with my head pressed against the glass in the door of the railway coach that was going rapidly i continually asked my sister, who sat opposite:
“are we in the mountains yet?”
“not yet,” she would answer, still remembering the alps vividly. “not yet, dear. those are only high hills.”
the august day was warm and radiantly bright. we were in an express train going south, on our way to visit those cousins whom we had never seen.
“oh! but that one! see! see!” i exclaimed triumphantly, as my eyes spied an elevation towering above others; it was one whose blue height pierced the clear horizon.
she leaned forward.
“ah!” she said, “that is a little more like a mountain, i must confess,—but it isn't a very high one, only wait!”
at the hotel, where we were obliged to remain until the following day, everything interested us. i remember that night came suddenly, a night of splendor, as we leaned upon the railing of the balcony leading from our rooms, watching the shadows gather about the blue mountains and listening to the chirping of the crickets.
the next day, the third of our frequently interrupted journey, we hired a funny little carriage to take us to the town, one much out of the line of travel at that time, where our cousins lived.
for five hours we rode through passes and defiles—for me they were enchanted hours. not only was there the novelty of the mountains, but everything here was unlike our home surroundings. the soil and the rocks were a bright red instead of, as in our village, a dazzling white because of the underlying chalk beds. and at home everything was flat and low, it seemed as if nothing there dared lift itself above the dead level and break the uniformity of the plains. here the dwellings, of reddish hue like the rocks, and built with old gabled ends and ancient turrets, were perched high up on the hill; the peasants were very tanned, and they spoke a language i did not understand; i noticed particularly that the women walked with a free movement of the hips, unknown to the peasants of our country, as they strode along carrying upon their heads sheaves of grain and great shining copper vessels. my whole being vibrated to the charm of the unfamiliar beauty about me, and i was fascinated by the strange aspect of nature.
toward evening we reached the little town that marked the end of our journey. it was situated on the bank of one of those southern rivers that rush noisily over their shallow beds of white pebbles. the place still retained its ancient arched gateway and high, pierced ramparts; the prevailing color of the gothic houses lining its streets was bright red.
a little perplexed and agitated our eyes sought for the cousins whose faces were not even known to us through photographs; but since they had been apprised of our coming they would, no doubt, be at the station to meet us. suddenly we saw approaching us a tall young man, and he had upon his arm a young lady dressed in white muslin. without the least hesitation we exchanged glances of recognition: we had found each other.
at their house, on the ground floor, our uncle and aunt welcomed us; both of them in their old age preserved traces of a once-remarkable beauty. they lived in an ancient house of the time of louis xiii; it was built in an angle, and was surrounded by those porches that are so frequently seen in small, southern mountain towns.
when we entered we found ourselves in a vestibule flagged with pinkish stones and ornamented with a large fountain of burnished copper. a staircase of the same stones, as imposing as a castle staircase, with a curious balustrade of wrought-iron, led to the old-fashioned wainscoted bedrooms on the second floor. and these things evoked a past very different from that i had brooded over upon the island, at st. ongeoise, the only past with which i was at this time familiar.
after dinner we went out and sat together upon the bank of the noisy river; we sat in a meadow overgrown with centauries and sweet marjoram, recognizable in the darkness because of their penetrating odor. it was a very still, warm evening and innumerable crickets chirped in the grass. it seemed to me that i had never before seen so many stars in the heavens. the difference in latitude was not so great, but the sea air that tempers our winters also makes our summer evenings hazy; in consequence we could see more stars here in this southern country with its clear atmosphere, than at our home.
the majestic mountains surrounding us, from which i could not take my eyes, looked like great blue silhouettes: the mountains, never seen until now, gave me the feeling, so much longed for, of being in a distant country, they gave me the assurance that one of the dreams of my childhood had come true.
i spent several summers in this village, and i made myself enough at home to learn the southern dialect spoken by the people there. indeed the two provinces i became best acquainted with in my childhood was this southern one and that of st. ongeoise, both of them lands of sunshine.
brittany, which so many take to be my native place, i did not see until a later time, not until i was seventeen, and i did not learn to love it until long after that,—doubtless that is why i loved it so ardently. at first it oppressed me and induced a feeling of extreme sadness; my brother ives initiated me into its charm, a charm tinged with melancholy, and it was he who persuaded me to explore its thatched cottages and wooden chapels. and following this, the influence that a young girl of treguier exercised over my imagination, when i was about twenty-seven, strengthened my love for brittany, the land of my adoption.
