In and out of Three Normandy Inns

by Anna Bowman Dodd

There is no way of looking back so agreeable, on the whole, I think, as to look back upon a city.

From the near distance of the first turn in the road, Coutances and its cathedral were at their very best. The hill on which both stood was only one of the many hills we now saw growing out of the green valley; among the dozen hill tops, this one we were leaving was only more crowded than the others, and more gloriously crowned. In giant height uprose, above the city's roofs and the lesser towers, the spires and the lovely lantern tower. This vast mass of stone, pricked into lacy apertures and with its mighty lines of grace-for how many a long century has it been in the eye of the valley? Tancrède de Hauteville saw it before William was born—before he, the Conqueror, rode in his turn through the green lanes to consecrate the church to One greater than he. From Tancrède to Boileau, what a succession of bishops, each in their turn, have had their eye on the great cathedral. There was a sort of viking bishop, one Geoffrey de Montbray, of the Conqueror's day, who, having a greater taste for men's blood than their purification, found Coutances a dull city; there was more war of the kind his stout arm rejoiced in across the Channel; and so he travelled a bit to do a little pleasant killing. From Geoffrey to Boileau and the latter's lacy ruffles—how many a rude Norman epic was acted out, here in the valley, beneath the soaring spires, before the Homeric combat was turned into the verse of a chanso de geste, a Roman de Rou, or a Latrin!

As Poulette rolled the wheels along, instead of visored bishop, or mail rustling on strong breasts, there was the open face of the landscape, and the tremble of the grasses beneath the touch of the wind. Coming down the hill was a very peaceable company; doubtless, between wars in those hot fighting centuries, just such travellers went up and down the hill-road as unconcernedly as did these peasants. There was quite a variety among the present groups: some were strictly family parties; these talked little, giving their mind to stiff walking—the smell of the soup in the farmyard kitchen was in their nostrils. The women's ages were more legibly read in their caps than in their faces—the older the women the prettier the caps. Among these groups, queens of the party, were some first communicants. Their white kid slippers were brown now, from the long walk in the city streets and the dust of the highway. They held their veils with a maiden's awkwardness; with bent heads they leaned gravely on their fathers' arms. In this, their first supreme experience of self-consciousness, they had the self-absorption of young brides. The trail of their muslin gowns and the light cloud of their veils made dazzling spots of brightness in the delicate frame of the June landscape. Each of these white-clad figures was followed by a long train of friends and relatives. "C'est joli à voir—it's a pretty sight, hein, my ladies? these young girls are beautiful like that!" Our coachman took his eye off Poulette to turn in his seat, looking backward at the groups as they followed in our wake. "Ah—it was hard to leave my own—I had two like that, myself, in the procession to-day." And the full Norman eye filled with a sudden moisture. This was a more attractive glitter than the avarice of a moment before.

"You see, mesdames," he went on, as if wishing to excuse the moistened eyelids, "you see—it's a great day in the family when our children take their first communion. It is the day the child dies and the man, the woman is born. When our children kneel at our feet, before the priest, before their comrades, and beg us to forgive them all the sin they have done since they were born—it is too much—the heart grows so big it is near to bursting. Ah—it is then we all weep!"

Charm settled herself in her seat with a satisfied smile. "We are in luck—an emotional coachman who weeps and talks! The five hours will fly," she murmured. Then aloud, to Jacques—as we learned the now sniffling father was called—she presently asked, with the oil of encouragement in her tone:

"You say your two were in the procession?"

"Two! there were five in all. Even the babies walked. Did you see Jésu and the Magdalen? They were mine—C'était à moi, çà! For the priests will have them—as many as they can get."

"They are right. If the children didn't walk, how could the procession be so fine?" "Fine—beau—ca?" And there was a deep scorn in Jacques's voice. "You should have seen the fête twenty years ago! Now, its glory is as nothing. It's the priests themselves who are to blame. They've spoiled it all. Years ago, the whole town walked. Dieu—what a spectacle! The mayor, the mairie, all the firemen, municipal officers—yes, even the soldiers walked. And as for the singing—dame, all the young men were choristers then—we were trained for months. When we walked and sang in the open streets the singing filled all the town. It was like a great thunder."

"And the change—why has it come?" persisted Charm.

"Oh," Jacques replied, caressing Poulette's haunches with his whip-lash. "It's the priests; they were too grasping. They are avaricious, that's what they are. They want everything for themselves. And a fête—ça coule, vous savez. Besides, the spirit of the times has changed. People aren't so devout now. Libres penseurs—that's the fashion now. Holà, Poulette!"