coachman, who knew the country well, to see what he could find. He said there was a very good pond in the park of the chateau of La Ferte, and he was sure the proprietor, an old man who lived there by himself, would be quite pleased to let us come there.
The old gentleman was most amiable--begged we would come as often as we liked--merely making one condition, that we should have a man on the bank (the pond was only about a foot deep) with a rope in case of accidents.... We went there nearly every afternoon, and made quite a comfortable ”installation” on the bank: a fire, rugs, chairs and a very good little gouter, the grocer's daughter bringing us hot wine and biscuits from the town.
It was a perfect sight for La Ferte. The whole town came to look at us, and the carters stopped their teams on the road to look on--one day particularly when one of our cousins, Maurice de Bunsen,[3] was staying with us. He skated beautifully, doing all sorts of figures, and his double eights and initials astounded the simple country folk.
For some time after they spoke of ”l'Anglais” who did such wonderful things on the ice.
[3] To-day British Emba.s.sador at Madrid.
They were bad days for the poor. We used to meet all the children coming back from school when we went home. The poor little things toiled up the steep, slippery hill, with often a cold wind that must have gone through the thin worn-out jackets and shawls they had for all covering, carrying their satchels and remnants of dinner. Those that came from a distance always brought their dinner with them, generally a good hunk of bread and a piece of chocolate, the poorer ones bread alone, very often only a stale hard crust that couldn't have been very nouris.h.i.+ng. They were a very poor lot at our little village, St. Quentin, and we did all we could in the way of warm stockings and garments; but the pale, pinched faces rather haunted me, and Henrietta and I thought we would try and arrange with the school mistress who was wife of one of the keepers, to give them a hot plate of soup every day during the winter months. W., who knew his people well, rather discouraged us--said they all had a certain sort of pride, notwithstanding their poverty, and might perhaps be offended at being treated like tramps or beggars; but we could try if we liked.
We got a big kettle at La Ferte, and the good Mere Cecile of the Asile lent us the tin bowls, also telling us we wouldn't be able to carry out our plan. She had tried at the Asile, but it didn't go; the children didn't care about the soup--liked the bread and chocolate better. It was really a curious experience. I am still astonished when I think of it. The soup was made at the head-keeper's cottage, standing on the edge of the woods.
We went over the first day about eleven o'clock--a cold, clear day, a biting wind blowing down the valley. The children were all a.s.sembled, waiting impatiently for us to come. The soup was smoking in a big pot hung high over the fire. We, of course, tasted it, borrowing two bowls from the children and asking Madame Labbey to cut us two pieces of bread, the children all giggling and rather shy. The soup was very good, and we were quite pleased to think that the poor little things should have something warm in their stomachs. The first depressing remark was made by our own coachman on the way home. His little daughter was living at the keeper's. I said to him, ”I did not see Celine with the other children.” ”Oh, no, Madame; she wasn't there. We pay for the food at Labbey's; she doesn't need charity.”
The next day, equally cold, about half the children came (there were only twenty-seven in the school); the third, five or six, rather shamefaced; the fourth, not one; and at the end of the week the keeper's wife begged us to stop the distribution; all the parents were hurt at the idea of their children receiving _public_ charity from Madame Waddington. She had thought some of the very old people of the village might like what was left; but no one came except some tramps and rough-looking men who had heard there was food to be had, and they made her very nervous prowling around the house when she was alone, her husband away all day in the woods.
W. was amused--not at all surprised--said he was quite sure we shouldn't succeed, but it was just as well to make our own experience.
We took our bowls back sadly to the Asile, where the good sister shook her head, saying, ”Madame verra comme c'est difficile de faire du bien dans ce paysci; on ne pense qu'a s'amuser.” And yet we saw the miserable little crusts of hard bread, and some of the boys in linen jackets over their skin, no s.h.i.+rt, and looking as if they had never had a good square meal in their lives.
I had one other curious experience, and after that I gave up trying anything that was a novelty or that they hadn't seen all their lives.
The French peasant is really conservative; and if left to himself, with no cheap political papers or socialist orators haranguing in the cafes on the eternal topic of the rich and the poor, he would be quite content to go on leading the life he and his fathers have always led--would never want to destroy or change anything.
I was staying one year with Lady Derby at Knowsley, in Christmas week, and I was present one afternoon when she was making her annual distribution of clothes to the village children. I was much pleased with some ulsters and some red cloaks she had for the girls. They were so pleased, too--broad smiles on their faces when they were called up and the cloaks put on their shoulders. They looked so warm and comfortable, when the little band trudged home across the snow. I had instantly visions of my school children attired in these cloaks, climbing our steep hills in the dark winter days.
I had a long consultation with Lady Margaret Cecil, Lady Derby's daughter--a perfect saint, who spent all her life helping other people--and she gave me the catalogue of ”Price Jones,” a well-known Welsh shop whose ”specialite” was all sorts of clothes for country people, schools, workmen's families, etc. I ordered a large collection of red cloaks, ulsters, and flannel s.h.i.+rts at a very reasonable price, and they promised to send them in the late summer, so that we should find them when we went back to France.
We found two large cases when we got home, and were quite pleased at all the nice warm cloaks we had in store for the winter.
As soon as the first real cold days began, about the end of November, the women used to appear at the chateau asking for warm clothes for the children. The first one to come was the wife of the ”garde de Borny”--a slight, pale woman, the mother of nine small children (several of them were members of the school at St. Quentin, who had declined our soup, and I rather had _their_ little pinched, bloodless faces in my mind when I first thought about it). She had three with her--a baby in her arms, a boy and a girl of six and seven, both bare-legged, the boy in an old worn-out jersey pulled over his chest, the girl in a ragged blue and white ap.r.o.n, a knitted shawl over her head and shoulders. The baby had a cloak. I don't believe there was much on underneath, and the mother was literally a bundle of rags, her skirt so patched one could hardly make out the original colour, and a wonderful cloak all frayed at the ends and with holes in every direction. However, they were all clean.
The baby and the boy were soon provided for. The boy was much pleased with his flannel s.h.i.+rt. Then we produced the red cloak for the girl.
The woman's face fell: ”Oh, no, Madame, I couldn't take that; my little girl couldn't wear it.” I, astounded: ”But you don't see what it is--a good, thick cloak that will cover her all up and keep her warm.” ”Oh, no, Madame, she couldn't wear that; all the people on the road would laugh at her! Cela ne se porte pas dans notre pays” (that is not worn in our country).
I explained that I had several, and that she would see all the other little girls with the same cloaks; but I got only the same answer, adding that Madame would see--no child would wear such a cloak. I was much disgusted--thought the woman was capricious; but she was perfectly right; not a single mother, and Heaven knows they were poor enough, would take a red cloak, and they all had to be transformed into red flannel petticoats. Every woman made me the same answer: ”Every one on the road would laugh at them.”
I was not much luckier with the ulsters. What I had ordered for big girls of nine and ten would just go on girls of six and seven. Either French children are much stouter than English, or they wear thicker things underneath. Here again there was work to do--all the sleeves were much too long; my maids had to alter and shorten them, which they did with rather a bad grace.
A most interesting operation that very cold year was taking ice out of the big pond at the foot of the hill. The ice was several inches thick, and beautifully clear in the middle of the pond; toward the edges the reeds and long gra.s.s had all got frozen into it, and it was rather difficult to get the big blocks out. We had one of the farm carts with a pair of strong horses, and three or four men with axes and a long pointed stick. It was so solid that we all stood on the pond while the men were cutting their first square hole in the middle.
It was funny to see the fish swimming about under the ice.
The whole village of course looked on, and the children were much excited, and wanted to come and slide on the ice, but I got nervous as the hole got bigger and the ice at the edges thinner, so we all adjourned to the road and watched operations from there.
There were plenty of fish in the pond, and once a year it was thoroughly drained and cleaned--the water drawn off, and the bottom of the pond, which got choked up with mud and weeds, cleared out. They made a fine haul of fish on those occasions from the small pools that were left on each side while the cleaning was going on.