{review} travels with a donkey in the cévennes

Robert Louis Stevenson Travels with a Donkey in the Cévennes (1879)

They told me when I started, and I was ready to believe it, that before a few days I should come to love Modestine like a dog. Three days had passed, we had shared some misadventures, and my heart was still as cold as a potato towards my beast of burden. She was pretty enough to look at; but then she had given proof of dead stupidity, redeemed indeed by patience, but aggravated by flashes of sorry and ill-judged light-heartedness. And I own this new discovery seemed another point against her. What the devil was the good of a she-ass if she could not carry a sleeping-bag and a few necessaries? I saw the end of the fable rapidly approaching, when I should have to carry Modestine. AEsop was the man to know the world! I assure you I set out with heavy thoughts upon my short day's march.

Was it W. C. Fields who said you should never work with children or animals? Apt confirmation of the tenet can be found in Robert Louis Stevenson's pioneering narrative of the solo-traveller's outdoor adventures in the Cévennes region of south-central France. This is a very early work by Stevenson, who would one day achieve world-wide fame with Treasure Island et al. Travels with a Donkey in the Cévennes is Stevenson's account of a two week ramble through the region with such innovative equipment as a custom-made sleeping bag (apparently one of the earliest in literature) and, of course, a donkey called Modestine.

Father Adam had a cart, and to draw the cart a diminutive she-ass, not much bigger than a dog, the colour of a mouse, with a kindly eye and a determined under-jaw. There was something neat and high-bred, a quakerish elegance, about the rogue that hit my fancy on the spot. Our first interview was in Monastier market-place. To prove her good temper, one child after another was set upon her back to ride, and one after another went head over heels into the air; until a want of confidence began to reign in youthful bosoms, and the experiment was discontinued from a dearth of subjects.

Buying Modestine to carry his packs and supplies, Stevenson soon finds that he is in possession of a demon in donkey form and before long he is both carrying the beast's burdens and also pushing/pulling her along:

A man, I was told, should walk there in an hour and a half; and I thought it scarce too ambitious to suppose that a man encumbered with a donkey might cover the same distance in four hours.

Modestine's performances are very amusing though they do not dominate Stevenson's account of a region of great natural beauty. A large strand of the narrative is concerned with the historical consequences of the upheavals undergone by the Cévenols during the great turbulence between Protestant and Catholic factions in the previous century. Stevenson - a Protestant Scot - brings great sympathy for the people whose lives had been destroyed by this religious war. 

His descriptions of the people he meets along his two week journey on foot are very lively as are the accounts of the delays to his travel arrangements. Rather like the effect of rail strikes on the modern traveller, Stevenson's four-legged "self-acting bedstead on four castors" frequently throws his travel plans into chaos. Of course, he claims not to have any plans, but there is no doubt that this ambitious young man is filled with purpose:

For my part, I travel not to go anywhere, but to go. I travel for travel's sake. The great affair is to move; to feel the needs and hitches of our life more nearly; to come down off this feather-bed of civilisation, and find the globe granite underfoot and strewn with cutting flints. Alas, as we get up in life, and are more preoccupied with our affairs, even a holiday is a thing that must be worked for. To hold a pack upon a pack-saddle against a gale out of the freezing north is no high industry, but it is one that serves to occupy and compose the mind. And when the present is so exacting, who can annoy himself about the future?

The future is very important for Stevenson: he's undertaking this exotic trip through France in order to turn his experience into a book which would earn him enough money to marry.

Travels with a Donkey in the Cévennes is filled with delightful descriptions: Stevenson's pleasure in sleeping outdoors under the stars, "where God keeps an open house"; in judging the figures of pretty barmaids ("...her figure was unworthy of her face. Hers was a case for stays; but that may perhaps grow better as she gets up in years); and in hugely romanticising what appears to have been a very ugly religious war. But the donkey was the heroine as far as I was concerned; a sentiment with which Stevenson must concur:

It was not until I was fairly seated by the driver, and rattling through a rocky valley with dwarf olives, that I became aware of my bereavement. I had lost Modestine. Up to that moment I had thought I hated her; but now she was gone, 'And oh! The difference to me!' For twelve days we had been fast companions; we had travelled upwards of a hundred and twenty miles, crossed several respectable ridges, and jogged along with our six legs by many a rocky and many a boggy by-road. After the first day, although sometimes I was hurt and distant in manner, I still kept my patience; and as for her, poor soul! she had come to regard me as a god. She loved to eat out of my hand. She was patient, elegant in form, the colour of an ideal mouse, and inimitably small. Her faults were those of her race and sex; her virtues were her own. Farewell, and if for ever - Father Adam wept when he sold her to me; after I had sold her in my turn, I was tempted to follow his example; and being alone with a stage-driver and four or five agreeable young men, I did not hesitate to yield to my emotion.

Rating: 8/10

If you liked this... I read this book because of a mention of it in Rosy Thornton's The Tapestry of Love {REVIEW} which is also set in the Cévennes. Stevenson mentions the infamous "child-eating beast of Gevaudan, the Napoleon Bonaparte of wolves", which reminded me of Fred Vargas' wonderful Seeking Whom He May Devour {REVIEW}.

{review} two books about wolves

M. F. K. Fisher How to Cook a Wolf (1942, rev. 1954)

Fred Vargas Seeking Whom He May Devour (2004)

In the whole Julia & Julia Child whirlwind I rather thought that the eccentric M. F. K. Fisher might get a better look-in. I've previously read her Alphabet for Gourmets – a witty A to Z of culinary delights (available on-line here from the Gourmet archives) and loved her witty style of food-writing:

W is for wanton …

… and the great difference between the way a man eats and has his lady love eat, when he plans to lead her to the nearest couch, and the way a woman will feed a man for the same end.

A man is much more straightforward, usually. He believes with the unreasoning intuition of a cat or a wolf that he must be strong for the fray and that strength comes from meat: he orders rare steak, with plenty of potatoes alongside, and perhaps a pastry afterwards. He may have heard that oysters or a glass of port work aphrodisiacal wonders, more on himself than on the little woman, or, in an unusual attempt at subtlety augmented by something he vaguely remembers from an old movie, he may provide a glass or two of champagne. But in general, his gastronomical as well as alcoholic approach to the delights of love is an uncomplicated one which has almost nothing to do with the pleasurable preparation of his companion.

A woman contemplating seduction, on the other hand, is wanton.

A wanton woman, according to the dictionary, is unchaste, licentious, and lewd. This definition obviously applies to her moral rather than her culinary side. Considered solely in connection with the pleasures of the table, a wanton woman is one who with cunning and deliberation prepares a meal which will draw another person to her. The reasons she does so may be anything from political to polite, but her basic acknowledgment that sexual play can be a sure aftermath of gastronomical bliss dictates the game, from the first invitation to the final mouthful of ginger omelette.

 

Fisher would have made an excellent blogger, with her ability to sum up perfectly and avoid the extraneous. Her authorial pose is so definitively worldly, so apposite. I suppose her nearest comparison in this culinary authority is Elizabeth David – they share a simplicity of style which makes reading a cook-book into an intellectually satisfying pursuit. It is the journey towards the meal that fascinates and inspires. 

Fisher's 'wolf' here is the 'wolf at the door' – hunger. She was brought up in poverty and her relationship with food is coloured by that experience. This may also make her a particularly good spokeswoman for wartime austerity for the gourmet cook, which is what this little book is mostly about: how to make do without dropping all of your standards. Each chapter has a catchy title ("How to Be Content with a Vegetable Love", for instance): "Almost all vegetables are good, although there is some doubt still about parsnips (which I share)." My only criticism is the up-dating that occured in the 1954 revision - Fisher's comments are included throughout the text in square brackets, as she comments on this previous austere self. This proves quite distracting as she has a lot to add. Some of the recipes look pretty vile to modern eyes, as she herself admits ("uninspired, but dependale"), but this book is an interesting insight into American wartime austerity. When contrasted with the dire food situation in the UK at the same time, it doesn't look so austere.

Rating: 7/10. Alphabet for Gourmets has aged better.

If you like this… anything by Elizabeth David.

The wolf loose in Seeking Whom He May Devour by Fred Vargas is another animal entirely, though he too is hungry - for blood. If you haven't encountered Vargas' eccentric French  police inspector Adamsberg yet, you've missed a total treat. OK, yes, another flawed copper with family problems. But the plot, characterisation, setting and writing of this book is flawless. Is a giant wolf roaming the French Alps picking off its prey, or is something even more sinister going on? I sometimes think that everyone in a Vargas' book is completely barking mad and this book is a roll-call of the most eccentric and memorable characters you might ever encounter. In sum: a baffling and intelligent crime thriller. I can't imagine translating a Vargas' book – the language is so clever.

Rating: 9/10. Mysteries in Paradise has another fine review here.

If you like this… try other Fred Vargas' books: The Three Evangelists, The Chalk Circle Man, Have Mercy on Us All, etc. (aren't the titles brilliant?). Adamberg is an old school guy like Simenon's Maigret.

 

{wishlist}

Begging to join the groaning shelves this week:

Oooh... a Fred Vargas that I haven't read:

This Night's Foul Work (2009).

{review} gimlet lends a hand

W. E. Johns Gimlet Lends a Hand (1949).

Image source (I read the same edition)

£10,000 is offered for the services of a man accustomed to living dangerously. Must be physically fit, prepared to go anywhere, possess a high degree of initiative and able to furnish highest references concerning moral character. Familiarity with lethal weapons and ability to speak colloquial French are essential qualifications. Apply in first instance to Box 4791.

I re-read Gimlet Lends a Hand for the umpteenth time earlier this year when I was planning a trip to the South of France. My reading program for this visit was somewhat eccentric, I suppose: W. E. Johns Biggles 'Fails to Return' (1943; set around Nice/Monaco); Ernest Hemingway Fiesta: The Sun Also Rises (1926; I didn't get as far as Biarritz); and, for my more northerly plans, Mabel Esther Allan It Happened in Arles (1964); Fred Vargas Seeking Whom He May Devour (2004). I ran out of time before I could reacquaint myself with Worrals' adventure in the Cévennes (W. E. Johns Worrals on the Warpath, 1943; I did see a bit of the Camargue tho'). Anyway, that sort of thing. As you can see, the modern world doesn't hold that many attractions for me, though I appreciate a good en-suite bathroom.

This book can barely be termed a 'Gimlet' one, since Captain Lorrington 'Gimlet' King doesn't appear until near the end. Instead this is about Nigel 'Cub' Peters, Gimlet's young protégé, and his Second World War commando comrades-in-arms, the French-Canadian 'Trapper' and the Cockney 'Copper'. Then again, it is really Cub who is the hero of the entire series although it is his Skipper Gimlet's strong moral presence and sense of daring which inspires so many of his actions.

To business: Cub takes a job to find a kidnapped child who is being held in a mountain village somewhere in the South of France. The scenery is spectacular – Roman aqueducts, dodgy cafés in Nice, ruined medieval chateaux – and the cast of characters are suitably exotic – American gangsters, gypsies with hearts of gold, and a dubious effete poet (the effete, with the exception of Gimlet himself, are always villainous). Of course, Cub will triumph, though not before Gimlet has to 'lend a hand' to save the day.

The series which followed the spectacular WW2 books (particularly Gimlet, King of the Commandos, 1943) are always well-written and have gripping and imaginative narratives. W. E. Johns, it is quite clear, was never daunted by the end of hostilities cutting off his subject matter and all his three major heroes (Biggles, Gimlet, Worrals) managed very interesting after-lives. I particular enjoyed the ingenuity of Gimlet Mops Up (1947) where a group of vengeance-fuelled Nazis do a sort of reverse Nuremberg and establish their own war crimes tribunal – everyone's guilty – and execute their 'guilty' victims in various dirty underhand ways (and in fancy dress). They try to bump Gimlet off while he's judging the local flower show. That some allied atrocities could be perceived in the same light as those of the Axis is, of course, never fully explored.

Don't over-analyse children's books – but bear in mind that they're written by adults with issues… I try to remember, quite successfully, that it was the Biggles' books which fuelled my love of reading as a child and made me the avid reader and nostalgic traveller I am today.

Rating: 7/10.

If you liked this... you'll have to go secondhand as it is well and truly out of print.

{review} the hedgehog

I was in the back room, perfectly euphoric, my eyes filling with tears, in the miraculous presence of Art.

 

There's not much I want to say about this book because (a) everyone in the entire world seems to have already read it, and (b) I can see why, as it is wonderful. The Elegance of the Hedgehog contains the interwoven stories of Renée (a widow who conceals her devastating intellect by camouflaging herself as a stereotypical concierge) and twelve year old Paloma who also lives with a big secret. Set in an upmarket French apartment building, the divisions based on class, wealth and (supposed) intellect begin to break down with the arrival of a new Japanese tenant. Will Renée get a second (or, some might suggest, first) chance at life? Will Paloma carry out her threat to commit suicide? Is phenomenology that crazy? Are Parisians Cartesian? Should I read War and Peace now? 

This is a touching book, and a funny one. I loved Renee's 'cherry plum test' which she applies to determine the greatness of what she reads. I kept considering what I might substitute, given a distaste for plums. 

This book offers, among many things, a lesson on loneliness and friendship:

If you have but one friend, make sure you choose her well.

The peace of mind one experiences on one's own, one's certainty of self in the serenity of solitude are nothing in comparison to the release and openness and fluency one shares with another, in close companionship . . .

I wondered a bit about the 'Beauty' theme. I realise the theme is important to the book but I'm not a fan of the cliché of the ugly woman transformed by a superficial makeover; in this case, as the ugliness is something that Renée carries about with her as part of her concierge 'costume', perhaps I can let it pass! Also, I've done a bit of philosophy, but sometimes I thought we were deliberately being kept in a contrived state of bafflement. 

What was that annoying book...? - Sophie's World. Grrr. However, this is the second book about a potentially annoying precocious child that I've enjoyed this year (the other was the first Flavia de Luce mystery). I hope I'm not succumbing.

The Parisian setting kept striking familiar chords and I enjoyed the different takes on familiar places – 'Angelina', for example, where I've had many a glorious hot chocolate and Mont Blanc.

The imagery of cats, flowers, art, music and food was memorable. Are we meant to think of that other dame aux camelias when we think of Renée? I'm thinking of her sister's fate and also her class consciousness (a poor shorthand but close enough): "Don't fraternise with rich people if you don't want to die: since then this has become her survival technique". 

This was a thoroughly good read if profoundly unbelievable. I cried, despite the trite ending.

To be poor, ugly and, moreover, intelligent condemns one, in our society, to a dark and disillusioned life, a condition one ought to accept at an early age.

Oh, and I am sure the afternoon tea treats from Ladurée were macarons, not macaroons. 

Should I see the film?

Rating: 8/10

If you liked this... (a) precocious kids: The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie (Alan Bradley); (b) intelligent French-ness: The Chalk Circle Man (Fred Vargas). What is it with all these novel-writing female French professors?