VELAY 

Who hath loosed the bands of the wild ass? 
JOB. 
 

THE GREEN DONKEY-DRIVER 

THE bell of Monastier was just striking nine as I got quit of these 
preliminary troubles and descended the hill through the common.  As 
long as I was within sight of the windows, a secret shame and the 
fear of some laughable defeat withheld me from tampering with 
Modestine.  She tripped along upon her four small hoofs with a 
sober daintiness of gait; from time to time she shook her ears or 
her tail; and she looked so small under the bundle that my mind 
misgave me.  We got across the ford without difficulty - there was 
no doubt about the matter, she was docility itself - and once on 
the other bank, where the road begins to mount through pine-woods, 
I took in my right hand the unhallowed staff, and with a quaking 
spirit applied it to the donkey.  Modestine brisked up her pace for 
perhaps three steps, and then relapsed into her former minuet. 
Another application had the same effect, and so with the third.  I 
am worthy the name of an Englishman, and it goes against my 
conscience to lay my hand rudely on a female.  I desisted, and 
looked her all over from head to foot; the poor brute's knees were 
trembling and her breathing was distressed; it was plain that she 
could go no faster on a hill.  God forbid, thought I, that I should 
brutalise this innocent creature; let her go at her own pace, and 
let me patiently follow. 

What that pace was, there is no word mean enough to describe; it 
was something as much slower than a walk as a walk is slower than a 
run; it kept me hanging on each foot for an incredible length of 
time; in five minutes it exhausted the spirit and set up a fever in 
all the muscles of the leg.  And yet I had to keep close at hand 
and measure my advance exactly upon hers; for if I dropped a few 
yards into the rear, or went on a few yards ahead, Modestine came 
instantly to a halt and began to browse.  The thought that this was 
to last from here to Alais nearly broke my heart.  Of all 
conceivable journeys, this promised to be the most tedious.  I 
tried to tell myself it was a lovely day; I tried to charm my 
foreboding spirit with tobacco; but I had a vision ever present to 
me of the long, long roads, up hill and down dale, and a pair of 
figures ever infinitesimally moving, foot by foot, a yard to the 
minute, and, like things enchanted in a nightmare, approaching no 
nearer to the goal. 

In the meantime there came up behind us a tall peasant, perhaps 
forty years of age, of an ironical snuffy countenance, and arrayed 
in the green tail-coat of the country.  He overtook us hand over 
hand, and stopped to consider our pitiful advance. 

'Your donkey,' says he, 'is very old?' 

I told him, I believed not. 

Then, he supposed, we had come far. 

I told him, we had but newly left Monastier. 

'ET VOUS MARCHEZ COMME CA!' cried he; and, throwing back his head, 
he laughed long and heartily.  I watched him, half prepared to feel 
offended, until he had satisfied his mirth; and then, 'You must 
have no pity on these animals,' said he; and, plucking a switch out 
of a thicket, he began to lace Modestine about the stern-works, 
uttering a cry.  The rogue pricked up her ears and broke into a 
good round pace, which she kept up without flagging, and without 
exhibiting the least symptom of distress, as long as the peasant 
kept beside us.  Her former panting and shaking had been, I regret 
to say, a piece of comedy. 

My DEUS EX MACHINA, before he left me, supplied some excellent, if 
inhumane, advice; presented me with the switch, which he declared 
she would feel more tenderly than my cane; and finally taught me 
the true cry or masonic word of donkey-drivers, 'Proot!'  All the 
time, he regarded me with a comical, incredulous air, which was 
embarrassing to confront; and smiled over my donkey-driving, as I 
might have smiled over his orthography, or his green tail-coat. 
But it was not my turn for the moment. 

I was proud of my new lore, and thought I had learned the art to 
perfection.  And certainly Modestine did wonders for the rest of 
the fore-noon, and I had a breathing space to look about me.  It 
was Sabbath; the mountain-fields were all vacant in the sunshine; 
and as we came down through St. Martin de Frugeres, the church was 
crowded to the door, there were people kneeling without upon the 
steps, and the sound of the priest's chanting came forth out of the 
dim interior.  It gave me a home feeling on the spot; for I am a 
countryman of the Sabbath, so to speak, and all Sabbath 
observances, like a Scottish accent, strike in me mixed feelings, 
grateful and the reverse.  It is only a traveller, hurrying by like 
a person from another planet, who can rightly enjoy the peace and 
beauty of the great ascetic feast.  The sight of the resting 
country does his spirit good.  There is something better than music 
in the wide unusual silence; and it disposes him to amiable 
thoughts, like the sound of a little river or the warmth of 
sunlight. 

In this pleasant humour I came down the hill to where Goudet stands 
in a green end of a valley, with Chateau Beaufort opposite upon a 
rocky steep, and the stream, as clear as crystal, lying in a deep 
pool between them.  Above and below, you may hear it wimpling over 
the stones, an amiable stripling of a river, which it seems absurd 
to call the Loire.  On all sides, Goudet is shut in by mountains; 
rocky footpaths, practicable at best for donkeys, join it to the 
outer world of France; and the men and women drink and swear, in 
their green corner, or look up at the snow-clad peaks in winter 
from the threshold of their homes, in an isolation, you would 
think, like that of Homer's Cyclops.  But it is not so; the postman 
reaches Goudet with the letter-bag; the aspiring youth of Goudet 
are within a day's walk of the railway at Le Puy; and here in the 
inn you may find an engraved portrait of the host's nephew, Regis 
Senac, 'Professor of Fencing and Champion of the two Americas,' a 
distinction gained by him, along with the sum of five hundred 
dollars, at Tammany Hall, New York, on the 10th April 1876. 

I hurried over my midday meal, and was early forth again.  But, 
alas, as we climbed the interminable hill upon the other side, 
'Proot!' seemed to have lost its virtue.  I prooted like a lion, I 
prooted mellifluously like a sucking-dove; but Modestine would be 
neither softened nor intimidated.  She held doggedly to her pace; 
nothing but a blow would move her, and that only for a second.  I 
must follow at her heels, incessantly be-labouring.  A moment's 
pause in this ignoble toil, and she relapsed into her own private 
gait.  I think I never heard of any one in as mean a situation.  I 
must reach the lake of Bouchet, where I meant to camp, before 
sundown, and, to have even a hope of this, I must instantly 
maltreat this uncomplaining animal.  The sound of my own blows 
sickened me.  Once, when I looked at her, she had a faint 
resemblance to a lady of my acquaintance who formerly loaded me 
with kindness; and this increased my horror of my cruelty. 

To make matters worse, we encountered another donkey, ranging at 
will upon the roadside; and this other donkey chanced to be a 
gentleman.  He and Modestine met nickering for joy, and I had to 
separate the pair and beat down their young romance with a renewed 
and feverish bastinado.  If the other donkey had had the heart of a 
male under his hide, he would have fallen upon me tooth and hoof; 
and this was a kind of consolation - he was plainly unworthy of 
Modestine's affection.  But the incident saddened me, as did 
everything that spoke of my donkey's sex. 

It was blazing hot up the valley, windless, with vehement sun upon 
my shoulders; and I had to labour so consistently with my stick 
that the sweat ran into my eyes.  Every five minutes, too, the 
pack, the basket, and the pilot-coat would take an ugly slew to one 
side or the other; and I had to stop Modestine, just when I had got 
her to a tolerable pace of about two miles an hour, to tug, push, 
shoulder, and readjust the load.  And at last, in the village of 
Ussel, saddle and all, the whole hypothec turned round and 
grovelled in the dust below the donkey's belly.  She, none better 
pleased, incontinently drew up and seemed to smile; and a party of 
one man, two women, and two children came up, and, standing round 
me in a half-circle, encouraged her by their example. 

I had the devil's own trouble to get the thing righted; and the 
instant I had done so, without hesitation, it toppled and fell down 
upon the other side.  Judge if I was hot!  And yet not a hand was 
offered to assist me.  The man, indeed, told me I ought to have a 
package of a different shape.  I suggested, if he knew nothing 
better to the point in my predicament, he might hold his tongue. 
And the good-natured dog agreed with me smilingly.  It was the most 
despicable fix.  I must plainly content myself with the pack for 
Modestine, and take the following items for my own share of the 
portage:  a cane, a quart-flask, a pilot-jacket heavily weighted in 
the pockets, two pounds of black bread, and an open basket full of 
meats and bottles.  I believe I may say I am not devoid of 
greatness of soul; for I did not recoil from this infamous burden. 
I disposed it, Heaven knows how, so as to be mildly portable, and 
then proceeded to steer Modestine through the village.  She tried, 
as was indeed her invariable habit, to enter every house and every 
courtyard in the whole length; and, encumbered as I was, without a 
hand to help myself, no words can render an idea of my 
difficulties.  A priest, with six or seven others, was examining a 
church in process of repair, and he and his acolytes laughed loudly 
as they saw my plight. 

I remembered having laughed myself when I had seen good men 
struggling with adversity in the person of a jackass, and the 
recollection filled me with penitence.  That was in my old light 
days, before this trouble came upon me.  God knows at least that I 
shall never laugh again, thought I.  But oh, what a cruel thing is 
a farce to those engaged in it! 

A little out of the village, Modestine, filled with the demon, set 
her heart upon a by-road, and positively refused to leave it.  I 
dropped all my bundles, and, I am ashamed to say, struck the poor 
sinner twice across the face.  It was pitiful to see her lift her 
head with shut eyes, as if waiting for another blow.  I came very 
near crying; but I did a wiser thing than that, and sat squarely 
down by the roadside to consider my situation under the cheerful 
influence of tobacco and a nip of brandy.  Modestine, in the 
meanwhile, munched some black bread with a contrite hypocritical 
air.  It was plain that I must make a sacrifice to the gods of 
shipwreck.  I threw away the empty bottle destined to carry milk; I 
threw away my own white bread, and, disdaining to act by general 
average, kept the black bread for Modestine; lastly, I threw away 
the cold leg of mutton and the egg-whisk, although this last was 
dear to my heart.  Thus I found room for everything in the basket, 
and even stowed the boating-coat on the top.  By means of an end of 
cord I slung it under one arm; and although the cord cut my 
shoulder, and the jacket hung almost to the ground, it was with a 
heart greatly lightened that I set forth again. 

I had now an arm free to thrash Modestine, and cruelly I chastised 
her.  If I were to reach the lakeside before dark, she must bestir 
her little shanks to some tune.  Already the sun had gone down into 
a windy-looking mist; and although there were still a few streaks 
of gold far off to the east on the hills and the black fir-woods, 
all was cold and grey about our onward path.  An infinity of little 
country by-roads led hither and thither among the fields.  It was 
the most pointless labyrinth.  I could see my destination overhead, 
or rather the peak that dominates it; but choose as I pleased, the 
roads always ended by turning away from it, and sneaking back 
towards the valley, or northward along the margin of the hills. 
The failing light, the waning colour, the naked, unhomely, stony 
country through which I was travelling, threw me into some 
despondency.  I promise you, the stick was not idle; I think every 
decent step that Modestine took must have cost me at least two 
emphatic blows.  There was not another sound in the neighbourhood 
but that of my unwearying bastinado. 

Suddenly, in the midst of my toils, the load once more bit the 
dust, and, as by enchantment, all the cords were simultaneously 
loosened, and the road scattered with my dear possessions.  The 
packing was to begin again from the beginning; and as I had to 
invent a new and better system, I do not doubt but I lost half an 
hour.  It began to be dusk in earnest as I reached a wilderness of 
turf and stones.  It had the air of being a road which should lead 
everywhere at the same time; and I was falling into something not 
unlike despair when I saw two figures stalking towards me over the 
stones.  They walked one behind the other like tramps, but their 
pace was remarkable.  The son led the way, a tall, ill-made, 
sombre, Scottish-looking man; the mother followed, all in her 
Sunday's best, with an elegantly embroidered ribbon to her cap, and 
a new felt hat atop, and proffering, as she strode along with 
kilted petticoats, a string of obscene and blasphemous oaths. 

I hailed the son, and asked him my direction.  He pointed loosely 
west and north-west, muttered an inaudible comment, and, without 
slackening his pace for an instant, stalked on, as he was going, 
right athwart my path.  The mother followed without so much as 
raising her head.  I shouted and shouted after them, but they 
continued to scale the hillside, and turned a deaf ear to my 
outcries.  At last, leaving Modestine by herself, I was constrained 
to run after them, hailing the while.  They stopped as I drew near, 
the mother still cursing; and I could see she was a handsome, 
motherly, respectable-looking woman.  The son once more answered me 
roughly and inaudibly, and was for setting out again.  But this 
time I simply collared the mother, who was nearest me, and, 
apologising for my violence, declared that I could not let them go 
until they had put me on my road.  They were neither of them 
offended - rather mollified than otherwise; told me I had only to 
follow them; and then the mother asked me what I wanted by the lake 
at such an hour.  I replied, in the Scottish manner, by inquiring 
if she had far to go herself.  She told me, with another oath, that 
she had an hour and a half's road before her.  And then, without 
salutation, the pair strode forward again up the hillside in the 
gathering dusk. 

I returned for Modestine, pushed her briskly forward, and, after a 
sharp ascent of twenty minutes, reached the edge of a plateau.  The 
view, looking back on my day's journey, was both wild and sad. 
Mount Mezenc and the peaks beyond St. Julien stood out in trenchant 
gloom against a cold glitter in the east; and the intervening field 
of hills had fallen together into one broad wash of shadow, except 
here and there the outline of a wooded sugar-loaf in black, here 
and there a white irregular patch to represent a cultivated farm, 
and here and there a blot where the Loire, the Gazeille, or the 
Laussonne wandered in a gorge. 

Soon we were on a high-road, and surprise seized on my mind as I 
beheld a village of some magnitude close at hand; for I had been 
told that the neighbourhood of the lake was uninhabited except by 
trout.  The road smoked in the twilight with children driving home 
cattle from the fields; and a pair of mounted stride-legged women, 
hat and cap and all, dashed past me at a hammering trot from the 
canton where they had been to church and market.  I asked one of 
the children where I was.  At Bouchet St. Nicolas, he told me. 
Thither, about a mile south of my destination, and on the other 
side of a respectable summit, had these confused roads and 
treacherous peasantry conducted me.  My shoulder was cut, so that 
it hurt sharply; my arm ached like toothache from perpetual 
beating; I gave up the lake and my design to camp, and asked for 
the AUBERGE. 
 
 
Tønsberg: Høgskolen i Vestfold : Vestfold College, 1999.  Go to: [Digital library]  
Robert Louis Stevenson: Travels with a Donkey in the Cevennes 
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