gradual ascent to the forest that fringes the horizon. In front is the sea. At high water the waves rise to the very threshold of the three or four cottages which occupy the narrow extremity of the ravine. The last bound of the brook from the rough pebbly causeway that has been built for it through the village into the rude sea eager to absorb it, is lost and hidden in the dancing spray. Orbec should always be seen at low tide. Then the sand and rock lie open to the sky for many score of yards. At eve the sun casts deep violet shadows on the yellow cliffs, and wakes in every lingering pool among the rocks a hundred glowing colours. The sand shines smooth and clear, catching the sloping rays with its myriad tiny particles, dotted here and there with stones and bright green moss,—more rarely with the opal and sapphire mass of some torn jellyfish. From the southern side of the village stretches out a long rock rampart, rising over sand and sea for nearly half a mile, and crowned, just where it seems to be sinking under the surface, by a huge battered fort, riven by the strokes of a hundred storms; glorious to be seen when great gales toss the spray high above its grey old height, and liken it to the head of some mighty Viking sinking into the sea, his white hair beaten backwards and forwards by the wind. From the beach little of Orbec can be seen, for the cliffs nearly meet at the rivulet’s mouth. But three or four cottages, and the roofs of twenty more, are enough to give signs of life to the scene; or rather would give signs of life if life itself were absent. Only on the Jour des Morts is nobody to be seen. Then all Orbec is at church. On other days half-a-dozen sturdy boys and girls, with close-cropped yellow hair and bright brown limbs, are sure to be dabbling on the shore; and it is more than probable that several of their mothers and their sisters will be at the same time cleansing and destroying the linen of their respective families in the running brook. Round ruddy nets will be grouped some bigger boys and men. Nor is there wanting at Orbec the symbol of death as well as the personifications of strong healthy life. The symbol of death is there; speaking, however, not only of the death that will crumble away those lusty forms and still those cheery voices, but also of a better life. High over the housetops, and within sight of the homeward or outward bound fishermen for many a mile, is reared a tall rude crucifix of wood.
Round the higher course of the running stream is clustered a bewildering maze of narrow lanes, all passing between rows of fishermen’s cottages—cottages bright with stucco of yellow and pink and pale blue and white; each stamped with the glittering badge of some insurance company, and each veiled by a thick drapery of nets hung out to dry.
Some years ago I trudged into Orbec in the course of a long walk. I was passing part of the winter with friends who inhabited a quaint old Norman chateau, distant some ten or a dozen miles from the coast. It chanced to be the second of November, the “Commemoration des Morts” of the Roman Calendar. The narrow streets were empty. Save here and there a young child at a window, not a soul was to be seen. I made my way to the church crowning the high ground at the back of the village. Terrible to a heart full of taste for the Puginesque is that church at Orbec; for nowhere does a more hideous example of the most hideous eighteenth century style insult the ground it occupies. But the interior is richly characteristic. On that Jour des Morts it was all hung with black. The solemn drone of the priest at the altar sounded sadly through clouds of incense. But it was not the chant, or the candles, or the smoke, or the rude paintings, or the little ship models hung to the roof—votive offerings for the safety of those that travel by water—that most moved the heart. It was the dense mass of kneeling worshippers. There was all Orbec—men, women, and children—save the helpless old and the helpless young—all kneeling on their knees. The crowd reached to the door, and I could scarcely find a square foot of tile unoccupied. We less impulsive islanders may moralise as we will about popery and superstition, but it is a very solemn service—that Commemoration of the Dead. Think of all the love, and all the sorrow, and all the hope welling out of the souls of those simple Orbec fishermen! How many memories in that church were helping to bind the Communion of Saints!
This old woman at my side, I thought, of how many dead must not she be pondering! She looks as if she had been living here since the duchy was our kings’! She must be the original Vieille Femme de Normandie, miraculously kept alive since the days when the print was struck! What a store of legends must be hidden under that speckless cap! I waited long; till the old dame left the church. She was bent low with years, but with her stout stick she walked bravely. High over her head rose a great wall of fluted linen, starched to the consistency of steel. From her ears two huge gold drops—heirlooms of her clan—fell on cheeks as yellow and wrinkled as the skin of an apple forgotten in a store-room. She plodded on through the village, and entered one of the five cottages at the mouth of the brook.
An irresistible impulse drove me to make the acquaintance of this ancient dame. I longed to fathom her depths of folklore.
I forget precisely how my object was achieved. The Norman peasantry are not afflicted with British spleen; and I have no doubt that my overtures were not deemed impertinent. By whatever pretext, I was soon installed in the cottage of the old lady, free to contemplate her big walnut press, her clock in the corner, her paper flowers on the chimney, her bed drapery of gaudy chintz, and, best of all, her grandæval self.
“It is in truth a charming place.”
“Monsieur has reason. We love well our village, we.”
“Madame has inhabited it since very long time?”
“Ah, Monsieur, do not ask it of me! They call me the Old Mother of Orbec. I have—I do not know how many years. Hein, Monsieur! But I am strong yet! Thanks to Saint Anthony and the good God!”
