"But men must work and women must weep,
Though storms be sudden, and waters deep,
And the harbour bar be moaning,"
came back to me more than once, for the floating buoy at the end of the jetty makes a continuous dull melancholy sound when the sea is at all rough, and when it is foggy (the channel fogs come up very quickly) we hear fog horns all around us and quite distinctly the big sirène of Cap Gris Nez, which sends out its long wailing note over the sea. It is very powerful and is heard at a long distance.
The shops on the quay are an unfailing source of interest to me. I make a tour there every morning before I go down to the beach. They have such a wonderful variety of things. Shells of all sizes—enormous pink ones like those I always remember standing on the mantelpiece in the nursery at home—brought back by a sailor brother who used to tell us to put them to our ears and we would hear the noise of the sea—and beautiful delicate little mother-of-pearl shells that are almost jewels—wonderful frames, boxes, and pincushions, made of shells; big spoons, too, with a figure or a ship painted on them—knives, penholders, paper-cutters and brooches, made out of the bones of big fish—tassels of bright-coloured sea-weed, corals, vanilla beans—curiously worked leather belts—some roughly carved ivory crosses, umbrella handles, canes of every description, pipes, long gold earrings, parrots, little birds with bright-coloured feathers, monkeys—an extraordinary collection.
I am sure one would find many curious specimens if one could penetrate into the back of the old shops and pull the things about—evidently sailors from all parts of the world have passed at Boulogne. Still I don't hear many foreign languages spoken—almost always French and English; occasionally a dark face, with bright black eyes, strikes one. We saw two Italians the other day, talking and gesticulating hard, shivering, too, with woollen comforters tied over their caps. There was a cold fog and we were all wrapped up. It must be awful weather for Southerners who only live when the sun shines and go to bed when it is cold and gray. There are all sorts of itinerants, petits marchands, on the other side of the quay, looking on the water—old women with fruit and cakes—children with crabs and shrimps—dolls in Boulonaise costume—fishwives and matelottes, stalls with every description of food, tea, coffee, chocolate, sandwiches, and fried potatoes. The children bought some potatoes the other day wrapped up in brown paper—quite a big portion for two sous—and said they were very good.
The quais are very broad, happily, for everything is put there. One morning there were quantities of barrels. I asked what was in them. Salt, they told me, for the herring-boats which are starting these days. Nets, coils of ropes, big sails, baskets, boxes, odd bits of iron, some anchors—one has rather to pick one's way. An automobile has been standing there for three or four days. I asked if that was going to Iceland on a trawler, but the man answered quite simply, "Oh, no, Madame, what should we do with an automobile in a fishing-boat. It belongs to the owner of one of the ships, and has been here en panne waiting till he can have it repaired."
We went one evening to the Casino to see a "bal des matelottes." It was a curious sight—a band playing on a raised stand—a broad space cleared all round it and lots of people dancing. The great feature, of course, was the matelottes. Their costumes were very effective—they all wore short, very full skirts, different coloured jackets, short, with a belt, very good stout shoes and stockings, and their white frilled caps. They always danced together (very rarely with a man—it is not etiquette for them to dance with any man when their husbands or lovers are at sea), their hands on each other's shoulders. They dance perfectly well and keep excellent time and, I suppose, enjoy themselves, but they look very solemn going round and round until the music stops. Their feet and ankles are usually small. I heard an explanation the other day of their dark skins, clean cut features, and small feet. They are of Portuguese origin. The first foreign sailors who came to France were Portuguese. Many of them remained, married French girls, and that accounts for that peculiar type in their descendants which is very different from the look of the Frenchwoman in general. There are one or two villages in Brittany where the women have the same colouring and features, and there also Portuguese sailors had remained and married, and one still hears some Portuguese names—José, Manuel—and among the women some Annunziatas, Carmelas, etc. We had a house in Brittany one summer and our kitchen maid was called Dolores.
CAP GRIS NEZ.
We made a lovely excursion one day to Cap Gris Nez—just at the end of a wild bit of coast about twenty-five kilomètres from Boulogne. The road was enchanting on the top of the cliff all along the sea. We passed through Vimereux, a small bathing-place four or five miles from Boulogne, and one or two other villages, then went through a wild desolate tract of sand-hills and plains and came upon the lighthouse, one of the most important of the coast—a very powerful light that all inward-bound boats are delighted to see. There are one or two villas near on the top of the cliff, then the road turns sharply down to the beach—a beautiful broad expanse of yellow sand, reaching very far out that day as it was dead low tide.
In the distance we saw figures; couldn't distinguish what they were doing, but supposed they were fishing for shrimps, which was what our party meant to do. The auto was filled with nets, baskets, and clothes, as well as luncheon baskets. The hotel—a very good, simple one—with a broad piazza going all around it, was half-way down the cliff, and the woman was very "complaisante" and helpful—said there were plenty of shrimps, crabs, and lobsters and no one to fish. She and her husband had been out at four o'clock that morning and had brought back "quatre pintes" of shrimps. No one knew what she meant, but it was evidently a measure of some kind. I suppose an English pint. She gave us a cabin where the two young matrons dressed, or rather undressed, as they reappeared in their bathing trousers—which stopped some little distance above the knee—very short skirts, bare legs, "espadrilles" on their feet, and large Panama hats to protect them from the sun. The men had merely rolled up their trousers. They went out very far—I could just make them out—they seemed a part of the sea and sky, moving objects standing out against the horizon.
I made myself very comfortable with rugs and cushions under the cliff—I had my book as I knew it would be a long operation. It was enchanting—sitting there, such a beautiful afternoon. We saw the English coast quite distinctly. There was not a sound—no bathing cabins or tents, nobody on the shore, but a few fishermen were spreading nets on poles to catch the fish as the tide came up. The sea was quite blue, and as the afternoon lengthened there were lovely soft lights over everything; such warm tints it might almost have been the Mediterranean and the Riviera. A few fishing-boats passed in the distance, but there was nothing to break the great stillness—not even the ripple of the waves, as the sea was too far out. It was a curious sensation to be sitting there quite alone—the blue sea at my feet and the cliff rising straight up behind me.