Sometimes the incident is so entirely upsetting to the moral equilibrium of the possessor of the private pew, who finds himself suddenly in the position of not being able to enter his own property, that his a Sunday expression, which has unconsciously to himself been put on (a thing peculiarly English) is absolutely in ruins, and nothing visible of it any more! Moreover, his chagrin is such that he is often unable to control the outward expression of his feelings!
St. Emilion is within easy reach, by rail, of Bordeaux, and the bit of country through which one passes to reach it is very characteristic of that part of France.
The vineyards between Bordeaux and St. Emilion stretch in almost one continuous line. They are like serried ranks; the ground literally bristles with them. The sticks to which the vines are attached are not more than two feet in height, (sometimes not that). In one district they were all under water—a broad, grey sheet. Here and there in among the vines were trees—vivid yellow in leafage, with one obtrusively flaring blood-red in colour in their midst. The cows that browsed near the vines were tied by the leg to some big plank of wood, which they had to drag along after them as they walked. Most awkward appendage, too, it must have been. Though everywhere accompanied by this "drag upon the wheel," yet they were also governed and directed by the invariable peasant woman, at a little distance in the rear. Cocks and hens are also allowed to disport themselves up and down the vine rows, and seem to be given carte blanche in the way of pickings.
Possibly, now one comes to think of it, this may account for the odd taste some of the eggs have: it may be that some of the weaker vessels among the hens are tempted to help themselves to the wine in embryo, (in the same sort of way as do some butlers in cellars), and that this spicy flavour gets into the eggs without the hens being aware of it! It may not be the fault of the cocks. What can one cock do, in the way of restraint, among so many flighty hens?
I shall never forget one of the oddest scenes, in connection with cocks and hens, that I ever witnessed. I had, in the course of a walk, got over a high gate which led into a field. No sooner was I on terra firma again than I perceived, by the scuttling and flounce of feathers, and general fussy cackling, that I had stepped into the midst of a conclave which the lord and master of that particular harem was holding: his better halves (?) were around him. I am sorry to have to admit that he did not hesitate an instant, but, having no hands ready in which to take his courage, he left it behind him, in a most ignominious fashion and was the first to hurry to a place of shelter at some distance from me. When the shelter—in the shape of an old outhouse—was secured, he leant out of it and, anxiety for the safety of his household eloquently expressed on his red face, he chortled in his eager injunctions and exhortations to his hens to come and be protected. They obeyed, and I could hear an animated story or recital of some sort being given them by him.
Was he reading them a sermon on the imperative necessity of suppressing the feminine (?) vice of curiosity, which might lead them to venture out imprudently again into the danger just escaped and averted by his watchful vigilance? or was he explaining away his own apparent failure in courage lately shown them? Whichever it was, they lent him their ears—all but one hen, and she perhaps had formed the habit of making up her judgments independently on current events, without the aid of the masculine mind, for she peeped round the corner repeatedly at me, and finally, seeing I appeared to be a harmless individual enough, she, without consulting the cock, ventured to come and inspect, and remained, by my side with a modicum of caution, for some time.
But to return. Underneath some of the elms, which back-grounded the vineyards, the bronze coinage of dead leaves lay thick in handfuls. Past them came slowly and musically, from time to time, a roomy cart; its big bell—note of warning of its approach—hanging in a sort of little belfry of its own behind the horse. Here, there would be a belt of tawny trees against one of dark myrtle; there, a wood, soft pink and russet, and in the midst of it, piled bundles of faggots.
We had provided ourselves with our second déjeuner, but only the butter and bread and Médoc were beyond reproach; the Camembert had reached an uncertain age, and the ham had gone up higher! Mais que voulez-vous? You can hardly expect a feast out of doors as well as indoors, a feast to the mouth as well as to the eye. And outside was the most royally satisfying banquet of colours that any eye could desire. Colours at their richest, contrasts at their completest period.