And now we are at Altanca. Just above it are some little prairies and small pine woods. Wherever there was a chance that a tree might be able to hold on, one had been persuaded to make the attempt; and wherever there was a chance that a little soil might be able to hold on, an attempt had been made to form a prairie. The village itself is on a ledge of rock. About fifty feet below it is a little area of some dozen acres, sufficiently level for spade husbandry. Here the twenty-five families grow their little patches of rye, cabbages, and potatoes. It was now towards the end of August, and so their busiest time. The rye harvest, and the hay harvest, were both being brought home; and this glorious day would perhaps be the busiest of their brief summer. We found all the houses closed. In the village no one was to be seen. Everyone was in the field. Almost the first house we passed was the Curé’s: surely one of the three sisters would be at home, though, indeed, I had some disinclination to tapping at the door, for conscience told me that I was deserting the recognised host of the place for selfish reasons, that it would hurt the feelings of the sisterhood to find that I was in search of entertainment elsewhere, and that there would be something cruel in selecting them of all people for such inquiries. It was, therefore, a relief to find that they, too, were in the field. On such a day to have remained within doors at Altanca would have been a reproach. I might have guessed that they were not at home, for a large bundle of hay in a hempen sheet had been deposited on the door-step. Some fifty yards below this house was a row of twenty-barred kraschners, the kind of gigantic clothes-horses on which at these altitudes corn is stacked and dried in sheaf. About a dozen of the dames and maidens of Altanca were clambering up the bars of these kraschners, with loads of sheaves on their shoulders, and packing them away between the bars. They do not work from top to bottom, but from end to end, beginning at the bottom. A few sheaves are put in over the bottom bar. Of these only the heads are passed through the opening between the two bars. The sheaves are then bent on the bar so that their long butt-ends hang down. In each row all the head ends are on one side, and all the butt-ends on the other. The heads and butt-ends of the alternate rows being reversed, the long butt-ends of each row, as you ascend from bottom to top, completely protect from wet the short head ends of the row below it. Of course when the whole is full, no head ends are seen on either side, all being covered, as it were thatched, by the rows of butt-ends. The topmost row is protected either by a wooden ridge, or by a little straw. Our appearance on the scene, as might have been expected, caused an instantaneous suspension of work. Those who were going aloft with loads on their backs, and those who were thrusting into their places the sheaves that had been brought to them, came to a standstill as they were made aware from below of the unwonted intrusion. Everyone seemed to know the Parisienne, and so the interruption did not last many moments.
This busy quarter of Altanca was at its extreme east. The Parisienne’s mansion was at the west end. We soon reached it, for here distances are not great. The front door opened on the kitchen and store-room. You passed through this and entered the ‘keeping’ room, a large and tidy room for a châlet. It did, however, also contain a bed in an obscure corner. No one was at home. But the master of the house was soon summoned. He had spent his days of foreign sojourn at Paris, where he had made the money which he had spent on his house, and where he had also found his wife, and learnt to speak French. He immediately produced a bottle of wholesome wine, some mummy beef, and petrified white bread. I asked for fresh rye-bread and Piora cheese. He assured us that his wife would be at home early in the evening, and would do all she could for us. He had a new bedroom which he would place at my disposal. Fortunately it had but one bed. He would, therefore, procure a bed for the communist in a neighbouring châlet. He was a tall handsome man, as almost all the men are in these valleys. He despatched a messenger for his nephew to spend the evening with me, for he was one who had seen much of the world; he could, too, speak English.
At last evening came, and with it the nephew, and the long expected Parisienne. Her first thought was to offer me a pair of slippers, and to ask me to take off my boots. As is the case with so many of her countrywomen in middle-age she had lost her figure, but had retained her vivacity. She was full of lively talk, and, to be Irish, equally so of good nature. She would do all she could, but, as an aside, Altanca was not Paris. During my stay in this house I had this aside in many forms, and à propos to many matters. But though, as she impressed on me, Altanca was not Paris, she did what she could to show that it had not extinguished her recollections of Paris. It was pleasant in such a place, and under such circumstances, to hear what in some degree reminded one of French esprit, and of the neatness of French expression. As was natural, too, in a Frenchwoman, she was proud of her potage. I thought it rather salt. The stock probably had been made of dried salt beef. ‘Excuse me, monsieur, the French kitchen is even more salée than the Swiss.’
‘Madame, you are right. The potage is excellent; and to-morrow at All’ Acqua, and often in the future elsewhere, I shall have reason to recall its merits, which will ever be accompanied with pleasing recollections of its maker.’
If the cheesemaker of Ritom might have sat for a model of Hercules, the nephew of our host might have sat for a model of Apollo. He was tall, clean-built, and strong-limbed, without showing much muscular development. His features were regular, and finely-chiselled, and full of thought. His voice was clear and musical. And yet he was only a carpenter of Altanca, who had just returned to see his family, after having followed his trade for nine years in California. Below the window at which we were sitting were the few acres of the corn and garden ground of the twenty-five families of Altanca. As we looked out upon it, watching the people at work in the gloaming, I knew what thoughts were passing through his mind, and so, addressing myself to them, I said, ‘That little bit of land would be but a neglected corner in a Californian farm.’
‘Yes,’ he replied; ‘things are on a very small scale here. But that is not all. There is no liberty here.’
‘How?’ I asked. ‘The people here manage their own affairs as completely as they do in California. Both are equally republican.’
‘Yes,’ he again replied, ‘but it is so only in form. There is no liberty here.’
He meant liberty of opinion, and scope for action.