Modestine's Shoes: A Bit of Stevensoniana

IN September 1878, Robert Louis Stevenson, after a month’s sojourn at Monastier, near Le Puy, freighted Modestine, his donkey, with bedding and provisions and fared forth to high adventure, walking south and west through the Cévennes. Everyone who has read the narrative of that journey, as he has recorded it in his Travels with a Donkey, remains everlastingly under the spell of it; and some there are who have wished because of it to see that same mountain country and walk those same mountain roads. I confess to being of this number.

It is a good fifteen miles from Florac to Pont de Montvert, following the road up the valley of the Tarn. I made it between one o’clock and seven, with a few pauses at kilometre-stones to rest. My knapsack was heavy and the lift of the road pulled on my legs; but, tired and sweaty as I was, I did not fail to notice the beauties of the landscape. To the north lay the rugged slopes and rolling summits of Lozère. To the south rose the heights of the Romponenche and the greater bulk of the Cévennes, and by gazing hard I could almost see Mount Aigoual, where only the day before I had stood and looked southward beyond Montpellier to the sea.

Above and below me were immense groves of those Spanish chestnuts which Stevenson so much admired and under which he camped for a night. Here and there the drab of t he roadside was relieved by patches of dwarf purple heather that the bees seemed to love. Purples and yellows are the prevailing colors of the mountain flora. Never before had the wild flowers of the high altitudes seemed so lovely to me. The man who wrote about the delights of botanizing from a car window would be enraptured to walk through the gorgeous floral panorama of the valley of the Tarn. And at the end of the day’s tramp he would find, as I did, the genial welcome of the only inn in Pont de Montvert, and in a soft bed, in a room looking over the brawling stream the clamor of which lulled him to sleep, he would dream dreams woven of the history of the valley, of the Camisards, and Pope Urban the Fifth, and Stevenson — and mayhap of Modestine.

It was a Sunday when Stevenson made his way down from the north into Pont de Montvert, where he found a noisy sociability in rude contrast with the Sabbath stillness which he had left behind in the mountains. But Sabbath stillness was never entirely to his liking, and he was glad enough to exchange it, temporarily at least, for the goodfellowship of the little inn, where he could play squire to a lady in distress because of the boisterous merriment around her.

Now I had no such opportunity for gallantry, being compelled to eat alone in a solemn dining-room. The pretty daughter of the hostess waited upon me, not with the ‘heavy nonchalance’ of Stevenson’s Clarisse, whom he assured of his lasting devotion, but with the cheerful interest of a person who desires simply to make the traveler feel that he is at home. The supper was a good one. Smoking trout but recently caught in some deep pool, and the salade de saison, and the pot of tea substituted for the usual bottle of red wine, and the view from the window, all helped to drive the fatigue from my bones and induce a feeling of comfortable and inquisitive curiosity.

Is a transient guest remembered after forty-seven years? Did anyone recall the visit of a cadaverous foreigner who years and years ago had dropped down suddenly from the mountains of Lozère, driving before him, with much fervid language, a little donkey with a pack? In short, had madame the landlady ever heard of one Robert Louis Stevenson ?

’Mais non, monsieur! Quel drôle de nom! And funny too that a great man, as you say, should make a trip on foot through the Cévennes — and with a donkey, above all things!’

Clearly the memory of Robert Louis had perished here in this refuge of wayfaring men. I tried to turn a delicate compliment by saying that one who was surely in her thirties would not, of course, remember back fortyseven years. Madame gave me a sweet smile, and her daughter, who thought she detected some malicious strategy in thus endowing her mother with unbelievable youth, bestowed upon me a delirious giggle.

Well, then, I persisted, wns there anybody in the village who might have some recollection of that distant time and be able to give me any information about it?

‘Oh, the forgeron-maréchal, the blacksmith across on the other side of the bridge. He is old, and so intelligent that he reads books. And he has always prated about the history of Pont de Montvert. I am sure he will have some sort of knowledge about this donkeyvoyager of yours — or pretend to have, at any rate.’

There was just enough sarcasm in all this to make me a little suspicious of the lady’s good intentions, but I determined none the less to see this ancient worthy and sound him out. Accordingly, the next morning, after my bowl of café au lait, I set out to find the forgeron. His shop fronted the other side of the Tarn and was empty. I peered in, walked past it, and then as I turned back I caught sight of a little old man working in a garden in the rear. I called to him.

‘Monsieur, are you the forgeronmaréchal? Because if you are I want some conversation with you.’

‘Yes, I am the smith, but am no longer the farrier. My old back refuses to bend as easily as it did once. But you spoke of conversation — in what way can I serve you?’

The old man’s language had a certain stately quality about it, which I had not expected. In the landlady’s phrase, I perceived that he was ‘intelligent.’ The interview was opening well, but I knew that when talking with a blacksmith one must strike while the iron is hot.

‘Forty-seven years ago,’ I said, ‘a slim and lanky man descended one afternoon from the slopes of Lozère into Pont de Montvert, driving before him a little donkey loaded with camp equipment. He was a foreigner, and his coming must have aroused some talk in the village. Do you remember it?’

‘Monsieur, if you are interested in that man’s strange adventure, we shall have material for a long conversation. Will you give yourself the trouble to come into my house?’

I did not wait to be invited twice. We went in through the smithy and on beyond into what was the living-room of the old man’s house. A few chairs, a couple of stools, a table, a big fireplace with a whole battery of shining pots and pans hanging around it — all these I saw as we entered. He drew up a chair to the table for me, pulled up a stool for himself on the other side, and sat down. Not till then did he speak.

‘I am seventy-five years old, and know the happenings of Pont de Montvert as one knows the inside of his pocket. We can talk undisturbed here, for I am living alone. Are you an Englishman, monsieur? ‘

‘No, not an Englishman — an American.’

‘Ah yes, an American — I should have thought of that. You are twice welcome, for Americans have a place in the hearts of Frenchmen. But I guessed you were English, for there is something in your voice which suggests even to my old ears that you are a stranger — and, by your leave, a foreigner. That other stranger who passed through here so long ago — he had a burr in his voice to make you laugh. But he was fluent enough, mon Dieu! and talked about everything in heaven and earth.’

‘Robert Louis Stevenson was not exactly an Englishman,’ I interposed. ‘He was a Scot; and a Scot is better or worse than an Englishman, depending on the way you look at it.’

I intended this for a very cryptic utterance, but my old forgeron got it.

‘I see,’ he said; ‘just as a mountaineer is better or worse than a plainsman, depending on where your father was born. But what about this adventurer with the donkey?’

I thought it best to make some explanations.

‘That young Scotchman who came into this valley so long ago became a world-famous writer. Among his sketches of travel is one detailing his excursion across the Cévennes, and one whole chapter is devoted to Pont de Montvert. The fact that the Camisard war had its beginnings here interested him. It was the local color probably. He lived on the color of life, you know.’

‘N’est-ce pas? I recall as if it were yesterday the zestful manner of him. He came into the Hôtel des Cévennes, where some of us young fellows were gathered for a few hours of Sunday revelry, and took charge of things. He could talk with the best of us, and a bottle of red wine was like so much water out of the Tarn to him.’

‘And the donkey — what did he do with her?’

I did not want him to get the cart before the horse — that is, the driver before the donkey.

‘Oh, he called for someone to act as stable boy, and we stood around while he unloaded her. Bless my soul! He had an outfit on her back such as no one in our region ever saw before. Instead of a tent to sleep under, he had devised a bag to sleep in. We laughed a good deal when we saw it, but our banter did not bother him any. For every word of ours the fine young man had two ready; when it came to blague, he was an artist. You know, monsieur, we people of the Midi enjoy a bit of big talk, of hâblerie, and the stranger could string us along till we did not know whether we were afoot or on horseback.’

‘What did you talk about?’

‘Oh, about good things to eat, and the ladies, and the adventures of the road. And then all at once he was off discoursing about the wolf of Gévaudan, stories of which he had picked up somewhere on his way over the mountains. I can well believe he was a writer, a maker of books. He was himself a sort of human book, a lively volume on legs, with a manner of speech — even in his French — that was heaven-born. No, I have not forgotten a bit of that day forty-seven years ago.’

There was a moment of silence. I waited; and finally the forgeron continued.

‘I do not know your religion, monsieur, but we are all Protestants in Pont de Montvert, and this clever young Scotchman found much, as you say, to interest him in our old Protestant traditions. Maybe it was what you call local color; at any rate he was keen for it. He insisted on seeing the house where Du Chayla lived — you know Du Chayla was the priest whose overzealous attempts to propagate the faith touched off the Camisard war as one kindles a train of powder. And when he learned that Spirit Séguier, the Camisard rebel who was burned alive in that open space out there by the side of the Tarn, was an ancient kinsman of mine — why, he embraced me like a brother, and harangued long and loud about religion, and Christianity, and Du Chayla the Catholic martyr, and Séguier the Protestant hero, and how the souls of the two might now be holding sweet communion in Paradise. Oh, it was a fine bit of blague, monsieur, even if quite impossible to believe.’

‘Did the traveler stay here long?’

‘No, he left the very next day after his arrival, driving that cursed donkey before him.’

‘You were no great admirer of Modestine, I judge.’

‘No, nor was the wanderer either. Bless your soul! The dear young man was n’t cut out to manage donkeys. His manner was too sweet and gentle. An ass is not governed by poetry and fine speeches.’

He laughed aloud over this bit of wisdom, which other men have discovered, too.

‘Oh — Modestine. Yes, that was her name; but it did n’t become the beast. Modeste est celui qui a uneopinion médiocre de son mérite. Now that infernal donkey was as stubborn as Satan and as opinionated as a member of the Chamber of Deputies. I know, monsieur, for I shod her the morning of her departure.’

‘Tell me about it.’

‘It was outside, in the smithy that we came through as we entered here. Four men held her, and her master berated her in all the language — and languages, too, pardi — he was master of. Some of it sounded like Latin, I’ll swear. But whatever it was, Modestine would have none of it, and she kicked, and stamped, and squealed, and bit, like a female devil. That sweet young man must have had his troubles with her.’

‘He says in his book that she was temperamental, — like the sex, you know, — and he was willing to make allowances for her.’

‘And much need he had, too. But excuse me a moment — I want to show you something.’

The old man went out into his shop, but was back in a jiffy. He had two little iron shoes in his hand.

‘There, monsieur, look at them! Two cast-off fers d’âne — Modestine’s front shoes!’

‘Really,’ I stammered, ‘this is most amazing.’

‘ It does seem almost uncanny, does n’t it? Forty-seven years ago! After I had finished with Modestine I cast these worn-out shoes, with some spirit, I am afraid, into a corner, but her owner hunted them out at once. “Monsieur le maréchal,” he said solemnly, “preserve these shoes, and they will bring you luck. I bequeath them to you, with a charm which I will say over them.” He rattled off something in some heathenish jargon, then handed them to me as if they were the keys to a city. Of course I played up to his grand manner and big talk and accepted them with a bow, and later I laid them away. Whenever I have come upon them since, they have always given me a laugh. That was the charm, I think. And now, monsieur, allow me to hand them over to you. The spell is still on them. The shoes of Modestine will bring you, too, many a cheerful moment.’

I accepted the proffered treasures and soon after took my leave of the jolly old smith. May Pont de Montvert claim him yet for many years! As I write these words, I glance at two little, worn donkey-shoes hanging over my desk, and I laugh uproariously. The charm still works. And yet one thing troubles me, troubles me much: Are they really Modestine’s shoes, or is that story, also, blague?

That same day I took up Stevenson’s trail north over Lozère.