They all looked on during the interview, which ended by the farmer's agreeing to drive me where I wanted to go—après tout c'était mon affaire. So off we started, the farmer himself driving and two of the dogs following joyously.
Very exhilarating was our somewhat jolty progress across the large level sunny district. It seemed more hushed than any inhabited district I had ever visited; as if it felt the presence of the great desert a few miles off. There were none of the little events of the country; no cattle looking over walls, no children along the roadside, no coming and going about the farmsteads, of which there were very few and those few singularly small and lifeless. The trundle of the wheels and the sound of the horse's hoofs on the road outlined themselves upon a blank sheet of silence. It seemed unnatural; the more so as there was everywhere such golden brightness.
The only scene of activity that we passed, soon after leaving the farm, was a group of men cutting down some ancient olive trees, and the farmer called out to them something in Provençal, to which there were some shouted replies, and all caps went off in a friendly way to le patron.
He was a quiet, worthy sort of man, very little different from an English farmer of the same condition. He was not unwilling to answer questions, but it was curious how he contrived to reply without conveying the slightest information, a peculiarity, be it remarked, of the type that is called "worthy."
If one asked, for instance, whether the land was owned by the peasantry themselves in the district, or whether it was in the hands of wealthy proprietors, he would flick the point off a branch of bramble in the hedge, and say with a shrug, implying that the inquiry was somewhat trivial: "Oui, il y en a."
It was useless to press the matter further, for that merely produced a still more effective barrier against the inquiring mind.
It is a fact, however, that in many districts of the South of France (contrary to the usual belief) the land is by no means always held by the peasants.
Again and again, in reply to inquiries, I have been informed that this or that stretch of country belonged to Monsieur or le Baron So and So, who was "enormement riche."
Questions about ancient customs were almost always futile. No promptings could produce a description or even a clear admission that such things existed. The true native is most damping to archæological enthusiasm.
The one thing he warms up about is the new village pump, or the hideous crucifix in cast iron which the municipality has just erected on some ancient stone pedestal where for centuries the discarded, moss-stained, prayer-assailed image used to stand, in all its pathetic significance.