The writings of Anne Isabella Thackeray

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THE VILLAGE ON TH^ CLIFF •",

THE SLEEPING BEAUTY IN THE WOOD « 139

Preface

WE have all of us in the course of our life's journeys sometimes lived for a little whilfe in places which were wearisome and monotonous to us at the time ; which had little to attract or to interest ; we may have left them without regret, never even wishing to return. But yet as we have travelled away, we may have found that through some subtle and unconscious attraction, sights, sounds, and pecuharities which we thought we had scarcely noticed, seem to be repeating themselves in our brains ; the atmosphere of the place seems to be haunting us, as though unwilling to let us escape. And this peculiar distinctness and vividness does not appear to Avear out with time and distance. The pictures are like those of a magic-lantern, and come suddenly out of the dimness and darkness, starting into life when the lamp is hghted by some chance association ; so clearly and sharply defined and colored, that we can scarcely believe that they are only reflections from old sUdes which have been lying in our store for years past.

The slides upon which this little history is painted, somewhat rudely and roughly, have come from Petitport in Normandy, a dull little fishing-town upon the coast. It stands almost opposite to Ryde, in the Isle of Wight. The place is quite uninteresting, the district is not beautiful, but broad and fertile and sad and pleasant together. The country folks are high-spirited and sometimes gay, but usually grave, as people are who live by the sea. They are a well-grown, stately race, good-mannered, ready and shrewd in their talk and their deahngs ; they are willing to make friends, but they are at the same time reserved and careful of what they say. English people are little known at Petitport — one or two had staid at the Chateau de Tracy "dans le temps," they told me, for Madame herself was of English parentage, and so was Madame Fontaine, who married from there. But the strangers who came to lodge in the place for the sake of the sea-bathing and the fine sands were from Caen and Bayeux for the most part, and only remained during a week or two.

Except just on fete-days and while the bathing-time lasted, every thing was very still at Petitport. Sometimes all the men would ga away together in the boats, leaving the women and children alone in the village. I was there after the bathing-season was over, and before the first fishing-fleet left. The fishermen's wives were all busy preparing provisions, making ready, sewing at warm clothes, and helping to mend the nets before their husbands' departure. I could see them hard at work through the open doors as I walked up the steep little village street.

There is a precipitous path at the farther end of the village which leads down to the beach below. One comes to it by some steps which descend along the side of a smart httle house built on the very edge of the cliff— a " chalet," they call it. It has many windows and weathercocks, and muslin curtains and wooden balconies ; and there is a sort of embankment or terrace-walk half-way to the sea. This was Madame Fontaine's chalet, the people told me — her husband had left it to her in his last will and testament — but she did not inhabit it. I had never seen any one come out of the place except once a fiercely capped maid-seiwant with beetle brows, who went climbing up the hill beyond the chalet, and finally disappeared over its crest. It seemed as if the maid and the house were destined to be blown right away in time ; all the winds came rushing across the fields and the countiy, and beating against the hillside, and it was a battle to reach the steps which led down to the quiet below. A wide sea is heaving and flashing at one's feet, as one descends the steep, the boats lie" like specks on the shingle, birds go flj-ing wind-blown below one's feet, and the rushing sound of the tide seems to fill the air. When I reached the foot of the cUflf at last, I looked about for some place to rest. A young countrywoman was sitting not far off on the side of a boat, — a shabby old boat it was, full of water and sand and sea-weed, with a patch of deal in its old brown coat. I was tired, and I went and sat down too.

The woman did not look round or make any movement, and remained quite still, a quiet figure against the long line of coast, staring at the receding tide. Some sailors not far off were shouting to one another, and busy with a fishing-smack which they had dragged up high and dry, and safe iv PREFACE.

from the water. Presently one of the men came plodding up over the shingle, and I asked him if he wanted his boat.

" Even if I wanted it, I should not think of disturbing you and Mademoiselle Reine," answered the old fellow. He had a kindly puzzled weather-beaten face. "Remain, remain," he said.

" He, huh !" shouted his companions, filing oft', " come and eat." But he paid no. attention to their call, and went on talking. He had been out all night, but he had only caught cuttle-fish, he told me. They were not good to eat — they required so much beating before they could be cooked. They seize the boats with their long straggling legs " Did I hear of their clutching

hold of poor old Nanon Lefebvre the other day, when she was setting her nets ? Mademoiselle Reine could tell the long and short of it, for she was on the spot and called for help. "

"And you came and killed the beast, and there was an end of it," said Mademoiselle Reine, shortly, glancing round with a pair of flashing bright eyes, and then turning her back upon us once more.

Hers was a striking and heroic type of physiognomy. She interested me then, as she has done ever since'that day. There was something fierce, bright, good-humored about her. There was a heart and strength and sentiment in her face— so I thought, at least, as she flashed round upon us. It is a rare combination, for women are not often both gentle and strong. She had turned her back again, however, and I went on talking to the old sailor. Had he had a good season — had he been fortunate in his fishing ?

A strange, doubting look came into his face, and he spoke very slowly. "I have read in the Holy Gospels," he said, turning his cap round in his hands, " that when St. Peter and his companions were commanded to let down their nets, they inclosed such a multitude of fishes that their nets brake. I am sorry that the time for miracles is past. I have often caught fish, but my nets have never yet broken from the quantity they contained."

"You are all preparing to start for Dieppe?" I said, to change the subject.

" We go in a day or two," he answered ; " perhaps a hundred boats will be starting. We go here, we go there — may be at a league's distance. It is curious to see. We are drifting about ; we ask one another, ' Hast thou found the herring?' and we answer, 'No! there is no sign :' and perhaps at last some one says, ' It is at such and such a place.' We have landmarks. We have one at Asnelles, for instance," and he pointed to the glittering distant village, on the tongue of land which jutted into the s^a at the horizon. "And then it happens," said the old fellow, "that all

of a sudden we come upon what we are searching for We have enough then, for we find

them close-packed together, like this ;" and he pressed his two brown hands against one another.

" And is not that a miracle to satisfy you, Christophe Lefebwe?" said the woman, speaking in a deep sweet voice, with a strange ringing chord in it, and once more flashing round.

" Ah, mademoiselle," he said, quite seriously, " they are but herrings. Now St. Peter caught trout in his nets. I saw that in the picture which you showed me last Easter, when I went up to Tracy. I am only a rough man," he went on, speaking to me again. " I can't speak like those smart gentlemen from Paris, who make ' calembours,' and who have been to college; you must forgive me if I have oft'ended you, or said any thing Avrongly. I have only been to one school in our little village ; I learnt what I could there "

"And to that other school, Christophe," said the deep voice again; and the young woman pointed to the sea.

Then he brightened up. "There, indeed, I have learnt a great many things, and I defy any of those fine gentlemen to teach me a single fact regarding it."

"And yet there are some of them — of the fine gentlemen, as you call them, "she said, looking him full in the face, "who are not out of place on board a boat, as you ought to know well enough. "

Lefebvre shrugged his shoulders. "Monsieur Richard,"' he said, " and M. de Tracy too, they liked being on board, and were not afraid of a wetting. Monsieur Fontaine, pauvre homme, it was not courage he wanted. Vous n'avez pas tort. Mademoiselle Reine. Permit me to ask you if you have had news lately of' the widow? She is a good and pretty person" (he said to me), "and we of the country all like her. "

"She is good and pretty, as you say," answered the young woman, shortly. "You ask me for news, Christophe. I heard some news of her this morning ; they say Madame Fontaine is going to be married again. " And then suddenly turning away, Mademoiselle Reine rose abruptly from her seat, and walked across the sands out towards the distant sea.

THE VILLAGE ON THE CLIFE.

PREFACE.

We have all of us, in the course of our life's journeys, sometimes lived for a little while in places whicli were wearisome and monotonous to us at the time ; which had little to attract or to interest ; we may have left them without regret, never even wishing to return. But yet, as we have traveled away, we may have found that, through some subtle and unconscious attraction, sights, sounds, and peculiarities which we thought we had scarcely noticed, seem to be repeating themselves in our brains ; the atmosphere of the place seems to be haunting us, as though unwilling to let us escape. And this peculiar distinctness and vividness does not appear to wear out with time and distance. The pictures are like those of a magic-lantern, and come suddenly out of the dimness and darkness, starting into life when the lamp is lighted by some chance association, so clearly and sharply defined and colored that we can scarcely believe that they are only reflections from old slides which have been lying in our store for years past.

The slides upon which this little history is painted, somewhat rudely and roughly, have come from Petitport, in Normandy, a dull little fishing town upon the coast. It stands almost opposite to Ryde, in the Isle of Wight. The place is quite ttninteresting, the district is not beautiful, but broad, and fertile, and sad, and pleasant together. The country folks are high-spirited and sometimes gay, but usually grave, as people are who live by the sea. They are a well-grown, stately race, good-mannered, ready and shrewd in their talk and their dealings ; they are willing to make friends, but they are at the same time reserved and careful of what they say. English people are little known at Petitport — one or two had staid at the Chateau de Tracy " dans le temps," they told me, for Madame herself was of English parentage, and so was Madame Fontaine who married from there. But the strangers who came to lodge in the place for the sake of the sea-bathing and the fine sands were from Caen and Bayeux for the most part, and only remained during a week or two.

Except just on fete-days and while the bathing-time lasted, every thing was very still at Petitport. Sometimes all the men would go away together in their boats, leaving the women and children alone in the village. I was there after the bathing-season was over, and before the first fishing-fleet left. The fishermen's wives were all busy preparing provisions, making ready, sewing at warm clothes, and helping to mend the nets before their husbands' departure. I could see them hard at work through the open doors as I walked up the steep little village street.

There is a precipitous path at the farther end of the village which leads down to the beach below. One comes to it by some steps which descend along the side of a smart little house built on the very edge of the cliff" — a " chalet" they call it. It has many windows and weather-cocks, and muslin curtains and wooden balconies, and there is a sort of embankment or terrace-walk half way to the sea. This was Madame Fontaine's chalet, the people told me — her husband had left it to her in his last will and testament — but she did not inhabit it. I had never seen any one come out of the place except once a fiercely-capped maid-servant with beetle brows, who went climbing up the hill beyond the chalet, and finally disappeared over its crest. It seemed as if the maid and the house were destined to be blown riglit away in time ; all the winds came rushing across the fields and the country, and beating against the hill-side, and it was a battle to reach the steps which led

THE VILLAGE ON. THE CLIFF.

down to the quiet below. A wide sea is heaving and flasliing at one's feet, as one descends the steep ; the boats lie like s])ecks on the shingle ; birds go flying wind-blown below one's feet, and the rushing sound of the tide seems to fill tlie air. When I reached the foot of tlie clift" at last, I looked about for some place to rest. A young countrywoman was sitting not far off on the side of a boat — a shabby old boat it was, full of water, and sand, and sea-weed, with a patch of deal in its old brown coat. I was tired, and I went and sat down too.

The woman did not look round or make any movement, and remained quite still, a quiet figure against the long line of coast, staring at the receding tide. Some sailors not far off were shouting to one another, and busy with a fishing-smack which they had dragged up high and dry and safe from the water. Presently one of the men came plodding up over the shingle, and I asked him if he wanted his boat.

" Even if I wanted it, I should not think of disturbing you and Mademoiselle Reine," answered the old fellow. He had a kindly puzzled weather-beaten face. "Remain, remain," he said.

"He, huh!" shouted his companions, filing ofl^, "come and eat." But he paid no attention to their call, and went on talking. He had been out all night, but he had only caught cuttle-fish, he told me. They were not good to eat — they required so much beating before they could be cooked. They seize the boats with their long straggling legs ..." Did I hear of their clutching hold of poor old Nanon Lefebvre the other day, when she was setting her nets? Mademoiselle Reine could tell me the long and the short of it, for she was on the spot and called for help."

" And you came and killed the beast, and there was an end of it," said Mademoiselle Reine, shortly, glancing round with a pair of flashing bright eyes, and then turning her back upon us once more.

Hers was a striking and heroic type of physiognomy. She interested me then, as she has done ever since that day. There was something fierce, bright, good-humored about her. There was heart, and strength, and sentiment in her face — so I thought, at least, as she flashed round upon us. It is a rare combination, for women are not often both gentle and strong. She had turned her back again, however, and I went on talking to the old sailor. Had he had a good season — had he been fortunate in his fishing?

A strange doubting look came into his face, and he spoke very slowly. "I have read in the Holy Gospels," he said, turning his cap round in his hands, " that, when St. Peter and his coippanions were commanded to let down their nets, they inclosed such a multitude of fishes that their nets brake. I am sorry that the time for miracles is ]>ast. I have often caught fish, but my nets have never yet broken from the quantity they contained."

"You are all preparing to start for Dieppe?" I said, to change the subject.

"We go in a day or two," he answered; " perliaps a hundred boats will be starting. We go here, we go there — may be at a league's distance. It is curious to see. We are drifting about; we ask one another, ' Hast thou found the herring ?' and we answer, ' No ! there is no sign ;' and perhaps at last some one says, 'It is at such and such a place.' We have landmarks. We have one at Asnelles, for instance," and he pointed to the glittering distant village on the tongue of land which jutted into the sea at the horizon. ' ' And then it happens," said the old fellow, " that all of a sudden we come upon what we are searching for . . . We have enough then, for we find them close-packed together like tliis;" and he pressed his two brown hands against one another.

"And is not that a miracle to satisfy you, Christopher Lefebvre?" said the woman, speaking in a deep sweet voice, with a strange ringing chord in it, and once more flashing round. "Ah! mademoiselle," he said, quite seriously, " they are but herrings. Now St. Peter caught trout in his nets. I saw that in the picture which you showed me last Easter, when I went up to Tracy. I am only a rough man," he went on, speaking to me again. "I can't speak like' those smart gentlemen from Paris, who make ' calembours,' and who have been to college ; you must forgive me if I have oflfended you, or said any thing wrongly. I have only been to one school at our little village ; I learnt what I could there . . ."

"And to that other school, Christophe," said the deep voice again ; and the young woman pointed to the sea.

Then he briglitened up. "There, indeed, I have learnt a great many things, and I defy any one of those fine gentlemen to teach me a single fact regarding it."

"And yet there are some of them — of the fine gentlemen, as you call them," she said, looking him full in the face, "who are not out of ))lace on board a boat, as you ought to know Avell enough."

Lefebvre shrugged his shoulders. " Monsiem- Richard," he said, "and M. de Tracy too, they liked being on board, and were not afraid of a wetting. Monsieur Fontaine, pauvrc homme, it was not courage he wanted. Vous n'avez pas tort. Mademoiselle Reine. Permit me to ask you if you have had news lately of the widow ? She is a good and pretty person" (he said to me), "and we of the country all like her."

"She is good and pretty, as you say," answered the young woman, shortly. "You ask me for news, Christophe. I had some news of her. this morning; Madame Fontaine' is going to be married again." And then suddenly turning away. Mademoiselle Reine rose abruptly from her seat and walked across the sands out toward the distant sea.

THE VILLAGE ON THE CLIFF.

Chapter I. Adieu, Charmant Pats

Five o'clock on a fine Sunday — western lijrht streaming along the shore, low clift's stretching away on either side, with tufted grasses and thin straggling flowers growing from the loose arid soil — far-away promontories, flashing and distant shores, which the tides have not yet overlapped, all shining in the sun. The waves swell steadily inward, the foam sparkles where the ripples meet the sands.

The horizon is solemn dark blue, but a great streak of light crosses the sea ; three white sails gleam, so do the white caps of the peasant-women, and the wings of the sea-gulls as they go swimming through the air.

Holiday people are out in their Sunday clothes. They go strolling along the shore, or bathing and screaming to each other in the waters. The countrymen wear their blue smocks of a dai-ker blue than the sea, and they walk by their wives and sweethearts in their gay-colored Sunday petticoats. A priest goes by ; a grand lady in frills, yellow shoes, red jacket, fly-away hat, and a cane. Her husband is also in scarlet and yellow. Then come more women and Normandy caps flapping, gossiping together, and baskets and babies, and huge umbrellas. A figure, harlequin-like, all stripes and long legs, suddenly darts from behind a rock, and frisks into the water, followed by a dog barking furiously. More priests go by from the seminary at Asnelles. Then perhaps a sister of charity, with her large flat shoes, accompanied by two grand-looking bonnets.

I believe M. le Sous-pre'fet himself had been seen on the sands that afternoon by Marion, by Isabeau, by Madame Potier, and all the village, in short. M. le Maire had also been remarked walking with the English gentlemen from the chateau ; one pair of eyes watched the two curiously as they went by. The little Englishman was sauntering in his odd loose clothes; Monsieur Fontaine, the maire, tripping beside him with short, quick military steps, neat gaiters, a cane, thread gloves, and a curly-rimmed Panama hat. M. Fontaine was the taller of the two, but the Englishman seemed to keep ahead somehow, although he only sauntered and dragged one leg lazily after the other. Pelottier, the inn-keeper, had been parading up and down all the afternoon with his rich and hideous bride. She went mincing along, with a parasol, and mittens, and gold earrings, and a great gold ring on her fore finger, and a Paris cap stuck over with pins and orange-flowers. She looked daggers at Eeine Chre'tien, who had scorned Pelottier, and boxed his great red ears, it was said, earrings and all. As for Heine, she marched past the couple in her Normandy peasant dress, with its beautiful old laces and gold ornaments, looking straight before her, as she took the arm of her grandfather, the old farmer from Tracy.

Besides all these grown-up people there comes occasionally a little flying squadron of boys and girls, rushing along, tumbling down, shouting and screaming at the pitch of their voices, to the scandal of the other children who are better brought up, and who are soberly trotting in their small bourrelets, and bibs and blouses, by the side of their fathers and mothers. The babies are the solemnest and the funniest of all, as they stare at the sea and the company from their tight maillots or cocoons.

The country folks meet, greet one another cheerfully, and part with signs and jokes; the bathers go on shouting and beating the water ; the lights dance. In the distance, across the sands, you see the figures walking leisurely homeward before the tide overtakes them ; the sky gleams whiter and whiter at the horizon, and bluer and more blue behind the arid grasses that fringe the overhanging edge of the cliffs.

Four or five little boys come running up one by one, handkerchief- flying umbrella -bearer ahead to the martial sound of a penny trumpet.

The little captain pursues them breathless and exhausted, brandishing his sword in an agony of command. "Soldat3,"he says, addressing his refractory troops, "soldats, souvenez-vous qu'il ne faut jamais courrir. Soldats, ne courrez pas, je vous en prrrrie — une, deux, trois," and away they march to the relief of a sand fort which is being attacked by the sea. And so the day goes on, and the children play

Among the waste nnd lumber of the shore. H.ird coils of cordage, swarthy fishing-nets, Anchors of rusty fluke, and boats updrawn ;

and while they build "their castles of dissolving sand to watch them overflow," the air, and the sounds, and the colors in which all these people are moving seem to grow clearer and clearer ; you can see the country people clambering the cliffs behind the village, and hear the voices and the laughter of the groups assembled on the embanked market-place. And meanwhile M. le Maire and the Englishman are walking slowly along the sands toward Tracy, with long grotesque shadows lengthening as the sun begins to set.

"I hope you will revisit our little town before long," M. Fontaine was politely remarking to his companion. "I hear that you start to-morrow, and that Madame de Tracy accompanies )'0U."

"My aunt declares she can not possibly go alone," said the Englishman, shrugging his shoulders, and speaking in very good French for an Englishman, " or I should have been, glad to stay another week. "

"You have not yet visited the oyster-park at Courseulles," said M. le Maire, looking concerned. " It is a pity that you depart so soon."

"I am veiy unfortunate to miss such a chance," said the Englishman, smiling.

The Maire of Petitport seemed to think this a most natural regret. " Courseulles is a deeply interesting spot," he said. " Strangers travel from far to visit it. You have nothing of the sort in your country, I believe. You would see the education of the oyster there brought to

THE VILLAGE ON THE CLIiF.

its highest point of perfection. They are most intelligent animals, I am assured; one would not have imagined it. You would see them sorted out according to size, in commodious tanks. Every variety is there — from enormous patriarchal oysters to little baby ones, mi maillot, I may say. The returns are enormous, I believe. And then you have such a fine air at Courseulles; magnificent plains — a vast horizon — no ti-ees, nothing to interrupt the coupd'ceil. The effect of the moon shining on the marshes and the establishment is really striking."

"I think old Chretien has a share in the concern," said the Englishman.

"Mademoiselle Eeine and her grandfather are very reserved upon the subject, and I have never been able to ascertain exactly what their yearly percentage amounts to," said Fontaine, confidentially holding up one thin hand. " I know that she drives over once a month in her spring-cart to superintend the affairs. She is a person, as you are aware, of great method and order; and, indeed, in affairs, it is absolutely

" She seems to manage the farm very fairly," said the other. " Old Chretien is a stupid old fellow, always drinking cider ; he don't seem to do much else."

"Alas! no, "replied Fontaine. "Hook upon drunkenness as a real misfortune. He has told me in confidence that he can not exist without the stimulant of cider. Even Mademoiselle Reine can not persuade him to abandon it."

"I can not imagine any body having any difficulty in refraining from cider," said the other, smiling again. " She was good to give me some the other day, with soupe aux choux; and I

" Comment, Monsieur Butler ! You do not like our cider ?" said the maire, looking quite surprised. "It is because you have the taste of your '■potter' still in your mouth. Come back to us, and I promise to convert you."

"Very well, that is a bargain," said Butler, looking about him a little distractedly. Madame Pe'lottier, who happened to be passing, imagined that he was admiring her elegance. She drew herself up, stuck out her fore finger, and bowed. The maire, with a brisk glissade, returned the salute.

"I sometimes ask," Fontaine remarked, as he replaced his curly-rimmed hat, " how that excellent fellow, Pelottier, can have married himself with that monstrous person. She brought him, it is true, an excellent dot and a good connection at Caen, also at Bayeux ; but in his place nothing would have persuaded me to unite myself with a young lady so disgracious and illbrought-up."

" Then you have thought of marrying again ?" asked Butler, glancing at the spruce figure beside him.

The maire looked conscious, and buttoned his eoat. " I once contemplated some proposals," he said, "to a person who was well off, and who might have made an amiable mother to my child, but the affair came to nothing. I do not mind telling you it was Mademoiselle Chre'tien herself that I had in view. After all, why should I marry ? Hein ? My good mother takes care of my little son ; my father-in-law is much attached to him ; I have an excellent cuisiniere, entirely devoted to our family — you know Justine ? Sometimes," said M. Fontaine, gazing at the sea, "a vague feeling comes over me that if I could find a suitable person, life might appear less monotonous, more interesting. I should feel more gay, in better spirits, with the society of an agreeable companion. These are mere reveries, the emotions of a poetic imagination ; for where am I to find the person ?"