Before we had got clear of the town, our cocher had begun to betray symptoms of intelligence. Our directions as to where we wished to go had been but vague, and, twisting himself round on his seat, he cross-questioned us until he had grasped the situation. ‘These demoiselles wished to see vineyards and vintagers at work in them, voyons!’—he twisted up the ends of his little black moustache, and grinned at us with unutterable comprehension, till his fat cheeks must have impeded his vision. ‘And they wish to make the photographie? Eh, bien! It is I who know where to conduct them. Allons, I will make them to see Château Latour!’ His black eyes beamed delightedly upon us, and his horse crawled unmolested down the hill, while a series of apparently agreeable ideas displayed themselves on its driver’s face. He resumed his usual position on the box, cracked his whip, and frightened the horse into a canter by saying ‘Huë!’ in a soprano voice.
It was very satisfactory. We told each other that we had indeed lighted upon a treasure—a man who understood what photography was, and who seemed to know the sort of things we wanted to photograph. We did not know that his mind was occupied in mapping out conveniently those of his friends whom he wished to visit, to photograph, to impress generally with his position of ‘Cicero’ (as a county Cork paper has classically expressed this office); but we realised all these things afterwards.
We drove for a while through the broad stretches
THE FIRST GROUP OF VENDANGEURS.
of the vineyards, where the myriad low vines stood with their octopus arms drooping untidily over the supporting wire, and the grapes hung heavy and ripe, taking their last look of the sun before their plunge into the seething night of the cuves. No one but the ardent négociant en vins could, we think, call the Médoc a beautiful land. Even at its gayest and greenest time these long slopes require all the romance and richness and mystery of the grapes to give them an interest, and the much-vaunted fact that the land was annually worth anything from £250 to £800 per acre cannot give it the sympathy that lies in an Irish hillside of furze and rock, whose price is adjusted in shillings and pence by Sub-Commissioners of the Land Court.
The vintage had hardly begun. We had to drive for some distance before we saw the first group of vendangeurs, standing waist-deep in the vines, snipping off the bunches and putting them into square wooden baskets, eating grapes by handfuls, and talking in a penetrating, incessant gabble that was as strident on the quiet vineyard slope as were the dazzling white sun-bonnets and kerchiefs and blue blouses in the toneless expanse of green. The Treasure pulled up, informing us that here was a suitable subject for photography, and we docilely got the Kodak into position. The vintagers turned as one man to stare at us, and we tried to isolate some half-dozen in the little focussing mirror, while the Treasure leaped from his box, and, circulating among the crowd, explained to them his position of proprietor of the entertainment with a sense of its humour that was only kept within bounds by the still stronger sense of self-importance. My cousin balanced the Kodak on her arm with all care, and said, ‘Maintenant très tranquille, s’il vous plaît!’ to the mirrored half-dozen, who with one accord shrieked with delight, put their arms round each other, did their hair, and otherwise prepared themselves for the ordeal.
‘How fortunate it is that they don’t object to being photographed!’ said my cousin. ‘Now, you pull the bobbin—I mean the button—and I will press the other thing.’
There followed a disintegrating click from the heart of the Kodak.