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A Little Tour In France
by Henry James
We good Americans - I say it without presumption
- are too apt to think that France is Parisjust as we
are accused of being too apt to think that Paris is the
celestial city. This is by no means the casefortun-
ately for those persons who take an interest in modern
Gauland yet are still left vaguely unsatisfied by that
epitome of civilization which stretches from the Arc
de Triomphe to the Gymnase theatre. It had already
been intimated to the author of these light pages that
there are many good things in the _doux pays de France_
of which you get no hint in a walk between those
ornaments of the capital; but the truth had been re-
vealed only in quick-flashing glimpsesand he was
conscious of a desire to look it well in the face. To
this end he startedone rainy morning in mid-Septem-
berfor the charming little city of Toursfrom which
point it seemed possible to make a variety of fruitful
excursions. His excursions resolved themselves ulti-
mately into a journey through several provinces- a
journey which had its dull moments (as one may defy
any journey not to have)but which enabled him to feel
that his proposition was demonstrated. France may
be Parisbut Paris is not France; that was perfectly
evident on the return to the capital.
I must not speakhoweveras if I had discovered
the provinces. They were discoveredor at least re-
vealed by BaIzacif by any oneand are now easily
accessible to visitors. It is trueI met no visitorsor
only one or twowhom it was pleasant to meet.
Throughout my little tour I was almost the only tourist.
That is perhaps one reason why it was so successful.
I.
I am ashamed to begin with saying that Touraine
is the garden of France; that remark has long ago lost
its bloom. The town of Tourshoweverhas some
thing sweet and brightwhich suggests that it is sur-
rounded by a land of fruits. It is a very agreeable
little city; few towns of its size are more ripemore
completeorI should supposein better humor with
themselves and less disposed to envy the responsibili-
ties of bigger places. It is truly the capital of its smil-
ing province; a region of easy abundanceof good
livingof genialcomfortableoptimisticrather indolent
opinions. Balzac says in one of his tales that the real
Tourangeau will not make an effortor displace him-
self evento go in search of a pleasure; and it is not
difficult to understand the sources of this amiable
cynicism. He must have a vague conviction that he
can only lose by almost any change. Fortune has
been kind to him: he lives in a temperatereasonable
sociable climateon the banksof a river whichit is
truesometimes floods the country around itbut of
which the ravages appear to be so easily repaired that
its aggressions may perhaps be regarded (in a region
where so many good things are certain) merely as an
occasion for healthy suspense. He is surrounded by
fine old traditionsreligioussocialarchitecturalculi-
nary; and he may have the satisfaction of feeling that
he is French to the core. No part of his admirable
country is more characteristically national. Normandy
is NormandyBurgundy is BurgundyProvence is Pro-
vence; but Touraine is essentially France. It is the
land of Rabelaisof Descartesof Balzacof good
books and good companyas well as good dinners and
good houses. George Sand has somewhere a charm-
ing passage about the mildnessthe convenient quality
of the physical conditions of central France- "son
climat souple et chaudses pluies abondantes et courtes."
In the autumn of 1882 the rains perhaps were less
short than abundant; but when the days were fine it
was impossible that anything in the way of weather
could be more charming. The vineyards and orchards
looked rich in the freshgay light; cultivation was
everywherebut everywhere it seemed to be easy.
There was no visible poverty; thrift and success pre-
sented themselves as matters of good taste. The white
caps of the women glittered in the sunshireand their
well-made sabots clicked cheerfully on the hardclean
roads. Touraine is a land of old chateaux- a gallery
of architectural specimens and of large hereditary pro-
perties. The peasantry have less of the luxury of
ownership than in most other parts of France; though
they have enough of it to give them quite their share
of that shrewdly conservative look whichin the little
chaffering_place_ of the market-townthe stranger ob-
serves so often in the wrinkled brown masks that sur-
mount the agricultural blouse. This ismoreoverthe
heart of the old French monarchy; and as that monarchy
was splendid and picturesquea reflection of the splen-
dor still glitters in the current of the Loire. Some of
the most striking events of French history have occurred
on the banks of that riverand the soil it waters
bloomed for a while with the flowering of the Renais-
sance. The Loire gives a great "style" to a landscape
of which the features are notas the phrase ispromi-
nentand carries the eye to distances even more poetic
than the green horizons of Touraine. It is a very fit-
ful streamand is sometimes observed to run thin and
expose all the crudities of its channel- a great defect
certainly in a river which is so much depended upon
to give an air to the places it waters. But I speak of
it as I saw it last; fulltranquilpowerfulbending in
large slow curvesand sending back half the light of
the sky. Nothing can be finer than the view of its
course which you get from the battlements and ter-
races of Amboise. As I looked down on it from that
elevation one lovely Sunday morningthrough a mild
glitter of autumn sunshineit seemed the very model
of a generousbeneficent stream. The most charming
part of Tours is naturally the shaded quay that over-
looks itand looks across too at the friendly faubourg
of Saint Symphorien and at the terraced heights which
rise above this. Indeedthroughout Touraineit is
half the charm of the Loire that you can travel beside
it. The great dike which protects itorprotects the
country from itfrom Blois to Angersis an admirable
road; and on the other sideas wellthe highway con-
stantly keeps it company. A wide riveras you follow
a wide roadis excellent company; it heightens and
shortens the way.
The inns at Tours are in another quarterand one
of themwhich is midway between the town and the
stationis very good. It is worth mentioning for the
fact that every one belonging to it is extraordinarily
polite- so unnaturally polite as at first to excite your
suspicion that the hotel has some hidden viceso that
the waiters and chambermaids are trying to pacify
you in advance. There was one waiter in especial who
was the most accomplished social being I have ever
encountered; from morning till night he kept up an
inarticulate murmur of urbanitylike the hum of a
spinning-top. I may add that I discovered no dark
secrets at the Hotel de l'Univers; for it is not a secret
to any traveller to-day that the obligation to partake
of a lukewarm dinner in an overheated room is as
imperative as it is detestable. For the restat Tours
there is a certain Rue Royale which has pretensions
to the monumental; it was constructed a hundred
years agoand the housesall alikehave on a
moderate scale a pompous eighteenth-century look. It
connects the Palais de Justicethe most important
secular building in the townwith the long bridge
which spans the Loire- the spacioussolid bridge
pronounced by Balzacin "Le Cure de Tours" "one of
the finest monuments of French architecture." The
Palais de Justice was the seat of the Government of
Leon Gambetta in the autumn of 1870after the
dictator had been obliged to retire in his balloon from
Parisand before the Assembly was constituted at
Bordeaux. The Germans occupied Tours during that
terrible winter; it is astonishingthe number of
places the Germans occupied. It is hardly too much
to say that wherever one goes incertain parts of
Franceone encounters two great historic facts: one
is the Revolution; the other is the German invasion.
The traces of the Revolution remain in a hundred
scars and bruises and mutilationsbut the visible
marks of the war of 1870 have passed away. The
country is so richso livingthat she has been able to
dress her woundsto hold up her headto smile again;
so that the shadow of that darkness has ceased to rest
upon her. But what you do not see you still may
hear; and one remembers with a certain shudder that
only a few short years ago this provinceso intimately
Frenchwas under the heel of a foreign foe. To be
intimately French was apparently not a safeguard; for
so successful an invader it could only be a challenge.
Peace and plentyhoweverhave succeeded that
episode; and among the gardens and vineyards of
Touraine it seemsonly a legend the more in a country
of legends.
It was notall the samefor the sake of this check-
ered story that I mentioned the Palais de Justice and
the Rue Royale. The most interesting factto my
mindabout the high-street of Tours was that as you
walked toward the bridge on the right-hand _trottoir_
you can look up at the houseon the other side of
the wayin which Honore de Balzac first saw the
light. That violent and complicated genius was a
child of the good-humored and succulent Touraine.
There is something anomalous in the factthoughif
one thinks about it a littleone may discover certain
correspondences between his character and that of his
native province. Strenuouslaboriousconstantly in
felicitous in spite of his great successeshe suggests
at times a very different set of influences. But he had
his jovialfull-feeding side- the side that comes out
in the "Contes Drolatiques" which are the romantic
and epicurean chronicle of the old manors and abbeys
of this region. And he wasmoreoverthe product
of a soil into which a great deal of history had been
trodden. Balzac was genuinely as well as affectedly
monarchicaland he was saturated witha sense of the
past. Number 39 Rue Royale - of which the base
mentlike all the basements in the Rue Royaleis
occupied by a shop - is not shown to the public; and
I know not whether tradition designates the chamber
in which the author of "Le Lys dans la Vallee"
opened his eyes into a world in which he was to see
and to imagine such extraordinary things. If this
were the caseI would willingly have crossed its
threshold; not for the sake of any relic of the great
novelist which it may possibly containnor even for
that of any mystic virtue which may be supposed to
reside within its wallsbut simply because to look at
those four modest walls can hardly fail to give one a
strong impression of the force of human endeavour.
Balzacin the maturity of his visiontook in more of
human life than any onesince Shakspearewho has
attempted to tell us stories about it; and the very
small scene on which his consciousness dawned is one
end of the immense scale that he traversed. I confess
it shocked me a little to find that he was born in a
house "in a row" - a housemoreoverwhich at the
date of his birth must have been only about twenty
years old. All that is contradictory. If the tenement
selected for this honour could not be ancient and em-
brownedit should at least have been detached.
There is a charming descriptionin his little tale
of "La Grenadiere" of the view of the opposite side
of the Loire as you have it from the square at the end
of the Rue Royale- a square that has some preten-
sions to grandeuroverlooked as it is by the Hotel de
Ville and the Museea pair of edifices which directly
contemplate the riverand ornamented with marble
images of Francois Rabelais and Rene Descartes.
The formererected a few years sinceis a very honor-
able production; the pedastal of the latter couldas
a matter of courseonly be inscribed with the _Cogito
ergo Sum._ The two statues mark the two opposite
poles to which the brilliant French mind has travelled;
and if there were an effigy of Balzac at Toursit ought
to stand midway between them. Not that heby any
means always struck the happy mean between the
sensible and the metaphysical; but one may say of
him that half of his genius looks in one direction
and half in the other. The side that turns toward
Francois Rabelais would beon the wholethe side
that takes the sun. But there is no statue of Balzac
at Tours; there is onlyin one of the chambers of
the melancholy museuma rather clevercoarse bust.
The description in "La Grenadiere" of which I just
spokeis too long to quote; neither have I space for
any one of the brilliant attempts at landscape paint-
ing which are woven into the shimmering texture of
"Le Lys dans la Vallee." The little manor of Cloche-
gourdethe residence of Madame de Mortsaufthe
heroine of that extraordinary workwas within a
moderate walk of Toursand the picture in the novel is
presumably a copy from an original which it would be
possible to-day to discover. I did nothowevereven
make the attempt. There are so many chateaux in
Touraine commemorated in historythat it would take
one too far to look up those which have been com-
memorated in fiction. The most I did was to endeavor
to identify the former residence of Mademoiselle
Gamardthe sinister old maid of "Le Cure de Tours."
This terrible woman occupied a small house in the
rear of the cathedralwhere I spent a whole morning
in wondering rather stupidly which house it could be.
To reach the cathedral from the little _place_ where we
stopped just now to look across at the Grenadiere
withoutit must be confessedvery vividly seeing it
you follow the quay to the rightand pass out of sight
of the charming _coteau_ whichfrom beyond the river
faces the town- a soft agglomeration of gardensvine-
yardsscattered villasgables and turrets of slate-
roofed chateauxterraces with gray balustradesmoss-
grown walls draped in scarlet Virginia-creeper. You
turn into the town again beside a great military
barrack which is ornamented with a rugged mediaeval
towera relic of the ancient fortificationsknown to
the Tourangeaux of to-day as the Tour de Guise.
The young Prince of Joinvilleson of that Duke of
Guise who was murdered by the order of Henry II. at
Bloiswasafter the death of his fatherconfined here
for more than two yearsbut made his escape one
summer evening in 1591under the nose of his keepers
with a gallant audacity which has attached the memory
of the exploit to his sullen-looking prison. Tours has
a garrison of five regimentsand the little red-legged
soldiers light up the town. You see them stroll upon
the cleanuncommercial quaywhere there are no
signs of navigationnot even by oarno barrels nor
balesno loading nor unloadingno masts against the
sky nor booming of steam in the air. The most active
business that goes on there is that patient and fruitless
angling inwhich the Frenchas the votaries of art for
artexcel all other people. The little soldiersweighed
down by the contents of their enormous pocketspass
with respect from one of these masters of the rod to
the otheras he sits soaking an indefinite bait in the
largeindifferent stream. After you turn your back to
the quay you have only to go a little way before you
reach the cathedral.
II.
It is a very beautiful church of the second order
of importancewith a charming mouse-colored com-
plexion and a pair of fantastic towers. There is a
commodious little square in front of itfrom which
you may look up at its very ornamental face; but for
purposes of frank admiration the sides and the rear
are perhaps not sufficiently detached. The cathedral
of Tourswhich is dedicated to Saint Gatianustook
a long time to build. Begun in 1170it was finished
only in the first half of the sixteenth century; but the
ages and the weather have interfused so well the tone
of the different partsthat it presentsat first at least
no striking incongruitiesand looks even exception-
ally harmonious and complete. There are many
grander cathedralsbut there are probably few more
pleasing; and this effect of delicacy and grace is at
its best toward the close of a quiet afternoonwhen the
densely decorated towersrising above the little Place
de l'Archevechelift their curious lanterns into the
slanting lightand offer a multitudinous perch to
troops of circling pigeons. The whole frontat such
a timehas an appearance of great richnessalthough
the niches which surround the three high doors (with
recesses deep enough for several circles of sculpture)
and indent the four great buttresses that ascend beside
the huge rose-windowcarry no figures beneath their
little chiselled canopies. The blast of the great Revo-
lution blew down most of the statues in Franceand
the wind has never set very strongly toward putting
them up again. The embossed and crocketed cupolas
which crown the towers of Saint Gatien are not very
pure in taste; butlike a good many impuritiesthey
have a certain character. The interior has a stately
slimness with which no fault is to be foundand
which in the choirrich in early glass and surrounded
by a broad passagebecomes very bold and noble.
Its principal treasureperhapsis the charming little tomb
of the two children (who died young) of Charles VIII. and
Anne of Brittanyin white marbleembossed with sym-
bolic dolphins and exquisite arabesques. The little
boy and girl lie side by side on a slab of black marble
and a pair of small kneeling angelsboth at their head
and at their feetwatch over them. Nothing could be
more perfect than this monumentwhich is the work
of Michel Colombone of the earlier glories of the
French Renaissance; it is really a lesson in good taste.
Originally placed in the great abbey-church of Saint
Martinwhich was for so many ages the holy place of
Toursit happily survived the devastation to which
that edificealready sadly shattered by the wars of
religion and successive profanationsfinally succumbed
in 1797. In 1815 the tomb found an asylum in a
quiet corner of the cathedral.
I oughtperhapsto be ashamed to acknowledge
that I found the profane name of Balzac capable of
adding an interest even to this venerable sanctuary.
Those who have read the terrible little story of "Le
Cure de Tours" will perhaps remember thatas I
have already mentionedthe simple and childlike old
Abbe Birotteauvictim of the infernal machinations
of the Abbe Troubert and Mademoiselle Gamardhad
his quarters in the house of that lady (she had a
speciality of letting lodgings to priests)which stood
on the north side of the cathedralso close under its
walls that the supporting pillar of one of the great
flying buttresses was planted in the spinster's garden.
If you wander round behind the churchin search of
this more than historic habitationyou will have oc-
casion to see that the side and rear of Saint Gatien
make a delectable and curious figure. A narrow lane
passes beside the high wall which conceals from sight
the palace of the archbishopand beneath the flying
buttressesthe far-projecting gargoylesand the fine
south porch of the church. It terminates in a little
deadgrass-grown square entitled the Place Gregoire
de Tours. All this part of the exterior of the cathe-
dral is very brownancientGothicgrotesque; Balzac
calls the whole place "a desert of stone." A battered
and gabled wingor out-house (as it appears to be)
of the hidden palacewith a queer old stone pulpit
jutting out from itlooks down on this melancholy
spoton the other side of which is a seminary for
young priestsone of whom issues from a door in a
quiet cornerandholding it open a moment behind
himshows a glimpse of a sunny gardenwhere you
may fancy other black young figures strolling up and
down. Mademoiselle Gamard's housewhere she took
her two abbes to boardand basely conspired with
one against the otheris still further round the cathe-
dral. You cannot quite put your hand upon it to-
dayfor the dwelling which you say to yourself that
it _must_ have been Mademoiselle Gamard's does not
fulfil all the conditions mentioned in BaIzac's de-
scription. The edifice in questionhoweverfulfils con-
ditions enough; in particularits little court offers
hospitality to the big buttress of the church. Another
buttresscorresponding with this (the twobetween
themsustain the gable of the north transept)is
planted in the small cloisterof which the door on the
further side of the little soundless Rue de la Psalette
where nothing seems ever to passopens opposite to
that of Mademoiselle Gamard. There is a very genial
old sacristanwho introduced me to this cloister from
the church. It is very small and solitaryand much
mutilated; but it nestles with a kind of wasted friend-
liness beneath the big walls of the cathedral. Its
lower arcades have been closedand it has a small
plot of garden in the middlewith fruit-trees which I
should imagine to be too much overshadowed. In
one corner is a remarkably picturesque turretthe
cage of a winding staircase which ascends (no great
distance) to an upper gallerywhere an old priestthe
_chanoine-gardien_ of the churchwas walking to and fro
with his breviary. The turretthe galleryand even
the chanoine-gardienbelongedthat sweet September
morningto the class of objects that are dear to paint-
ers in water-colors.
III.
I have mentioned the church of Saint Martin
which was for many years the sacred spotthe shrine
of pilgrimageof Tours. Originally the simple burial-
place of the great apostle who in the fourth century
Christianized Gauland whoin his day a brilliant
missionary and worker of miraclesis chiefly known
to modem fame as the worthy that cut his cloak in
two at the gate of Amiens to share it with a beggar
(tradition fails to sayI believewhat he did with the
other half)the abbey of Saint Martinthrough the
Middle Ageswaxed rich and powerfultill it was
known at last as one of the most luxurious religious
houses in Christendomwith kings for its titular ab-
bots (wholike Francis I.sometimes turned and
despoiled it) and a great treasure of precious things.
It passedhoweverthrough many vicissitudes. Pillaged
by the Normans in the ninth century and by the
Huguenots in the sixteenthit received its death-blow
from the Revolutionwhich must have brought to
bear upon it an energy of destruction proportionate
to its mighty bulk. At the end of the last century
a huge group of ruins alone remainedand what we
see to-day may be called the ruin of a ruin. It is
difficult to understand how so vast an ediface can
have been so completely obliterated. Its site is given
up to several ugly streetsand a pair of tall towers
separated by a space which speaks volumes as to the
size of the churchand looking across the close-pressed
roofs to the happier spires of the cathedralpreserved
for the modern world the memory of a great fortune
a great abuseperhapsand at all events a great pen-
alty. One may believe that to this day a consider-
able part of the foundations of the great abbey is
buried in the soil of Tours. The two surviving towers
which are dissimilar in shapeare enormous; with
those of the cathedral they form the great landmarks
of the town. One of them bears the name of the Tour
de l'Horloge; the otherthe so-called Tour Charle-
magnewas erected (two centuries after her death)
over the tomb of Luitgardewife of the great Em-
perorwho died at Tours in 800. I do not pretend to
understand in what relation these very mighty and
effectually detached masses of masonry stood to each
otherbut in their gray elevation and loneliness they
are striking and suggestive to-day; holding their hoary
heads far above the modern life of the townand
looking sad and consciousas they had outlived all
uses. I know not what is supposed to have become
of the bones of the blessed saint during the various
scenes of confusion in which they may have got mis-
laid; but a mystic connection with his wonder-working
relics may be perceived in a strange little sanctuary
on the left of the streetwhich opens in front of the
Tour Charlemagne- the rugged base of whichby
the wayinhabited like a cavewith a diminutive
doorwayin whichas I passedan old woman stood
cleaning a potand a little dark window decorated
with homely flowerswould be appreciated by a
painter in search of "bits." The present shrine of
Saint Martin is enclosed (provisionallyI suppose) in
a very modem structure of timberwhere in a dusky
cellarto which you descend by a wooden staircase
adorned with votive tablets and paper rosesis placed
a tabernacle surrounded by twinkling tapers and pros-
trate worshippers. Even this crepuscular vaulthow-
everfailsI thinkto attain solemnity; for the whole
place is strangely vulgar and garish. The Catholic
churchas churches go to-dayis certainly the most
spectacular; but it must feel that it has a great fund
of impressiveness to draw upon when it opens such
sordid little shops of sanctity as this. It is impos-
sible not to be struck with the grotesqueness of such
an establishmentas the last link in the chain of a
great ecclesiastical tradition.
In the same streeton the other sidea little below
is something better worth your visit than the shrine
of Saint Martin. Knock at a high door in a white
wall (there is a cross above it)and a fresh-faced
sister of the convent of the Petit Saint Martin will
let you into the charming little cloisteror rather
fragment of a cloister. Only one side of this exqui-
site structure remainsbut the whole place is effective.
In front of the beautiful arcadewhich is terribly
bruised and obliteratedis one of those walks of inter-
laced _tilleuls_ which are so frequent in Touraineand
into which the green light filters so softly through a
lattice of clipped twigs. Beyond this is a garden
and beyond the garden are the other buildings of the
Convent- where the placid sisters keep a school- a
testdoubtlessof placidity. The imperfect arcade
which dates from the beginning of the sixteenth cen-
tury (I know nothing of it but what is related in Mrs.
Pattison's "Rennaissance in France") is a truly en-
chanting piece of work; the cornice and the angles of
the archesbeing covered with the daintiest sculpture
of arabesquesflowersfruitmedallionscherubsgriffins
all in the finest and most attenuated relief. It is like
the chasing of a bracelet in stone. The tastethe
fancythe elegancethe refinementare of those things
which revive our standard of the exquisite. Such
a piece of work is the purest flower of the French
Renaissance; there is nothing more delicate in all
Touraine.
There is another fine thing at Tours which is not
particularly delicatebut which makes a great impres-
sion- the- very interesting old church of Saint Julian
lurking in a crooked corner at the right of the Rue
Royalenear the point at which this indifferent thorough-
fare emergeswith its little cry of admirationon the
bank of the Loire. Saint Julian stands to-day in a
kind of neglected hollowwhere it is much shut in by
houses; but in the year 1225when the edifice was
begunthe site was doubtlessas the architects say
more eligible. At presentindeedwhen once you have
caught a glimpse of the stoutserious Romanesque
tower- which is not highbut strong- you feel that
the building has something to sayand that you must
stop to listen to it. Withinit has a vast and splendid
naveof immense height- the nave of a cathedral-
with a shallow choir and transeptsand some admir-
able old glass. I spent half an hour there one morn-
inglistening to what the church had to sayin perfect
solitude. Not a worshipper entered- not even an old
man with a broom. I have always thought there is a
sex in fine buildings; and Saint Julianwith its noble
naveis of the gender of the name of its patron.
It was that same morningI thinkthat I went in
search of the old houses of Tours; for the town con-
tains several goodly specimens of the domestic archi-
tecture of the past. The dwelling to which the average
Anglo-Saxon will most promptly direct his stepsand
the only one I have space to mentionis the so-called
Maison de Tristan l'Hermite- a gentleman whom the
readers of "Quentin Durward" will not have forgotten
- the hangman-in-ordinary to the great King Louis XI.
Unfortunately the house of Tristan is not the house of
Tristan at all; this illusion has been cruelly dispelled.
There are no illusions leftat allin the good city of
Tourswith regard to Louis XI. His terrible castle of
Plessisthe picture of which sends a shiver through
the youthful reader of Scotthas been reduced to sub-
urban insignificance; and the residence of his _triste
compere_ on the front of which a festooned rope figures
as a motive for decorationis observed to have been
erected in the succeeding century. The Maison de
Tristan may be visited for itselfhoweverif not for
Walter Scott; it is an exceedingly picturesque old
facadeto which you pick your way through a narrow
and tortuous street- a street terminatinga little be-
yond itin the walk beside the river. An elegant
Gothic doorway is let into the rusty-red brick-work
and strange little beasts crouch at the angles of the
windowswhich are surmounted by a tall graduated
gablepierced with a small orificewhere the large
surface of bricklifted out of the shadow of the street
looks yellow and faded. The whole thing is disfigured
and decayed; but it is a capital subject for a sketch
in colors. Only I must wish the sketcher better luck
- or a better temper - than my own. If he ring the
bell to be admitted to see the courtwhich I believe
is more sketchable stilllet him have patience to wait
till the bell is answered. He can do the outside while
they are coming.
The Maison de TristanI saymay be visited for
itself; but I hardly know what the remnants of Plessis-
les-Tours may be visited for. To reach them you
wander through crooked suburban lanesdown the
course of the Loireto a roughundesirableincon-
gruous spotwhere a smallcrude building of red
brick is pointed out to you by your cabman (if you
happen to drive) as the romantic abode of a super-
stitious kingand where a strong odor of pigsties and
other unclean things so prostrates you for the moment
that you have no energy to protest against the obvious
fiction. You enter a yard encumbered with rubbish
and a defiant dogand an old woman emerges from a
shabby lodge and assures you that you are indeed in
an historic place. The red brick buildingwhich looks
like a small factoryrises on the ruins of the favorite
residence of the dreadful Louis. It is now occupied
by a company of night-scavengerswhose huge carts
are drawn up in a row before it. I know not whether
this be what is called the irony of fate; at any rate
the effect of it is to accentuate strongly the fact (and
through the most susceptible of our senses) that there
is no honor for the authors of great wrongs. The
dreadful Louis is reduced simply to an offence to the
nostrils. The old woman shows you a few fragments
- several darkdampmuch-encumbered vaultsde-
nominated dungeonsand an old tower staircase
in good condition. There are the outlines of the old
moat; there is also the outline of the old guard-room
which is now a stable; and there are other vague out-
lines and inconsequent lumpswhich I have forgotten.
You need all your imaginationand even then you
cannot make out that Plessis was a castle of large ex-
tentthough the old womanas your eye wanders over
the neighboring _potagers_ talks a good deal about the
gardens and the park. The place looks mean and
flat; and as you drive away you scarcely know whether
to be glad or sorry that all those bristling horrors have
been reduced to the commonplace.
A certain flatness of impression awaits you alsoI
thinkat Marmoutierwhich is the other indisuensable
excursion in the near neighborhood of Tours. The
remains of this famous abbey lie on the other bank of
the streamabout a mile and a half from the town.
You follow the edge of the big brown river; of a fine
afternoon you will be glad to go further still. The
abbey has gone the way of most abbeys; but the place
is a restoration as well as a ruininasmuch as the
sisters of the Sacred Heart have erected a terribly
modern convent here. A large Gothic doorwayin a
high fragment of ancient walladmits you to a garden-
like enclosureof great extentfrom which you are
further introduced into an extraordinarily tidy little
parlorwhere two good nuns sit at work. One of these
came out with meand showed me over the place-
a very definite little womanwith pointed featuresan
intensely distinct enunciationand those pretty man-
ners which (for whatever other teachings it may be
responsible) the Catholic church so often instils into
its functionaries. I have never seen a woman who had
got her lesson better than this little trottingmurmur-
ingedifying nun. The interestof Marmoutier to-day
is not so much an interest of visionso to speakas an
interest of reflection- that isif you choose to reflect
(for instance) upon the wondrous legend of the seven
sleepers (you may see where they lie in a row)who
lived together - they were brothers and cousins - in
primitive pietyin the sanctuary constructed by the
blessed Saint Martin (emulous of his precursorSaint
Gatianus)in the face of the hillside that overhung the
Loireand whotwenty-five years after his death
yielded up their seven souls at the same momentand
enjoyed the curious privilege of retaining in their faces
in spite of this processthe rosy tints of life. The
abbey of Marmoutierwhich sprung from the grottos in
the cliff to which Saint Gatianus and Saint Martin re-
tired to praywas therefore the creation of the latter
worthyas the other great abbeyin the town proper
was the monument of his repose. The cliff is still
there; and a winding staircasein the latest tasteen-
ables you conveniently to explore its recesses. These
sacred niches are scooped out of the rockand will
give you an impression if you cannot do without one.
You will feel them to be sufficiently venerable when
you learn that the particular pigeon-hole of Saint
Gatianusthe first Christian missionary to Gauldates
from the third century. They have been dealt with as
the Catholic church deals with most of such places to-
day; polished and furnished up; labelled and ticketed
- _edited_ with notesin shortlike an old book. The
process is a mistake- the early editions had more
sanctity. The modern buildings (of the Sacred Heart)
on which you look down from these points of vantage
are in the vulgar taste which seems doomed to stamp
itself on all new Catholic work; but there was never-
theless a great sweetness in the scene. The afternoon
was lovelyand it was flushing to a close. The large
garden stretched beneath usblooming with fruit and
wine and succulent vegetablesand beyond it flowed
the shining river. The air was stillthe shadows were
longand the placeafter allwas full of memories
most of which might pass for virtuous. It certainly
was better than Plessis-les-Tours.
IV.
Your business at Tours is to make excursions; and
if you make them allyou will be very well occupied.
Touraine is rich in antiquities; and an hour's drive
from the town in almost any direction will bring you
to the knowledge of some curious fragment of domestic
or ecclesiastical architecturesome turreted manor
some lonely towersome gabled villageor historic
site. Evenhoweverif you do everything- which was
not my case- you cannot hope to relate everything
andfortunately for youthe excursions divide them-
selves into the greater and the less. You may achieve
most of the greater in a week or two; but a summer
in Touraine (whichby the way must be a charming
thing) would contain none too many days for the others.
If you come down to Tours from Parisyour best
economy is to spend a few days at Bloiswhere a
clumsybut rather attractive little innon the edge of
the riverwill offer you a certain amount of that
familiar and intermittent hospitality which a few weeks
spent in the French provinces teaches you to regard
as the highest attainable form of accommodation. Such
an economy I was unable to practise. I could only go
to Blois (from Tours) to spend the day; but this feat
I accomplished twice over. It is a very sympathetic
little townas we say nowadaysand one might easily
resign one's self to a week there. Seated on the north
bank of the Loireit presents a brightclean face to
the sunand has that aspect of cheerful leisure which
belongs to all white towns that reflectthemselves in
shining waters. It is the water-front only of Blois
howeverthat exhibitsthis fresh complexion; the in-
terior is of a proper brownnessas befits a signally
historic city. The only disappointment I had there
was the discovery that the castlewhich is the special
object of one's pilgrimagedoes not overhang the river
as I had always allowed myself to understand. It
overhangs the townbut it is scarcely visible from the
stream. That peculiar good fortune is reserved for
Amboise and Chaurnont.
The Chateau de Blois is one of the most beautiful
and elaborate of all the old royal residences of this
part of Franceand I suppose it should have all the
honors of my description. As you cross its threshold
you step straight into the brilliant movement of the
French Renaissance. But it is too rich to describe-
I can only touch it here and there. It must be pre-
mised that in speaking of it as one sees it to-day
one speaks of a monument unsparingly restored. The
work of restoration has been as ingenious as it is pro-
fusebut it rather chills the imagination. This is
perhaps almost the first thing you feel as you ap-
proach the castle from the streets of the town. These
little streetsas theyleave the riverhave pretensions
to romantic steepness; one of themindeedwhich
resolves itself into a high staircase with divergent
wings (the _escalier monumental_)achieved this result
so successfully as to remind me vaguely - I hardly
know why - of the great slope of the Capitolbeside
the Ara Coeliat Rome. The view of that part of the
castle which figures to-day as the back (it is the only
aspect I had seen reproduced) exhibits the marks of
restoration with the greatest assurance. The long
facadeconsisting only of balconied windows deeply
recessederects itself on the summit of a considerable
hillwhich gives a fineplunging movement to its
foundations. The deep niches of the windows are all
aglow with color. They have been repainted with red
and bluerelieved with gold figures; and each of them
looks more like the royal box at a theatre than like
the aperture of a palace dark with memories. For all
thishoweverand in spite of the fact thatas in some
others of the chateaux of Touraine(always excepting
the colossal Chambordwhich is not in Touraine!)
there is less vastness than one had expectedthe least
hospitable aspect of Blois is abundantly impressive.
Hereas elsewherelightness and grace are the key-
note; and the recesses of the windowswith their
happy proportionstheir sculptureand their colorare
the empty frames of brilliant pictures. They need
the figure of a Francis I. to complete themor of a
Diane de Poitiersor even of a Henry III. The base
of this exquisite structure emerges from a bed of light
verdurewhich has been allowed to mass itself there
and which contributes to the springing look of the
walls; while on the right it joins the most modern
portion of the castle- the building erectedon founda-
tions of enormous height and solidityin 1635by
Gaston d'Orleans. This finefrigid mansion - the proper
view of it is from the court within - is one of the
masterpieces of Francois Mansardwhom. a kind pro-
vidence did not allow to make over the whole palace
in the superior manner of his superior age. This had
been a part of Gaston's plan- he was a blunderer
bornand this precious project was worthy of him.
This execution of it would surely have been one of
the great misdeeds of history. Partially performed
the misdeed is not altogether to be regretted; for as
one stands in the court of the castleand lets one's
eye wander from the splendid wing of Francis I. -
which is the last work of free and joyous invention -
to the ruled lines and blank spaces of the ponderous
pavilion of Mansardone makes one's reflections upon
the advantagein even the least personaI of the arts
of having something to sayand upon the stupidity of
a taste which had ended by becoming an aggregation
of negatives. Gaston's wingtaken by itselfhas much
of the _bel air_ which was to belong to the architecture
of Louis XIV.; buttaken in contrast to its flowering
laughingliving neighborit marks the difference be-
tween inspiration and calculation. We scarcely grudge
it its placehoweverfor it adds a price to the rest of
the chateau.
We have entered the courtby the wayby jump-
ing over the walls. The more orthodox method is to
follow a modernterracewhich leads to the leftfrom
the side of the chateau that I began by speaking of
and passes roundascendingto a little square on a
considerably higher levelwhich is notlike a very
modern square on which the back (as I have called
it) looks outa thoroughfare. This smallempty _place_
oblong in format once bright and quietwith a cer-
tain grass-grown lookoffers an excellent setting to the
entrance-front of the palace- the wing of Louis XII.
The restoration here has been lavish; but it was per-
haps but an inevitable reaction against the injuries
still more lavishby which the unfortunate building
had long been overwhelmed. It had fallen into a state
of ruinous neglectrelieved only by the misuse pro-
ceeding from successive generations of soldiersfor
whom its charming chambers served as barrack-room.
Whitewashedmutilateddishonoredthe castle of Blois
may be said to have escaped simply with its life. This
is the history of Amboise as welland is to a certain
extent the history of Chambord. Delightfulat any
ratewas the refreshed facade of Louis XII. as I stood
and looked at it one bright September morning. In
that softclearmerry light of Touraineeverything
showseverything speaks. Charming are the tastethe
happy proportionsthe color of this beautiful frontto
which the new feeling for a purely domestic architec-
ture - an architecture of security and tranquillityin
which art could indulge itself - gave an air of youth
and gladness. It is true that for a long time to come
the castle of Blois was neither very safe nor very
quiet; but its dangers came from withinfrom the evil
passions of its inhabitantsand not from siege or in-
vasion. The front of Louis XII. is of red brickcrossed
here and there with purple; and the purple slate of
the high roofrelieved with chimneys beautifully
treatedand with the embroidered caps of pinnacles
and archeswith the porcupine of Louisthe ermine
and the festooned rope which formed the devices of
Anne of Brittany- the tone of this rich-looking roof
carries out the mild glow of the wall. The widefair
windows look as if they had expanded to let in the
rosy dawn of the Renaissance. Charmingfor that
matterare the windows of all the chateaux of Touraine
with their squareness corrected (as it is not in the
Tudor architecture) by the curve of the upper corners
which makes this line look - above the expressive
aperture - like a pencilled eyebrow. The low door of
this front is crowned by a highdeep nichein which
under a splendid canopystiffly astride of a stiffly
draped chargersits in profile an image of the good
King Louis. Good as he had been- the father of
his peopleas he was called (I believe he remitted
various taxes)- he was not good enough to pass
muster at the Revolution; and the effigy I have just
described is no more than a reproduction of the
primitive statue demolished at that period.
Pass beneath it into the courtand the sixteenth
century closes round you. It is a pardonable flight
of fancy to say that the expressive faces of an age
in which human passions lay very near the surface
seem to look out at you from the windowsfrom the
balconiesfrom the thick foliage of the sculpture. The
portion of the wing of Louis XII. that looks toward
the court is supported on a deep arcade. On your
right is the wing erected by Francis I.the reverse of
the mass of building which you see on approaching
the castle. This exquisitethis extravagantthis trans-
cendent piece of architecture is the most joyous ut-
terance of the French Renaissance. It is covered with
an embroidery of sculpturein which every detail is
worthy of the hand of a goldsmith. In the middle of
itor rather a little to the leftrises the famous wind-
ing staircase (plausiblybut I believe not religiously
restored)which even the ages which most misused it
must vaguely have admired. It forms a kind of chiselled
cylinderwith wide intersticesso that the stairs are
open to the air. Every inch of this structureof its
balconiesits pillarsits great central columnsis
wrought over with lovely imagesstrange and ingenious
devicesprime among which is the great heraldic sala-
mander of Francis I. The salamander is everywhere
at Blois- over the chimneysover the doorson the
walls. This whole quarterof the castle bears the
stamp of that eminently pictorial prince. The run-
ning cornice along the top of the front is like all un-
foldedan elongatedbracelet. The windows of the
attic are like shrines for saints. The gargoylesthe
medallionsthe statuettesthe festoonsare like the
elaboration of some precious cabinet rather than the
details of a building exposed to the weather and to
the ages. In the interior there is a profusion of res-
torationand it is all restoration in color. This has
beenevidentlya work of great energy and costbut
it will easily strike you as overdone. The universal
freshness is a discorda false note; it seems to light
up the dusky past with an unnatural glare. Begun in
the reign of Louis Philippethis terrible process - the
more terrible always the more you admit that it has
been necessary - has been carried so far that there is
now scarcely a square inch of the interior that has the
color of the past upon it. It is true that the place
had been so coated over with modern abuse that
something was needed to keep it alive; it is onlyper-
hapsa pity that the restorersnot content with saving
its lifeshould have undertaken to restore its youth.
The love of consistencyin such a businessis a
dangerous lure. All the old apartments have been
rechristenedas it were; the geography of the castle
has been re-established. The guardroomsthe bed-
roomsthe closetsthe oratorieshave recovered their
identity. Every spot connected with the murder of
the Duke of Guise is pointed out by a smallshrill
boywho takes you from room to roomand who has
learned his lesson in perfection. The place is full of
Catherine de' Mediciof Henry III.of memoriesof
ghostsof echoesof possible evocations and revivals.
It is covered with crimson and gold. The fireplaces
and the ceilings are magnificent; they look like ex-
pensive "sets" at the grand opera.
I should have mentioned that belowin the court
the front of the wing of Gaston d'Orleans faces you
as you enterso that the place is a course of French
history. Inferior in beauty and grace to the other
portions of the castlethe wing is yet a nobler monu-
ment than the memory of Gaston deserves. The second
of the sons of Henry IV.- who was no more fortunate as
a father than as a husband- younger brother of Louis
XIII.and father of the great Mademoisellethe most
celebratedmost ambitiousmost self-complacentand
most unsuccessful _fille a marier_ in French history
passed in enforced retirement at the castle of Blois
the close of a life of clumsy intrigues against Cardinal
Richelieuin which his rashness was only equalled by
his pusillanimity and his ill-luck by his inaccessibility
to correctionand whichafter so many follies and
shameswas properly summed up in the project - be-
gunbut not completed - of demolishing the beautiful
habitation of his exile in order to erect a better one.
With Gaston d'Orleanshoweverwho lived there with-
out dignitythe history of the Chateau de Blois de-
clines. Its interesting period is that of the wars of
religion. It was the chief residence of Henry III.and
the scene of the principal events of his depraved and
dramatic reign. It has been restored more than enough
as I have saidby architects and decorators; the visitor
as he moves through its empty roomswhich are at
once brilliant and ill-lighted (they have not been re-
furnished)undertakes a little restoration of his own.
His imagination helps itself from the things that re-
main; he tries to see the life of the sixteenth century
in its form and dress- its turbulenceits passionsits
loves and hatesits treacheriesfalsitiestouches of
faithits latitude of personal developmentits presen-
tation of the whole natureits nobleness of costume
charm of speechsplendor of tasteunequalled pic-
turesqueness. The picture is full of movementof
contrasted light and darknessfull altogether of abomi-
nations. Mixed up with them all is the great name of
religionso that the drama wants nothing to make it
complete. What episode was ever more perfect - looked
at as a dramatic occurrence - than the murder of the
Duke of Guise? The insolent prosperity of the victim;
the weaknessthe vicesthe terrorsof the author of
the deed; the perfect execution of the plot; the accu-
mulation of horror in what followed it- give itas a
crimea kind of immortal solidity.
But we must not take the Chateau de Blois too
hard: I went thereafter allby way of entertainment.
If among these sinister memories your visit should
threaten to prove a tragedythere is an excellent way
of removing the impression. You may treat yourself
at Blois to a very cheerful afterpiece. There is a
charming industry practised thereand practised in
charming conditions. Follow the bright little quay
down the river till you get quite out of the townand
reach the point where the road beside the Loire be-
comes sinuous and attractiveturns the corner of dimi-
nutive headlandsand makes you wonder what is be-
yond. Let not your curiosity induce youhoweverto
pass by a modest white villa which overlooks the
streamenclosed in a fresh little court; for here dwells
an artist- an artist in faience. There is no sort of
signand the place looks peculiarly private. But if
you ring at the gateyou will not be turned away.
You willon the contrarybe ushered upstairs into a
parlor - there is nothing resembling a shop- encum-
bered with specimens - of remarkably handsome pottery.
The work is of the best- a careful reproduction of
old formscolorsdevices; and the master of the
establishment is one of those completely artistic types
that are often found in France. His reception is as
friendly as his work is ingenious; and I think it is not
too much to say that you like the work the better be-
cause he has produced it. His vasescups and jars
lampsplatters_plaques_ with their brilliant glazetheir
innumerable figurestheir family likenessand wide
variationsare scatteredthrough his occupied rooms;
they serve at once as his stock-in-trade and as house-
hold ornament. As we all knowthis is an age of
proseof machineryof wholesale productionof coarse
and hasty processes. But one brings away from the
establishment of the very intelligent M. Ulysse the
sense of a less eager activity and a greater search for
perfection. He has but a few workmenand he gives
them plenty of time. The place makes a little vignette
leaves an impression- the quiet white house in its
garden on the road by the wideclear riverwithout
the smokethe bustlethe uglinessof so much of our
modern industry. It ought to gratify Mr. Ruskin.
V.
The second time I went to Blois I took a carriage
for Chambordand came back by the Chateau de
Cheverny and the forest of Russy- a charming little
expeditionto which the beauty of the afternoon (the
finest in a rainy season that was spotted with bright
days) contributed not a little. To go to Chambord
you cross the Loireleave it on one sideand strike
away through a country in which salient features be-
come less and less numerousand which at last has
no other quality than a look of intenseand peculiar
rurality- the characteristiceven when it is not the
charmof so much of the landscape of France. This
is not the appearance of wildnessfor it goes with
great cultivation; it is simply the presence of the
delvingdrudgingeconomizing peasant. But it is a
deepunrelieved rusticity. It is a peasant's landscape;
notas in Englanda landlord's. On the way to Cham-
bord you enter the flat and sandy Sologne. The wide
horizon opens out like a great _potager_ without inter-
ruptionswithout an eminencewith here and there a
longlow stretch of wood. There is an absence of
hedgesfencessigns of property; everything is ab-
sorbed in the general flatness- the patches of vine-
yardthe scattered cottagesthe villagesthe children
(planted and staring and almost always pretty)the
women in the fieldsthe white capsthe faded blouses
the big sabots. At the end of an hour's drive (they
assure you at Blois that even with two horses you will
spend double that time)I passed through a sort of
gap in a wallwhich does duty as the gateway of the
domain of an exiled pretender. I drove along a
straight avenuethrough a disfeatured park- the park
of Chambord has twenty-one miles of circumference-
a very sandyscrubbymelancholy plantationin which
the timber must have been cut many times over and
is to-day a mere tangle of brushwood. Hereas in so
many spots in Francethe traveller perceives that he
is in a land of revolutoins. Neverthelessits great ex-
tent and the long perspective of its avenues give this
desolate boskage a certain majesty; just as its shabbi-
ness places it in agreement with one of the strongest
impressions of the chateau. You follow one of these
long perspectives a proportionate timeand at last you
see the chimneys and pinnacles of Chambord rise ap-
parently out of the ground. The filling-in of the wide
moats that formerly surrounded it hasin vulgar par-
lancelet it downbud given it an appearance of top-
heaviness that is at the same time a magnificent Orien-
talism. The towersthe turretsthe cupolasthe gables
the lanternsthe chimneyslook more like the spires
of a city than the salient points of a single building.
You emerge from the avenue and find yourself at the
foot of an enormous fantastic mass. Chambord has a
strange mixture of society and solitude. A little village
clusters within view of its stately windowsand a couple
of inns near by offer entertainment to pilgrims. These
thingsof courseare incidents of the political pro-
scription which hangs its thick veil over the place.
Chambord is truly royal- royal in its great scaleits
grand airits indifference to common considerations.
If a cat may look at a kinga palace may lock at a
tavern. I enjoyed my visit to this extraordinary struc-
ture as much as if I had been a legitimist; and indeed
there is something interesting in any monument of a
great systemany bold presentation of a tradition.
You leave your vehicle at one of the innswhich
are very decent and tidyand in which every one is
very civilas if in this latter respect the influence of
the old regime pervaded the neighborhoodand you
walk across the grass and the gravel to a small door
- a door infinitely subordinate and conferring no title
of any kind on those who enter it. Here you ring a
bellwhich a highly respectable person answers (a per-
son perceptibly affiliatedagainto the old regime)
after which she ushers you across a vestibule into an
inner court. Perhaps the strongest impression I got
at Chambord came to me as I stood in this court.
The woman who admitted me did not come with
me; I was to find my guide somewhere else. The
specialty of Chambord is its prodigious round towers.
There areI believeno less than eight of them
placed at each angle of the inner and outer square of
buildings; for the castle is in the form of a larger
structure which encloses a smaller one. One of these
towers stood before me in the court; it seemed to
fling its shadow over the place; while aboveas I
looked upthe pinnacles and gablesthe enormous
chimneyssoared into the bright blue air. The place
was empty and silent; shadows of gargoylesof extra-
ordinary projectionswere thrown across the clear
gray surfaces. One felt that the whole thing was
monstrous. A cicerone appeareda languid young
man in a rather shabby liveryand led me about with
a mixture of the impatient and the desultoryof con-
descension and humility. I do not profess to under-
stand the plan of Chambordand I may add that I
do not even desire to do so; for it is much more
entertaining to think of itas you can so easilyas an
irresponsibleinsoluble labyrinth. Withinit is a
wilderness of empty chambersa royal and romantic
barrack. The exiled prince to whom it gives its title
has not the means to keep up four hundred rooms;
he contents himself with preserving the huge outside.
The repairs of the prodigious roof alone must absorb
a large part of his revenue. The great feature of
the interior is the celebrated double staircaserising
straight through the buildingwith two courses of
stepsso that people may ascend and descend without
meeting. This staircase is a truly majestic piece of
humor; it gives you the noteas it wereof Chambord.
It opens on each landing to a vast guard-roomin
four armsradiations of the winding shaft. My guide
made me climb to the great open-work lantern which
springing from the roof at the termination of the
rotund staircase (surmounted here by a smaller one)
forms the pinnacle of the bristling crown of Cham-
bord. This lantern is tipped with a huge _fleur-de-lis_
in stone- the only oneI believethat the Revolution
did not succeed in pulling down. Herefrom narrow
windowsyou look over the wideflat country and the
tangledmelancholy parkwith the rotation of its
straight avenues. Then you walk about the roofin
a complication of galleriesterracesbalconiesthrough
the multitude of chimneys and gables. This roof
which is in itself a sort of castle in the airhas an
extravagantfaboulus qualityand with its profuse
ornamentation- the salamander of Francis I. is a con-
tant motive- its lonely pavementsits sunny niches
the balcony that looks down over the closed and
grass-grown main entrancea strangehalf-sadhalf-
brilliant charm. The stone-work is covered with fine
mould. There are places that reminded me of some
of those quietmildewed corners of courts and ter-
racesinto which the traveller who wanders through
the Vatican looks down from neglected windows. They
show you two or three furnished roomswith Bourbon
portraitshideous tapestries from the ladies of France
a collection of the toys of the _enfant du miracle_ all
military and of the finest make. "Tout cela fonc-
tionne" the guide said of these miniature weapons;
and I wonderedif he should take it into his head to
fire off his little canonhow much harm the Comte de
Chambord would do.
From belowthe castle would look crushed by
the redundancy of its upper protuberances if it were
not for the enormous girth of its round towerswhich
appear to give it a robust lateral development. These
towershoweverfine as they are in their waystruck
me as a little stupid; they are the exaggeration of
an exaggeration. In a building erected after the days
of defenceand proclaiming its peaceful character from
its hundred embroideries and cupolasthey seem
to indicate a want of invention. I shall risk the ac-
cusation of bad taste if I say thatimpressive as it is
the Chateau de Chambord seemed to me to have al-
together a little of that quality of stupidity. The
trouble is that it represents nothing very particular;
it has not happenedin spite of sundry vicissitudes
to have a very interesting history. Compared with
that of Blois and Amboiseits past is rather vacant;
and one feels to a certain extent the contrast between
its pompous appearance and its spacious but some-
what colorless annals. It had indeed the good for-
tune to be erected by Francis I.whose name by itself
expresses a good deal of history. Why he should
have built a palace in those sandy plains will ever
remain an unanswered questionfor kings have never
been obliged to give reasons. In addition to the fact
that the country was rich in game and that Francis
was a passionate hunterit is suggested by M. de la
Saussayethe author of the very complete little history
of Chambord which you may buy at the bookseller's
at Bloisthat he was govemed in his choice of the
site by the accident of a charming woman having
formerly lived there. The Comtesse de Thoury had
a manor in the neighborhoodand the Comtesse de
Thoury had been the object of a youthful passion on
the part of the most susceptible of princes before his
accession to the throne. This great pile was reared
thereforeaccording to M. de la Saussayeas a _souvenir
de premieres amours!_ It is certainly a very massive
memento; and if these tender passages were propor-
tionate to the building that commemorates themthey
were tender indeed. There has been much discus-
sion as to the architect employed by Francis I.and
the honor of having designed this splendid residence
has been claimed for several of the Italian artists who
early in the sixteenth century came to seek patronage
in France. It seems well established to-dayhowever
that Chambord was the work neither of Primaticcio
of Vignolanor of Il Rossoall of whom have left
some trace of their sojourn in France; but of an
obscure yet very complete geniusPierre Nepveu
known as Pierre Trinqueauwho is designated in the
papers which preserve in some degree the history of
the origin of the edificeas the _maistre de l'oeuvre de
maconnerie._ Behind this modest titleapparentlywe
must recognize one of the most original talents of
the French Renaissance; and it is a proof of the vigor
of the artistic life of that period thatbrilliant pro-
duction being everywhere abundantan artist of so
high a value should not have been treated by his con-
temporaries as a celebrity. We manage things very
differently to-day.
The immediate successors of Francis I. continued
to visitChambord; but it was neglected by Henry IV.
and was never afterwards a favorite residence of any
French king. Louis XIV. appeared there on several
occasionsand the apparition was characteristically
brilliant; but Chambord could not long detain a
monarch who had gone to the expense of creating a
Versailles ten miles from Paris. With VersaillesFon-
tainebleauSaint-Germainand Saint-Cloud within easy
reach of their capitalthe later French sovereigns had
little reason to take the air in the dreariest province
of their kingdom. Chambord therefore suffered from
royal indifferencethough in the last century a use
was found for its deserted halls. In 1725 it was oc-
cupied by the luckless Stanislaus Leszczynskiwho
spent the greater part of his life in being elected
King of Poland and being ousted from his throne
and whoat this time a refugee in Francehad found
a compensation for some of his misfortunes in marry-
ing his daughter to Louis XV. He lived eight years
at Chambordand filled up the moats of the castle.
In 1748 it found an illustrious tenant in the person
of Maurice de Saxethe victor of Fontenoywhohow-
evertwo years after he had taken possession of it
terminated a life which would have been longer had
he been less determined to make it agreeable. The
Revolutionof coursewas not kind to Chambord.
It despoiled it in so far as possible of every vestige
of its royal originand swept like a whirlwind through
apartments to which upwards of two centuries had
contributed a treasure of decoration and furniture. In
that wild blast these precious things were destroyed
or forever scattered. In 1791 an odd proposal was
made to the French Government by a company of
English Quakers who had conceived the bold idea of
establishing in the palace a manufacture of some
peaceful commodity not to-day recorded. Napoleon
allotted Chambordas a "dotation" to one of his
marshalsBerthierfor whose benefit it was converted
in Napoleonic fashioninto the so-called principality
of Wagram. By the Princess of Wagramthe marshal's
widowit wasafter the Restorationsold to the
trustees of a national subscription which had been
established for the purpose of presenting it to the in-
fant Duke of Bordeauxthen prospective King of
France. The presentation was duly made; but the
Comte de Chambordwho had changed his title in
recognition of the giftwas despoiled of his property
by the Government of Louis Philippe. He appealed
for redress to the tribunals of his country; and the
consequence of his appeal was an interminable litiga-
tionby whichhoweverfinallyafter the lapse of
twenty-five yearshe was established in his rights. In
1871 he paid his first visit to the domain which had
been offered him half a century beforea term of
which he had spent forty years in exile. It was from
Chambord that he dated his famous letter of the 5th
of July of that year- the letterdirected to his so-
called subjectsin which he waves aloft the white
flag of the Bourbons. This amazing epistlewhich is
virtually an invitation to the French people to re-
pudiateas their national ensignthat immortal tricolor
the flag of the Revolution and the Empireunder
which they havewon the glory which of all glories
has hitherto been dearest to themand which is as-
sociated with the most romanticthe most heroicthe
epicthe consolatoryperiod of their history- this
luckless manifestoI sayappears to give the measure
of the political wisdom of the excellent Henry V. It
is the most factitious proposal ever addressed to an
eminently ironical nation.
On the wholeChambord makes a great impression;
and the hour I wastherewhile the yellow afternoon
light slanted upon the September woodsthere was a
dignity in its desolation. It spokewith a muffled
but audible voiceof the vanished monarchywhich
had been so strongso splendidbut to-day has be-
come a sort of fantastic visionlike the cupolas and
chimneys that rose before me. I thoughtwhile I
lingered thereof all the fine things it takes to make
up such a monarchy; and how one of them is a su-
perfluity of moulderingemptypalaces. Chambord is
touching- that is the best word for it; and if the
hopes of another restoration are in the follies of the
Republica little reflection on that eloquence of ruin
ought to put the Republic on its guard. A sentimental
tourist may venture to remark that in the presence of
several chateaux which appeal in this mystical manner
to the retrospective imaginationit cannot afford to be
foolish. I thought of all this as I drove back to Blois
by the way of the Chateau de Cheverny. The road
took us out of the park of Chambordbut through a
region of flat woodlandwhere the trees were not
mightyand again into the prosy plain of the Sologne
- a thankless soilall of itI believebut lately much
amended by the magic of cheerful French industry
and thrift. The light had already begun to fadeand
my drive reminded me of a passage in some rural
novel of Madame Sand. I passed a couple of timber
and plaster churcheswhich looked very oldblack
and crookedand had lumpish wooden porches and
galleries encircling the base. By the time I reached
Chevernythe clear twilight had approached. It was
late to ask to be allowed to visit an inhabited house;
but it was the hour at which I like best to visit almost
anything. My coachman drew up before a gateway
in a high wallwhich opened upon a short avenue
along which I took my way on foot; the coachmen in
those parts beingfor reasons best known to them-
selvesmortally averse to driving up to a house. I
answered the challenge of a very tidy little portress
who satin company with a couple of childrenen-
joying the evening air infront of her lodgeand who
told me to walk a little further and turn to the right.
I obeyed her to the letterand my turn brought me
into sight of a house as charming as an old manor in
a fairy tale. I had but a rapid and partial view of
Cheverny; but that view was a glimpse of perfection.
A lightsweet mansion stood looking over a wide green
lawnover banks of flowers and groups of trees. It
had a striking character of eleganceproduced partly
by a series of Renaissance busts let into circular niches
in the facade. The place looked so privateso reserved
that it seemed an act of violence to ringa stranger
and foreignerat the graceful door. But if I had not
rung I should be unable to express - as it is such a
pleasure to do - my sense of the exceeding courtesy
with which this admirable house is shown. It was
near the dinner-hour- the most sacred hour of the
day; but I was freely conducted into the inhabited
apartments. They are extremely beautiful. What I
chiefly remember is the charming staircase of white
embroidered stoneand the great _salle des gardes_ and
_chambre a coucher du roi_ on the second floor. Che-
vernybuilt in 1634is of a much later date than the
other royal residences of this part of France; it be-
longs to the end of the Renaissanceand has a touch
of the rococo. The guard-room is a superb apartment;
and as it contains little save its magnificent ceiling
and fireplace and certain dim tapestries on its walls
you the more easily take the measure of its noble
proportions. The servant opened the shutters of a
single windowand the last rays of the twilight slanted
into the rich brown gloom. It was in the same pic-
turesque fashion that I saw the bedroom (adjoining) of
Henry IV.where a legendary-looking beddraped in
folds long unaltereddefined itself in the haunted
dusk. Cheverny remains to me a very charminga
partly mysterious vision. I drove back to Blois in the
darksome nine milesthrough the forest of Russy
which belongs to the Stateand whichthough con-
sisting apparently of small timberlooked under the
stars sufficiently vast and primeval. There was a damp
autumnal smell and the occasional sound of a stirring
thing; and as I moved through the evening air I
thought of Francis I. and Henry IV.
VI.
You may go to Amboise either from Blois or from
Tours; it is about half-way between these towns. The
great point is to goespecially if you have put it off
repeatedly; and to goif possibleon a day when the
great view of the Loirewhich you enjoy from the
battlements and terracespresents itself under a friendly
sky. Three personsof whom the author of these
lines was onespent the greater part of a perfect
Sunday morning in looking at it. It was astonishing
in the course of the rainiest season in the memory of
the oldest Tourangeauhow many perfect days we
found to our hand. The town of Amboise lieslike
Tourson the left bank of the rivera little white-
faced townstaring across an admirable bridgeand
leaningbehindas it wereagainst the pedestal of
rock on which the dark castle masses itself. The town
is so smallthe pedestal so bigand the castle so high
and strikingthat the clustered houses at the base of
the rock are like the crumbs that have fallen from a
well-laden table. You pass among themhoweverto
ascend by a circuit to the chateauwhich you attack
obliquelyfrom behind. It is the property of the
Comte de Parisanother pretender to the French
throne; having come to him remotelyby inheritance
from his ancestorthe Duc de Penthievrewho toward
the close of the last century bought it from the crown
which had recovered it after a lapse. Like the castle
of Blois it has been injured and defaced by base uses
butunlike the castle of Bloisit has not been com-
pletely restored. "It is veryvery dirtybut very
curious" - it is in these terms that I heard it described
by an English ladywho was generally to be found
engaged upon a tattered Tauchnitz in the little _salon
de lecture_ of the hotel at Tours. The description is
not inaccurate; but it should be said that if part of
the dirtiness of Amboise is the result of its having
served for years as a barrack and as a prisonpart of
it comes from the presence of restoring stone-masons
who have woven over a considerable portion of it a
mask of scaffolding. There is a good deal of neatness
as welland the restoration of some of the parts seems
finished. This processat Amboiseconsists for the
most part of simply removing the vulgar excrescences
of the last two centuries.
The interior is virtually a blankthe old apart-
ments having been chopped up into small modern
rooms; it will have to be completely reconstructed. A
worthy womanwith a military profile and that sharp
positive manner which the goodwives who show you
through the chateaux of Touraine are rather apt to
haveand in whose high respectabilityto say nothing
of the frill of her cap and the cut of her thick brown
dressmy companions and I thought we discovered
the particular noteor _nuance_of Orleanism- a com-
petentappreciativeperemptory personI say- at-
tended us through the particularly delightful hour we
spent upon the ramparts of Amboise. Denuded and
disfeatured withinand bristling without with brick-
layers' laddersthe place was yet extraordinarily im-
pressive and interesting. I should confess that we
spent a great deal of time in looking at the view.
Sweet was the viewand magnificent; we preferred it
so much to certain portions of the interiorand to oc-
casional effusions of historical informationthat the
old lady with the prove sometimes lost patience with
us. We laid ourselves open to the charge of pre-
ferring it even to the little chapel of Saint Hubert
which stands on the edge of the great terraceand
hasover the portala wonderful sculpture of the mi-
raculous hunt of that holy man. In the way of plastic
art this elaborate scene is the gem of Amboise. It
seemed to us that we had never been in a place where
there are so many points of vantage to look down
from. In the matter of position Amboise is certainly
supreme among the old houses of the Loire; and I
say this with a due recollection of the claims of Chau-
mont and of Loches- which latterby the way (ex-
cuse the afterthought)is not on the Loire. The plat-
formsthe bastionsthe terracesthe high-perched
windows and balconiesthe hanging gardens and dizzy
crenellationsof this complicated structurekeep you
in perpetual intercourse with an immense horizon.
The great feature of the-place is the obligatory round
tower which occupies the northern end of itand
which has now beencompletely restored. It is of
astounding sizea fortress in itselfand contains
instead of a staircasea wonderful inclined planeso
wide and gradual that a coach and four may be driven
to the top. This colossal cylinder has to-day no
visible use; but it correspondshappily enoughwith
the great circle of the prospect. The gardens of Am-
boiseperched in the aircovering the irregular rem-
nants of the platform on which the castle standsand
making up in picturesqueness what they lack in ex-
tentconstitute of come but a scanty domain. But
bathedas we found themin the autumn sunshine
and doubly private from their aerial sitethey offered
irresistible opportunities for a strollinterruptedas
one leaned against their low parapetsby longcon-
templative pauses. I rememberin particulara certain
terraceplanted with clipped limesupon which we
looked down from the summit of the big tower. It
seemed from that point to be absolutely necessary to
one's happiness to go down and spend the rest of the
morning there; it was an ideal place to walk to and
fro and talk. Our venerable conductressto whom
our relation had gradually become more filialper-
mitted us to gratify this innocent wish- to the extent
that isof taking a turn or two under the mossy _tilleuls._
At the end of this terrace is the low doorin a wall
against the top of whichin 1498Charles VIII.ac-
cording to an accepted traditionknocked his head to
such good purpose that he died. It was within the
walls of Amboise that his widowAnne of Brittany
already in mourning for three childrentwo of whom
we have seen commemorated in sepulchral marble at
Toursspent the first violence of that grief which was
presently dispelled by a union with her husband's
cousin and successorLouis XII. Amboise was a fre-
quent resort of the French Court during the sixteenth
century; it was here that the young Mary Stuart spent
sundry hours of her first marriage. The wars of re-
ligion have left here the ineffaceable stain which they
left wherever they passed. An imaginative visitor at
Amboise to-day may fancy that the traces of blood
are mixed with the red rust on the crossed iron bars
of the grim-looking balconyto which the heads of
the Huguenots executed on the discovery of the con-
spiracy of La Renaudie are rumored to have been
suspended. There was room on the stout balustrade -
an admirable piece of work - for a ghastly array. The
same rumor represents Catherine de' Medici and the
young queen as watching from this balcony the _noyades_
of the captured Huguenots in the Loire. The facts of
history are bad enough; the fictions areif possible
worse; but there is little doubt that the future Queen
of Scots learnt the first lessons of life at a horrible
school. If in subsequent years she was a prodigy of
innocence and virtueit was not the fault of her whilom ???
mother-in-lawof her uncles of the house of Guiseor
of the examples presented to her either at the
windows of the castle of Amboise or in its more pri-
vate recesses.
It was difficult to believe in these dark deedshow-
everas we looked through the golden morning at the
placidity of the far-shining Loire. The ultimate con-
sequence of this spectacle was a desire to follow the
river as far as the castle of Chaumont. It is true
that the cruelties practised of old at Amboise might
have seemed less phantasmal to persons destined to
suffer from a modern form of inhumanity. The mis-
tress of the little inn at the base of the castle-rock -
it stands very pleasantly beside the riverand we had
breakfasted there - declared to us that the Chateau de
Chaumontwhich is often during the autumn closed
to visitorswas at that particular moment standing so
wide open to receive us that it was our duty to hire
one of her carriages and drive thither with speed.
This assurance was so satisfactory that we presently
found ourselves seated in this wily woman's most com-
modious vehicleand rollingneither too fast nor too
slowalong the margin of the Loire. The drive of
about an hourbeneath constant clumps of chestnuts
was charming enough to have been taken for itself;
and indeedwhen we reached Chaumontwe saw that
our reward was to be simply the usual reward of
virtue- the consciousness of having attempted the
right. The Chateau de Chaumont was inexorably
closed; so we learned from a talkative lodge-keeper
who gave what grace she could to her refusal. This
good woman's dilemma was almost touching; she
wished to reconcile two impossibles. The castle was
not to be visitedfor the family of its master was
staying there; and yet she was loath to turn away a
party of which she was good enough to say that it had
a _grand genre;_ foras she also remarkedshe had her
living to earn. She tried to arrange a compromise
one of the elements of which was that we should
descend from our carriage and trudge up a hill which
would bring us to a designated pointwhereover the
paling of the gardenwe might obtain an oblique and
surreptitious view of a small portion of the castle walls.
This suggestion led us to inquire (of each other) to
what degree of baseness it is allowed to an enlightened
lover of the picturesque to resortin order to catch a
glimpse of a feudal chateau. One of our trio decided
characteristicallyagainst any form of derogation; so
she sat in the carriage and sketched some object that
was public propertywhile her two companionswho
were not so proudtrudged up a muddy ascent which
formed a kind of back-stairs. It is perhaps no more
than they deserved that they were disappointed. Chau-
mont is feudalif you please; but the modern spirit is
in possession. It forms a vast clean-scraped mass
with big round towersungarnished with a leaf of ivy
or a patch of mosssurrounded by gardens of moderate
extent (save where the muddy lane of which I speak
passes near it)and looking rather like an enormously
magnified villa. The great merit of Chaumont is its
positionwhich almost exactly resembles that of Am-
boise; it sweeps the river up and downand seems to
look over half the province. Thishoweverwas better
appreciated asafter coming down the hill and re-
entering the carriagewe drove across the long sus-
pension-bridge which crosses the Loire just beyond
the villageand over which we made our way to the
small station of Onzainat the farther endto take
the train back to Tours. Look back from the middle
of this bridge; the whole picture composesas the
painters say. The towersthe pinnaclesthe fair front
of the chateauperched above its fringe of garden and
the rusty roofs of the villageand facing the afternoon
skywhich is reflected also in the great stream that
sweeps below- all this makes a contribution to your
happiest memories of Touraine.
VII.
We never went to Chinon; it was a fatality. We
planned it a dozen times; but the weather interfered
or the trains didn't suitor one of the party was
fatigued with the adventures of'the day before. This
excursion was so much postponed that it was finally
postponed to everything. Besideswe had to go to
Chenonceauxto Azay-le-Rideauto Langeaisto Loches.
So I have not the memory of Chinon; I have only the
regret. But regretas well as memoryhas its visions;
especially whenlike memoryit is assisted by photo-
graphs. The castle of Chinon in this form appears
to me as an enormous ruina mediaeval fortressof
the extent almost of a city. It covers a hill above the
Vienneand after being impregnable in its time is in-
destructible to-day. (I risk this phrase in the face of
the prosaic truth. Chinonin the days when it was a
prizemore than once suflered captureand at present
it is crumbling inch by inch. It is apparenthowever
I believethat these inches encroach little upon acres
of masonry.) It was in the castle that Jeanne Darc ?????
had her first interview with Charles VII.and it is in
the town that Francois Rabelais is supposed to have
been born. To the castlemoreoverthe lover of the
picturesque is earnestly recommended to direct his
steps. But one cannot do everythingand I would
rather have missed Chinon than Chenonceaux. For-
tunate exceedingly were the few hours that we passed
at this exquisite residence.
"In 1747" says Jean-Jacques Rousseauin his
"Confessions" "we went to spend the autumn in Tou-
raineat the Chateauof Chenonceauxa royal resi-
dence upon the Cherbuilt by Henry II. for Diana of
Poitierswhose initials are still to be seen thereand
now in possession of M. Dupinthe farmer-general.
We amused ourselves greatly in this fine spot; the liv-
ing was of the bestand I became as fat as a monk.
We made a great deal of musicand acted comedies."
This is the only description that Rousseau gives
of one of the most romantic houses in Franceand of
an episode that must have counted as one of the most
agreeable in his uncomfortable career. The eighteenth
century contented itself with general epithets; and
when Jean-Jacques has said that Chenonceaux was a
"beau lieu" he thinks himself absolved from further
characterization. We later sons of time haveboth for
our pleasure and our paininvented the fashion of
special termsand I am afraid that even common
decency obliges me to pay some larger tribute than
this to the architectural gem of Touraine. Fortunately
I can discharge my debt with gratitude. In going
from Tours you leave the valley of the Loire and enter
that of the Cherand at the end of about an hour you
see the turrets of the castle on your rightamong the
treesdown in the meadowsbeside the quiet little
river. The station and the village are about ten
minutes' walk from the chateauand the village con-
tains a very tidy innwhereif you are not in too
great a hurry to commune with the shades of the royal
favorite and the jealous queenyou will perhaps stop
and order a dinner to be ready for you in the evening.
A straighttall avenue leads to the grounds of the
castle; what I owe to exactitude compels me to add
that it is crossed by the railway-line. The place is so
arrangedhoweverthat the chateau need know nothing
of passing trains- which passindeedthough the
grounds are not largeat a very sufficient distance.
I may add that the trains throughout this part of
France have a noiselessdesultorydawdlingalmost
stationary qualitywhich makes them less of an offence
than usual. It was a Sunday afternoonand the light
was yellowsave under the trees of the avenuewhere
in spite of the waning of Septemberit was duskily
green. Three or four peasantsin festal attirewere
strolling about. On a bench at the beginning of the
avenuesat a man with two women. As I advanced
with my companions he roseafter a sudden stare
and approached me with a smilein which (to be
Johnsonian for a moment) certitude was mitigated by
modesty and eagerness was embellished with respect.
He came toward me with a salutation that I had seen
beforeand I am happy to say that after an instant I
ceased to be guilty of the brutality of not knowing
where. There was only one place in the world where
people smile like that- only one place where the art
of salutation has that perfect grace. This excellent
creature used to crook his armin Venicewhen I
stepped into my gondola; and I now laid my hand on
that member with the familiarity of glad recognition;
for it was only surprise that had kept me even for a
moment from accepting the genial Francesco as an
ornament of the landscape of Touraine. What on
earth - the phrase is the right one - was a Venetian
gondolier doing at Chenonceaux? He had been
brought from Venicegondola and allby the mistress
of the charming houseto paddle about on the Cher.
Our meeting was affectionatethough there was a kind
of violence in seeing him so far from home. He was
too well dressedtoo well fed; he had grown stout
and his nose had the tinge of good claret. He re-
marked that the life of the household to which he had
the honor to belong was that of a _casa regia;_ which
must have been a great change for poor Checcowhose
habits in Venice were not regal. Howeverhe was
the sympathetic Checco still; and for five minutes
after I left him I thought less about the little plea-
sure-house by the Cher than about the palaces of the
Adriatic.
But attention was not long in coming round to the
charming structure that presently rose before us. The
pale yellow front of the chateauthe small scale of
which is at first a surpriserises beyond a consider-
able courtat the entrance of which a massive and
detached round towerwith a turret on its brow (a
relic of the building that preceded the actual villa)
appears to keep guard. This court is not enclosed -
or is enclosedat leastonly by the gardensportions
of which are at present in a state of violent reforma-
tion. Thereforethough Chenonceaux has no great
heightits delicate facade stands up boldly enough.
This facadeone of the most finished things in Tou-
raineconsists of two storiessurmounted by an attic
whichas so often in the buildings of the French
Renaissanceis the richest part of the house. The
high-pitched roof contains three windows of beautiful
designcovered with embroidered caps and flowering
into crocketed spires. The window above the door
is deeply niched; it opens upon a balcony made in
the form of a double pulpit- one of the most charm-
ing features of the front. Chenonceaux is not large
as I saybut into its delicate compass is packed a
great deal of history- history which differs from that
of Amboise and Blois in being of the private and sen-
timental kind. The echoes of the placefaint and far
as they are to-dayare not politicalbut personal.
Chenonceaux datesas a residencefrom the year 1515
when the shrewd Thomas Bohiera public functionary
who had grown rich in handling the finances of Nor-
mandyand had acquired the estate from a family
whichafter giving it many feudal lordshad fallen
into povertyerected the present structure on the
foundations of an old mill. The design is attributed
with I know not what justiceto Pierre Nepveu_alias_
Trinqueauthe audacious architect of Chambord. On
the death of Bohier the house passed to his sonwho
howeverwas forcedunder cruel pressureto surrender
it to the crownin compensation for a so-called deficit
in the accounts of the late superintendent of the trea-
sury. Francis I. held the place till his death; but
Henry II.on ascending the thronepresented it out of
hand to that mature charmerthe admired of two
generationsDiana of Poitiers. Diana enjoyed it till
the death of her protector; but when this event oc-
curredthe widow of the monarchwho had been
obliged to submit in silencefor yearsto the ascend-
ency of a rivaltook the most pardonable of all the
revenges with which the name of Catherine de' Medici
is associatedand turned her out-of-doors. Diana was
not in want of refugesand Catherine went through
the form of giving her Chaumont in exchange; but
there was only one Chenonceaux. Catherine devoted
herself to making the place more completely unique.
The feature that renders it sole of its kind is not ap-
preciated till you wander round to either side of the
house. If a certain springing lightness is the charac-
teristic of Chenonceauxif it bears in every line the
aspect of a place of recreation- a place intended for
delicatechosen pleasures- nothing can confirm this
expression better than the strangeunexpected move-
ment with whichfrom behindit carries itself across
the river. The earlier building stands in the water;
it had inherited the foundations of the mill destroyed
by Thomas Bohier. The first stepthereforehad been
taken upon solid piles of masonry; and the ingenious
Catherine - she was a _raffinee_ - simply proceeded to
take the others. She continued the piles to the op-
posite bank of the Cherand over them she threw a
longstraight gallery of two stories. This part of the
chateauwhich looks simply like a house built upon a
bridge and occupying its entire lengthis of course
the great curiosity of Chenonceaux. It forms on each
floor a charming corridorwhichwithinis illuminated
from either side by the flickering river-light. The
architecture of these galleriesseen from withoutis
less elegant than that of the main buildingbut the
aspect of the whole thing is delightful. I have spoken
of Chenonceaux as a "villa" using the word ad-
visedlyfor the place is neither a castle nor a palace.
It is a very exceptional villabut it has the villa-
quality- the look of being intended for life in com-
mon. This look is not at all contradicted by the wing
across the Cherwhich only suggests intimate pleasures
as the French say- walks in pairson rainy days;
games and dances on autumn nights; together with as
much as may be of moonlighted dialogue (or silence)
in the courseof evenings more genial stillin the well-
marked recesses of windows.
It is safe to say that such things took place there
in the last centuryduring the kindly reign of Mon-
sieur and Madame Dupin. This period presents itself
as the happiest in the annals of Chenonceaux. I know
not what festive train the great Diana may have led
and my imaginationI am afraidis only feebly kindled
by the records of the luxurious pastimes organized on
the banks of the Cher by the terrible daughter of the
Mediciwhose appreciation of the good things of life
was perfectly consistent with a failure to perceive why
others should live to enjoythem. The best society
that ever assembled there was collected at Chenon-
ceaux during the middle of the eighteenth century.
This was surelyin France at leastthe age of good
societythe period when it was well for appreciative
people to have been born. Such people should of
course have belonged to the fortunate fewand not to
the miserable many; for the prime condition of a
society being good is that it be not too large. The
sixty years that preceded the French Revolution were
the golden age of fireside talk and of those pleasures
which proceed from the presence of women in whom
the social art is both instinctive and acquired. The
women of that period wereabove allgood company;
the fact is attested by a thousand documents. Chenon-
ceaux offered a perfect setting to free conversation;
and infinite joyous discourse must have mingled with
the liquid murmur of the Cher. Claude Dupin was
not only a great man of businessbut a man of honor
and a patron of knowledge; and his wife was gracious
cleverand wise. They had acquired this famous pro-
perty by purchase (from one of the Bourbons; for
Chenonceauxfor two centuries after the death of
Catherine de' Mediciremained constantly in princely
hands)and it was transmitted to their sonDupin de
Francueilgrandfather of Madame George Sand. This
ladyin her Correspondencelately publisheddescribes
a visit that she paidmore than thirty years agoto
those members of her family who were still in posses-
sion. The owner of Chenonceaux to-day is the daughter
of an Englishman naturalized in France. But I have
wandered far from my storywhich is simply a sketch
of the surface of the place. Seen obliquelyfrom either
sidein combination with its bridge and gallerythe
chateau is singular and fantastica striking example
of a wilful and capricious conception. Unfortunately
all caprices are not so graceful and successfuland I
grudge the honor of this one to the false and blood-
polluted Catherine. (To be exactI believe the arches
of the bridge were laid by the elderly Diana. It was
Catherinehoweverwho completed the monument.)
Withinthe house has beenas usualrestored. The
staircases and ceilingsin all the old royal residences
of this part of Franceare the parts that have suffered
least; many of them have still much of the life of the
old time about them. Some of the chambers of Che-
nonceauxhoweverencumbered as they are with mo-
dern detailderive a sufficiently haunted and suggestive
look from the deep setting of their beautiful windows
which thickens the shadows and makes darkcorners.
There is a charming little Gothic chapelwith its apse
hanging over the waterfastened to the left flank of
the house. Some of the upper balconieswhich look
along the outer face of the galleryand either up or
down the riverare delightful protected nooks. We
walked through the lower gallery to the other bank of
the Cher; this fine apartment appeared to be for the
moment a purgatory of ancient furniture. It terminates
rather abruptly; it simply stopswith a blank wall.
There oughtof courseto have been a pavilion here
though I prefer very much the old defect to any mo-
dern remedy. The wall is not so blankhoweverbut
that it contains a door which opens on a rusty draw-
bridge. This drawbridge traverses the small gap which
divides the end of the gallery from the bank of the
stream. The housethereforedoes not literally rest
on opposite edges of the Cherbut rests on one and
just fails to rest on the other. The pavilion would
have made that up; but after a moment we ceased to
miss this imaginary feature. We passed the little
drawbridgeand wandered awhile beside the river.
From this opposite bank the mass of the chateau looked
more charming than ever; and the little peacefullazy
Cherwhere two or three men were fishing in the
eventideflowed under the clear arches and between
the solid pedestals of the part that spanned itwith
the softestvaguest light on its bosom. This was the
right perspective; we were looking across the river of
time. The whole scene was deliciously mild. The
moon came up; we passed back through the gallery
and strolled about a little longer in the gardens. It
was very still. I met my old gondolier in the twilight.
He showed me his gondola; but I hatedsomehowto
see it there. I don't likeas the French sayto _meler
les genres_. A gondola in a little flat French river?
The image was not less irritatingif less injuriousthan
the spectacle of a steamer in the Grand Canalwhich
had driven me away from Venice a year and a half
before. We took our way back to the Grand Monarque
and waited in the little inn-parlor for a late train to
Tours. We were not impatientfor we had an ex-
cellent dinner to occupy us; and even after we had
dined we were still content to sit awhile and exchange
remarks uponthe superior civilization of France.
Where elseat a village innshould we have fared so
well? Where else should we have sat down to our
refreshment without condescension? There were two
or three countries in which it would not have been
happy for us to arrive hungryon a Sunday evening
at so modest an hostelry. At the little inn at Chenon-
ceaux the _cuisine_ was not only excellentbut the ser-
vice was graceful. We were waited on by mademoiselle
and her mamma; it was so that mademoiselle alluded
to the elder ladyas she uncorked for us a bottle of
Vouvray mousseux. We were very comfortablevery
genial; we even went so far as to say to each other
that Vouvray mousseux was a delightful wine. From
this opinionindeedone of our trio differed; but this
member of the party had already exposed herself to
the charge of being too fastidiousby declining to de-
scend from the carriage at Chaumont and take that
back-stairs view of the castle.
VIII.
Without fastidiousnessit was fair to declareon
the other handthat the little inn at Azay-le-Rideau
was very bad. It was terribly dirtyand it was in
charge of a fat _megere_ whom the appearance of four
trustful travellers - we were fourwith an illustrious
fourthon that occasion - roused apparently to fury.
I attached great importance to this incongruous
hostessfor she uttered the only uncivil words I heard
spoken (in connection with any business of my own)
during a tour of some six weeks in France. Breakfast
not at Azay-le-Rideauthereforetoo trustful traveller;
or if you do sobe either very meek or very bold.
Breakfast notsave under stress of circumstance; but
let no circumstance whatever prevent you from going
to see the admirable chateauwhich is almost a rival
of Chenonceaux. The village lies close to the gates
though after you pass these gates you leave it well
behind. A little avenueas at Chenonceauxleads to
the housemaking a pretty vista as you approach the
sculptured doorway. Azay is a most perfect and
beautiful thing; I should place it third in any list of
the great houses of this part of France in which these
houses should be ranked according to charm. For
beauty of detail it comes after Blois and Chenon-
ceaux; but it comes before Amboise and Chambord.
On the other handof courseit is inferior in majesty
to either of these vast structures. Like Chenonceaux
it is a watery placethough it is more meagrely
moated than the little chateau on the Cher. It consists
of a large square _corps de logis_with a round tower
at each anglerising out of a somewhat too slumberous
pond. The water - the water of the Indre - sur-
rounds itbut it is only on one side that it bathes its
feet in the moat. On one of the others there is a
little terracetreated as a gardenand in front there
is a wide courtformed by a wing whichon the right
comes forward. This frontcovered with sculptures
is of the richeststateliest effect. The court is ap-
proachcd by a bridge over the pondand the house
would reflect itself in this wealth of water if the water
were a trifle less opaque. But there is a certain
stagnation - it affects more senses than one - about
the picturesque pools of Azay. On the hither side of
the bridge is a gardenovershadowed by fine old
sycamores- a garden shut in by greenhouses and by
a fine last-century gatewayflanked with twin lodges.
Beyond the chateau and the standing waters behind
it is a so-called _parc_whichhoweverit must be con-
fessedhas little of park-like beauty. The old houses
(many of themthat is) remain in France; but the old
timber does not remainand the denuded aspect of
the few acres that surround the chateaux of Touraine
is pitiful to the traveller who has learned to take the
measure of such things from the manors and castles
of England. The domain of the lordly Chaumont is
that of an English suburban villa; and in that and
in other places there is little suggestionin the
untended aspect of walk and lawnsof the vigilant
British gardener. The manor of Azayas seen to-day
dates from the early part of the sixteenth century;
and the industrious Abbe Chevalierin his very
entertaining though slightly rose-colored book on
Touraine* (* Promenades pittoresque en Touraine.
Tours: 1869.) speaks of it as"perhaps the purest expres-
sion of the _belle Renaissance francaise_." "Its height"
he goes on"is divided between two storiesterminat-
ing under the roof in a projecting entablature which
imitates a row of machicolations. Carven chimneys
and tall dormer windowscovered with imageryrise
from the roofs; turrets on bracketsof elegant shape
hang with the greatest lightness from the angles of
the building. The soberness of the main linesthe
harmony of the empty spaces and those that are
filled outthe prominence of the crowning partsthe
delicacy of all the detailsconstitute an enchanting
whole." And then the Abbe speaks of the admirable
staircase which adorns the north frontand which
with its extentioninsideconstitutes the principal
treasure of Azay. The staircase passes beneath one
of the richest of porticos- a portico over which a
monumental salamander indulges in the most deco-
rative contortions. The sculptured vaults of stone
which cover the windings of the staircase withinthe
fruitsflowersciphersheraldic signsare of the
noblest effect. The interior of the chateau is rich
comfortableextremely modern; but it makes no
picture that compares with its external faceabout
whichwith its charming proportionsits profuse yet
not extravagant sculpturethere is something very
tranquil and pure. I took particular fancy to the
roofhighsteepoldwith its slope of bluish slate
and the way the weather-worn chimneys seemed to
grow out of itlike living things out of a deep soil.
The only defect of the house is the blankness and
bareness of its wallswhich have none of those delicate
parasites attached to them that one likes to see on the
surface of old dwellings. It is true that this bareness
results in a kind of silvery whiteness of complexion
which carries out the tone of the quiet pools and even
that of the scanty and shadeless park.
IX.
I hardly know what to say about the tone of
Langeaiswhichthough I have left it to the end of
my sketchformed the objective point of the first ex-
cursion I made from Tours. Langeais is rather dark
and gray; it is perhaps the simplest and most severe
of all the castles of the Loire. I don't know why I
should have gone to see it before any otherunless it
be because I remembered the Duchesse de Langeais
who figures in several of Balzac's novelsand found
this association very potent. The Duchesse de Lan-
geais is a somewhat transparent fiction; but the
castle from which Balzac borrowed the title of his
heroine is an extremely solid fact. My doubt just
above as to whether I should pronounce it excep-
tionally grey came from my having seen it under a
sky which made most things look dark. I havehow-
evera very kindly memory of that moist and melan-
choly afternoonwhich was much more autumnal than
many of the days that followed it. Langeais lies
down the Loirenear the riveron the opposite side
from Toursand to go to it you will spend half an
hour in the train. You pass on the way the Chateau
de Luyneswhichwith its round towers catching
the afternoon lightlooks uncommonly well on a hill
at a distance; you pass also the ruins of the castle
of Cinq-Marsthe ancestral dwelling of the young
favorite of Louis XIII.the victimof Richelieuthe
hero of Alfred de Vigny's novelwhich is usually re-
commended to young ladies engaged in the study of
French. Langeais is very imposing and decidedly
sombre; it marks the transition from the architecture
of defence to that of elegance. It risesmassive and
perpendicularout of the centre of the village to
which it gives its nameand which it entirely domi-
nates; so thatas you stand before itin the crooked
and empty streetthere is no resource for you but to
stare up at its heavy overhanging cornice and at the
huge towers surmounted with extinguishers of slate.
If you follow this street to the endhoweveryou
encounter in abundance the usual embellishments of
a French village: little ponds or tankswith women
on their knees on the brinkpounding and thumping
a lump of saturated linen; brown old cronesthe tone
of whose facial hide makes their nightcaps (worn by
day) look dazzling; little alleys perforating the thick-
ness of a row of cottagesand showing you behind
as a glimpsethe vividness of a green garden. In
the rear of the castle rises a hill which must formerly
have been occupied by some of its appurtenances
and which indeed is still partly enclosed within its
court. You may walk round this eminencewhich
with the small houses of the village at its baseshuts
in the castle from behind. The enclosure is not
defiantly guardedhowever; for a smallrough path
which you presently reachleads up to an open gate.
This gate admits you to a vague and rather limited
_parc_which covers the crest of the hilland through
which you may walk into the gardens of castle.
These gardensof small extentconfront the dark
walls with their brilliant parterresandcovering the
gradual slope of the hillformas it werethe fourth
side of the court. This is the stateliest view of the
chateauwhich looks to you sufficiently grim and gray
asafter asking leave of a neat young woman who
sallies out to learn your errandyou sit there on a
garden bench and take the measure of the three tall
towers attached to this inner front and forming sever-
ally the cage of a staircase. The huge bracketed cor-
nice (one of the features of Langeais) which is merely
ornamentalas it is not machicolatedthough it looks
sois continued on the inner face as well. The whole
thing has a fine feudal airthough it was erected on
the rains of feudalism.
The main event in the history of the castle is the
marriage of Anne of Brittany to her first husband
Charles VIII.which took place in its great hall in
1491. Into this great hall we were introduced by
the neat young woman- into this great hall and
into sundry other hallswinding staircasesgalleries
chambers. The cicerone of Langeais is in too great a
hurry; the fact is pointed out in the excellent Guide-
Joanne. This ill-dissimulated vicehoweveris to be
observedin the country of the Loirein every one
who carries a key. It is true that at Langeais there
is no great occasion to indulge in the tourist's weak-
ness of dawdling; for the apartmentsthough they
contain many curious odds and ends ofantiquityare
not of first-rate interest. They are cold and musty
indeedwith that touching smell of old furnitureas
all apartments should be through which the insatiate
American wanders in the rear of a bored domestic
pausing to stare at a faded tapestry or to read the
name on the frame of some simpering portrait.
To return to Tours my companion and I had counted
on a train which (as is not uncommon in France)
existed only in the "Indicateur des Chemins de Fer;"
and instead of waiting for another we engaged a vehicle
to take us home. A sorry _carriole_ or _patache_ it proved
to bewith the accessories of a lumbering white mare
and a little wizenedancient peasantwho had put on
in honor of the occasiona new blouse of extraordinary
stiffness and blueness. We hired the trap of an energetic
woman who put it "to" with her own hands; women
in Touraine and the B1esois appearing to have the
best of it in the business of letting vehiclesas well as
in many other industries. There isin factno branch
of human activity in which one is not liablein France
to find a woman engaged. Womenindeedare not
priests; but priests aremore or less; women. They
are not in the armyit may be said; but then they _are_
the army. They are very formidable. In France one
must count with the women. The drive back from
Langeais to Tours was longslowcold; we had an
occasional spatter of rain. But the road passes most
of the way close to the Loireand there was some-
thing in our jog-trot through the darkening landbeside
the flowingriverwhich it was very possible to enjoy.
X.
The consequence of my leaving to the last my little
mention of Loches is that space and opportunity fail
me; and yet a brief and hurried account of that extra-
ordinary spot would after all be in best agreement with
my visit. We snatched a fearful joymy companion
and Ithe afternoon we took the train for Loches.
The weather this time had been terribly against us:
again and again a day that promised fair became hope-
lessly foul after lunch. At last we determined that if
we could not make this excursion in the sunshinewe
would make it with the aid of our umbrellas. We
grasped them firmly and started for the stationwhere
we were detained an unconscionable time by the evolu-
tionsoutsideof certain trains laden with liberated
(and exhilarated) conscriptswhotheir term of service
endedwere about to be restored to civil life. The
trains in Touraine are provoking; they serve as little
as possible for excursions. If they convey you one
way at the right hourit is on the condition of bring-
ing you back at the wrong; they either allow you far
too little time to examine the castle or the ruinor
they leave you planted in front of it for periods that
outlast curiosity. They are perversecapriciousex-
asperating. It was a question of our having but an
hour or two at Lochesand we could ill afford to sacri-
fice to accidents. One of the accidentshoweverwas
that the rain stopped before we got thereleaving be-
hind it a moist mildness of temperature and a cool
and lowering skywhich were in perfect agreement
with the gray old city. Loches is certainly one of the
greatest impressions of the traveller in central France
- the largest cluster of curious things that presents
itself to his sight. It rises above the valley of the
Indrethe charming stream set in meadows and sedges
which wanders through the province of Berry and
through many of the novels of Madame George Sand;
lifting from the summit of a hillwhich it covers to
the basea confusion of terracesrampartstowersand
spires. Having but little timeas I saywe scaled
the hill amainand wandered briskly through this
labyrinth of antiquities. The rain had decidedly
stoppedand save that we had our train on our minds
we saw Loches to the best advantage. We enjoyed
that sensation with which the conscientious tourist is
- or ought to be - well acquaintedand for whichat
any ratehe has a formula in his rough-and-ready
language. We "experienced" as they say(most odious
of verbs!) an "agreeable disappointment." We were
surprised and delighted; we had not suspected that
Loches was so good.
I hardly know what is best there: the strange and
impressive little collegial churchwith its romanesque
atrium or narthexits doorways covered with primitive
sculpture of the richest kindits treasure of a so-called
pagan altarembossed with fighting warriorsits three
pyramidal domesso unexpectedso sinisterwhich I
have not met elsewherein church architecture; or the
huge square keepof the eleventh century- the most
cliff-like tower I rememberwhose immeasurable thick-
ness I did not penetrate; or the subterranean mysteries
of two other less striking but not less historic dungeons
into which a terribly imperative little cicerone intro-
duced uswith the aid of downward laddersropes
torcheswarningsextended hands; andmanyfearful
anecdotes- all in impervious darkness. These horrible
prisons of Lochesat an incredible distance below the
daylightwere a favorite resource of Louis XI.and
were for the most partI believeconstructed by him.
One of the towers of the castle is garnished with the
hooks or supports of the celebrated iron cage in which
he confined the Cardinal La Baluewho survived so
much longer than might have been expected this extra-
ordinary mixture of seclusion and exposure. All these
things form part of the castle of Locheswhose enorm-
ous _enceinte_ covers the whole of the top of the hilland
abounds in dismantled gatewaysin crooked passages
in winding lanes that lead to postern doorsin long
facades that look upon terraces interdicted to the
visitorwho perceives with irritation that they com-
mand magnificent views. These views are the property
of the sub-prefect of the departmentwho resides at
the Chateau de Lochesand who has also the enjoy-
ment of a garden - a garden compressed and curtailed
as those of old castles that perch on hill-tops are apt
to be - containing a horse-chestnut tree of fabulous
sizea tree of a circumference so vast and so perfect
that the whole population of Loches might sit in con-
centric rows beneath its boughs. The gem of the place
howeveris neither the big _marronier_nor the collegial
churchnor the mighty dungeonnor the hideous prisons
of Louis XI.; it is simply the tomb of Agnes Sorel_la
belle des belles_so many years the mistress of Charles VII.
She was buriedin 1450in the collegial church
whencein the beginning of the present centuryher
remainswith the monument that marks themwere
transferred to one of the towers of the castle. She has
alwaysI know not with what justiceenjoyed a fairer
fame than most ladies who have occupied her position
and this fairness is expressed in the delicate statue
that surmounts her tomb. It represents her lying there
in lovely demurenessher hands folded with the best
modestya little kneeling angel at either side of her
headand her feethidden in the folds of her decent
roberesting upon a pair of couchant lambsinnocent
reminders of her name. Agneshoweverwas not
lamb-likeinasmuch asaccording to popular tradition
at leastshe exerted herself sharply in favor of the ex-
pulsion of the English from France. It is one of the
suggestions of Loches that the young Charles VII.
hard put to it as he was for a treasury and a capital
- "le roi de Bourges" he was called at Paris- was
yet a rather privileged mortalto stand up as he does
before posterity between the noble Joan and the _gentille
Agnes_; derivinghowever much more honor from one
of these companions than from the other. Almost as
delicate a relic of antiquity as this fascinating tomb is
the exquisite oratory of Anne of Brittanyamong the
apartments of the castle the only chamber worthy of
note. This small roomhardly larger than a closet
and forming part of the addition made to the edifice
by Charles VIII.is embroidered over with the curious
and remarkably decorative device of the ermine and
festooned cord. The objects in themselves are not
especially graceful; but the constant repetition of the
figure on the walls and ceiling produces an effect of
richnessin spite of the modern whitewash with which
if I remember rightlythey have been endued. The
little streets of Loches wander crookedly down the hill
and are full of charming pictorial "bits:" an old town-
gatepassing under a mediaeval towerwhich is orna-
mented by Gothic windows and the empty niches of
statues; a meagre but delicate _hotel de ville_of the
Renaissancenestling close beside it; a curious _chancel-
lerie_ of the middle of the sixteenth centurywith
mythological figures and a Latin inscription on the
front- both of these latter buildings being rather un-
expected features of the huddled and precipitous little
town. Loches has a suburb on the other side of the
Indrewhich we had contented ourselves with looking
down at from the heightswhile we wondered whether
even if it had not been getting late and our train were
more accommodatingwe should care to take our way
across the bridge and look up that bustin terra-cotta
of Francis I.which is the principal ornament of the
Chateau de Sansac and the faubourg of Beaulieu. I
think we decided that we should not; that we were
already quite well enough acquainted with the nasal
profile of that monarch.
XI.
I know not whether the exact limits of an excur-
sionas distinguished from a journeyhave ever been
fixed; at any rateit seemed none of my businessat
Toursto settle the question. Thereforethough the
making of excursions had been the purpose of my
stayI thought it vainwhile I started for Bourgesto
determine to which category that little expedition
might belong. It was not till the third day that I re-
turned to Tours; and the distancetraversed for the
most part after darkwas even greater than I had sup-
posed. Thathoweverwas partly the fault of a tire-
some wait at Vierzonwhere I had more than enough
time to dinevery badlyat the _buffet_and to observe
the proceedings of a family who had entered my rail-
way carriage at Tours and had conversed unreservedly
for my benefitall the way from that station- a family
whom it entertained me to assign to the class of _petite
noblesse de province_. Their noble origin was confirmed
by the way they all made _maigre_ in the refreshment
oom (it happened to be a Friday)as if it had been
possible to do anything else. They ate two or three
omelets apieceand ever so many little cakeswhile
the positivetalkative mother watched her children as
the waiter handed about the roast fowl. I was destined
to share the secrets of this family to the end; for
when I had taken place in the empty train that was
in waiting to convey us to Bourgesthe same vigilant
woman pushed them all on top of me into my com-
partmentthough the carriages on either side con-
tained no travellers at all. It was betterI foundto
have dined (even on omelets and little cakes) at the
station at Vierzon than at the hotel at Bourgeswhich
when I reached it at nine o'clock at nightdid not
strike me as the prince of hotels. The inns in the
smaller provincial towns in France are allas the term
iscommercialand the _commis-voyageur_ is in triumphant
possession. I saw a great deal of him for several
weeks after this; for he was apparently the only traveller
in the southern provincesand it was my daily fate to
sit opposite to him at tables d'hote and in railway
trains. He may be known by two infallible signs-
his hands are fatand he tucks his napkin into his
shirt-collar. In spite of these idiosyncrasieshe seemed
to me a reserved and inoffensive personwith singularly
little of the demonstrative good-humor that he has
been described as possessing. I saw no one who re-
minded me of Balzac's "illustre Gaudissart;" and in-
deedin the course of a month's journey through a
large part of FranceI heard so little desultory con-
versation that I wondered whether a change had not
come over the spirit of the people. They seemed to
me as silent as Americans when Americans have not
been "introduced" and infinitely less addicted to ex-
changing remarks in railway trains and at tables d'hote
the colloquial and cursory English; a fact per-
haps not worth mentioning were it not at variance
with that reputation which the French have long en-
joyed of being a pre-eminently sociable nation. The
common report of the character of a people ishow-
everan indefinable product; and it isapt to strike
the traveller who observes for himself as very wide of
the mark. The Englishwho have for ages been de-
scribed (mainly by the French) as the dumbstiff
unapproachable racepresent to-day a remarkable ap-
pearance of good-humor and garrulityand are dis-
tinguished by their facility of intercourse. On the
other handany one who has seen half a dozen
Frenchmen pass a whole day together in a railway-
carriage without breaking silence is forced to believe
that the traditional reputation of these gentlemen is
simply the survival of some primitive formula. It was
truedoubtlessbefore the Revolution; but there have
been great changes since then. The question of which
is the better tasteto talk to strangers or to hold your
tongueis a matter apart; I incline to believe that the
French reserve is the result of a more definite con-
ception of social behavior. I allude to it only be-
came it is at variance with the national fameand at
the same time is compatible with a very easy view of
life in certain other directions. On some of these
latter points the Boule d'Or at Bourges was full of
instruction; boastingas it didof a hall of reception
in whichamid old boots that had been brought to be
cleanedold linen that was being sorted for the wash
and lamps of evil odor that were awaiting replenish-
menta strangefamiliarpromiscuous household life
went forward. Small scullions in white caps and aprons
slept upon greasy benches; the Boots sat staring at
you while you fumbledhelplessin a row of pigeon-
holesfor your candlestick or your key; andamid the
coming and going of the _commis-voyageurs_a little
sempstress bent over the under-garments of the hostess
- the latter being a heavystemsilent womanwho
looked at people very hard.
It was not to be looked at in that manner that one
had come all the way from Tours; so that within ten
minutes after my arrival I sallied out into the dark-
ness to get somehow and somewhere a happier im-
pression. However late in the evening I may arrive
at a placeI cannot go to bed without an impression.
The natural placeat Bourgesto look for one seemed
to be the cathedral; whichmoreoverwas the only
thing that could account for my presence _dans cette
galere_. I turned out of a small squarein front of the
hoteland walked up a narrowsloping streetpaved
with bigrough stones and guiltless of a foot-way.
It was a splendid starlight night; the stillness of a
sleeping _ville de province_ was over everything; I had
the whole place to myself. I turned to my rightat
the top of the streetwhere presently a shortvague
lane brought me into sight of the cathedral. I ap-
proached it obliquelyfrom behind; it loomed up in
the darkness above meenormous and sublime. It
stands on the top of the large but not lofty eminence
over which Bourges is scattered- a very good position
as French cathedrals gofor they are not all so nobly
situated as Chartres and Laon. On the side on which
I approached it (the south) it is tolerably well ex-
posedthough the precinct is shabby; in frontit is
rather too much shut in. These defectshoweverit
makes up for on the north side and behindwhere it
presents itself in the most admirable manner to the
garden of the Archevechewhich has been arranged
as a public walkwith the usual formal alleys of the
_jardin francais_. I must add that I appreciated these
points only on the following day. As I stood there in
the light of the starsmany of which had an autumnal
sharpnesswhile others were shooting over the heavens
the hugerugged vessel of the church overhung me in
very much the same way as the black hull of a ship
at sea would overhang a solitary swimmer. It seemed
colossalstupendousa dark leviathan.
The next morningwhich was lovelyI lost no
time in going back to itand foundwith satisfaction
that the daylight did it no injury. The cathedral of
Bourges is indeed magnificently huge; and if it is a
good deal wanting in lightness and grace it is perhaps
only the more imposing. I read in the excellent hand-
book of M. Joanne that it was projected "_des_ 1172"
but commenced only in the first years of the thirteenth
century. "The nave" the writer adds"was finished
_tant bien que malfaute de ressources;_ the facade is of
the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries in its lower
partand of the fourteenth in its upper." The allusion
to the nave means the omission of the transepts. The
west front consists of two vast but imperfect towers;
one of which (the south) is immensely buttressedso
that its outline slopes forwardlike that of a pyramid
being the taller of the two. If they had spiresthese
towers would be prodigious; as it isgiven the rest
of the churchthey are wanting in elevation. There
are five deeply recessed portalsall in a roweach
surmounted with a gable; the gable over the central
door being exceptionally high. Above the porches
which give the measure of its widththe front rears
itselfpiles itselfon a great scalecarried up by gal-
leriesarcheswindowssculpturesand supported by
the extraordinarily thick buttresses of which I have
spokenand whichthough they embellish it with deep
shadows thrown sidewisedo not improve its style.
The portalsespecially the middle oneare extremely
interesting; they are covered with curious early sculp-
tures. The middle onehoweverI must describe
alone. It has no less than six rows of figures- the
others have four- some of whichnotably the upper
oneare still in their places. The arch at the top has
three tiers of elaborate imagery. The upper of these
is divided by the figure of Christ in judgmentof great
sizestiff and terriblewith outstretched arms. On
either side of him are ranged three or four angels
with the instruments of the Passion. Beneath himin
the second friezestands the angel of justicewith his
scales; and on either side of him is the vision of the
last judgment. The good preparewith infinite titilla-
tion and complacencyto ascend to the skies; while
the bad are draggedpushedhurledstuffedcrammed
into pits and caldrons of fire. There is a charming
detail in this section. Beside the angelonthe right
where the wicked are the prey of demonsstands a
little female figurethat of a childwhowith hands
meekly folded and head gently raisedwaits for the
stern angel to decide upon her fate. In this fatehow-
evera dreadfulbig devil also takes a keen interest;
he seems on the point of appropriating the tender
creature; he has a face like a goat and an enormous
hooked nose. But the angel gently lays a hand upon
the shoulder of the little girl - the movement is full
of dignity - as if to say"No; she belongs to the other
side." The frieze below represents the general re-
surrectionwith the good and the wicked emerging from
their sepulchres. Nothing can be more quaint and
charming than the difference shown in their way of
responding to the final trump. The good get out of
their tombs with a certain modest gayetyan alacrity
tempered by respect; one of them kneels to pray as
soon as he has disinterred himself. You may know
the wickedon the other handby their extreme shy-
ness; they crawl out slowly and fearfully; they hang
backand seem to say"Ohdear!" These elaborate
sculpturesfull of ingenuous intention and of the
reality of early faithare in a remarkable state of pre-
servation; they bear no superficial signs of restoration
and appear scarcely to have suffered from the centu-
ries. They are delightfully expressive; the artist had
the advantage of knowing exactly the effect he wished
to produce.
The interior of the cathedral has a great simplicity
and majestyandabove alla tremendous height. The
nave is extraordinary in this respect; it dwarfs every-
thing else I know. I should addhoweverthat I am
in architecturealways of the opinion of the last
speaker. Any great building seems to mewhile I
look at itthe ultimate expression. At any rateduring
the hour that I sat gazing along the high vista of
Bourgesthe interior of the great vessel corresponded
to my vision of the evening before. There is a tranquil
largenessa kind of infinitudeabout such an edifice:
it soothes and purifies the spiritit illuminates the
mind. There are two aisleson either sidein addi-
tion to the nave- five in all- andas I have said
there are no transepts; an omission which lengthens
the vistaso that from my place near the door the
central jewelled window in the depths of the perpen-
dicular choir seemed a mile or two away. The second
or outwardof each pair of aisles is too lowand the
first too high; without this inequality the nave would
appear to take an even more prodigious flight. The
double aisles pass all the way round the choirthe
windows of which are inordinately rich in magnificent
old glass. I have seen glass as fine in other churches;
but I think I have never seen so much of it at once.
Beside the cathedralon the northis a curious
structure of the fourteenth or fifteenth centurywhich
looks like an enormous flying buttresswith its sup-
portsustaining the north tower. It makes a massive
archhigh in the airand produces a romantic effect
as people pass under it to the open gardens of the
Archevechewhich extend to a considerable distance
in the rear of the church. The structure supporting
the arch has the girth of a largeish houseand con-
tains chambers with whose uses I am unacquainted
but to which the deep pulsations of the cathedralthe
vibration of its mighty bellsand the roll of its organ-
tones must be transmitted even through the great arm
of stone.
The archiepiscopal palacenot walled in as at Tours
is visible as a stately habitation of the last century
now in course of reparation in consequence of a fire.
From this sideand from the gardens of the palace
the nave of the cathedral is visible in all its great
length and heightwith its extraordinary multitude of
supports. The gardens aforesaidaccessible through
tall iron gatesare the promenade - the Tuileries - of
the townandvery pretty in themselvesare immensely
set off by the overhanging church. It was warm and
sunny; the benches were empty; I sat there a long
timein that pleasant state of mind which visits the
traveller in foreign townswhen he is not too hurried
while he wonders where he had better go next. The
straightunbroken line of the roof of the cathedral
was very noble; but I could see from this point how
much finer the effect would have been if the towers
which had dropped almost out of sightmight have
been carried still higher. The archiepiscopal gardens
look down at one end over a sort of esplanade or
suburban avenue lying on a lower levelon which they
openand where several detachments of soldiers
(Bourges is full of soldiers) had just been drawn up.
The civil population was also collectingand I saw
that something was going to happen. I learned that
a private of the Chasseurs was to be "broken" for
stealingand every one was eager to behold the cere-
mony. Sundry other detachments arrived on the
groundbesides many of the military who had come
as a matter of taste. One of them described to me
the process of degradation from the ranksand I felt
for a moment a hideous curiosity to see itunder the
influence of which I lingered a little. But only a
little; the hateful nature of the spectacle hurried me
awayat the same time that others were hurrying for-
ward. As I turned my back upon it I reflected that
human beings are cruel brutesthough I could not
flatter myself that the ferocity of the thing was ex-
clusively French. In another country the concourse
would have been equally greatand the moral of it all
seemed to be that military penalties are as terrible as
military honors are gratifying.
XII.
The cathedral is not the only lion of Bourges; the
house of Jacques Coeur is an object of interest scarcely
less positive. This remarkable man had a very strange
historyand he too was "broken" like the wretched
soldier whom I did not stay to see. He has been re-
habilitatedhoweverby an age which does not fear
the imputation of paradoxand a marble statue of
him ornaments the street in front of his house. To
interpret him according to this image - a womanish
figure in a long robe and a turbanwith big bare arms
and a dramatic pose - would be to think of him as a
kind of truculent sultana. He wore the dress of his
periodbut his spirit was very modern; he was a Van-
derbilt or a Rothschild of the fifteenth century. He
supplied the ungrateful Charles VII. with money to pay
the troops whounder the heroic Maiddrove the
English from French soil. His housewhich to-day is
used as a Palais de Justiceappears to have been re-
garded at the time it was built very much as the resi-
dence of Mr. Vanderbilt is regarded in New York to-day.
It stands on the edge of the hill on which most of the
town is plantedso thatbehindit plunges down to a
lower levelandif you approach it on that sideas I
didto come round to the front of ityou have to
ascend a longish flight of steps. The backof old
must have formed a portion of the city wall; at any
rateit offers to view two big towerswhich Joanne
says were formerly part of the defence of Bourges.
From the lower level of which I speak - the square in
front of the post-office - the palace of Jacques Coeur
looks very big and strong and feudal; from the upper
streetin front of itit looks very handsome and deli-
cate. To this street it presents two stories and a con-
siderable length of facade; and it hasboth within and
withouta great deal of curious and beautiful detail.
Above the portalin the stoneworkare two false win-
dowsin which two figuresa man and a womanap-
parently household servantsare representedin sculp-
tureas looking down into the street. The effect is
homelyyet grotesqueand the figures are sufficiently
living to make one commiserate them for having been
condemnedin so dull a townto spend several cen-
turies at the window. They appear to be watching for
the return of their masterwho left his beautiful house
one morning and never came back.
The history of Jacques Coeurwhich has been
written by M. Pierre Clementin a volume crowned
by the French Academyis very wonderful and in-
terestingbut I have no space to go into it here.
There is no more curious exampleand few more
tragicalof a great fortune crumbling from one day to
the otheror of the antique superstition that the gods
grow jealous of human success. Merchantmillion-
nairebankership-ownerroyal favoriteand minister
of financeexplorer of the East and monopolist of the
glittering trade between that quarter of the globe and
his owngreat capitalist who had anticipated the
brilliant operations of the present timehe expiated
his prosperity by povertyimprisonmentand torture.
The obscure points in his career have been elucidated
by M. Clementwho has drawnmoreovera very vivid
picture of the corrupt and exhausted state of France
during the middle of the fifteenth century. He has
shown that the spoliation of the great merchant was a
deliberately calculated actand that the king sacrificed
him without scruple or shame to the avidity of a sin-
gularly villanous set of courtiers. The whole story is
an extraordinary picture of high-handed rapacity-
the crudest possible assertion of the right of the stronger.
The victim was stripped of his propertybut escaped
with his lifemade his way out of Franceandbetak-
ing himself to Italyoffered his services to the Pope.
It is proof of the consideration that he enjoyed in
Europeand of the variety of his accomplishments
that Calixtus III. should have appointed him to take
command of a fleet which his Holiness was fitting out
against the Turks. Jacques Coeurhoweverwas not
destined to lead it to victory. He died shortly after
the expedition had startedin the island of Chiosin
1456. The house of Bourgeshis native placetestifies
in some degree to his wealth and splendorthough it
has in parts that want of space which is striking in
many of the buildings of the Middle Ages. The court
indeedis on a large scaleornamented with turrets
and arcadeswith several beautiful windowsand with
sculptures inserted in the wallsrepresenting the various
sources of the great fortune of the owner. M. Pierre
Clement describes this part of the house as having
been of an "incomparable richesse" - an estimate of its
charms which seems slightly exaggerated to-day. There
ishoweversomething delicate and familiar in the
bas-reliefs of which I have spokenlittle scenes of
agriculture and industrywhich showthat the pro-
prietor was not ashamed of calling attention to his
harvests and enterprises. To-day we should question
the taste of such allusionseven in plastic formin
the house of a "merchant prince" (say in the Fifth
Avenue). Why is itthereforethat these quaint little
panels at Bourges do not displease us? It is perhaps
because things very ancient neverfor some mysterious
reasonappear vulgar. This fifteenth-century million-
nairewith his palacehis egotistical sculpturesmay
have produced that impression on some critical spirits
of his own day.
The portress who showed me into the building was
a dear litte old womanwith the gentlestsweetest
saddest face - a little whiteaged facewith dark
pretty eyes - and the most considerate manner. She
took me up into an upper hallwhere there were a
couple of curious chimney-pieces and a fine old oaken
roofthe latter representing the hollow of a long boat.
There is a certain oddity in a native of Bourges - an
inland town if there ever was onewithout even a river
(to call a river) to encourage nautical ambitions - hav-
ing found his end as admiral of a fleet; but this boat-
shaped roofwhich is extremely graceful and is re-
peated in another apartmentwould suggest that the
imagination of Jacques Coeur was fond of riding the
waves. Indeedas he trafficked in Oriental products
and owned many galleonsit is probable that he was
personally as much at home in certain Mediterranean
ports as in the capital of the pastoral Berry. Ifwhen
he looked at the ceilings of his mansionhe saw his
boats upside downthis was only a suggestion of the
shortest way of emptying them of their treasures. He
is presented in person above one of the great stone
chimney-piecesin company with his wifeMacee de
Leodepart- I like to write such an extraordinary name.
Carved in white stonethe two sit playing at chess at
an open windowthrough which they appear to give
their attention much more to the passers-by than to
the game. They are also exhibited in other attitudes;
though I do not recognize them in the composition on
top of one of the fireplaces which represents the battle-
ments of a castlewith the defenders (little figures be-
tween the crenellations) hurling down missiles with a
great deal of fury and expression. It would have been
hard to believe that the man who surrounded himself
with these friendly and humorous devices had been
guilty of such wrong-doing as to call down the heavy
hand of justice.
It is a curious facthoweverthat Bourges contains
legal associations of a purer kind than the prosecution
of Jacques Coeurwhichin spite of the rehabilitations
of historycan hardly be said yet to have terminated
inasmuch as the law-courts of the city are installed in
his quondam residence. At a short distance from it
stands the Hotel Cujasone of the curiosities of Bourges
and the habitation for many years of the great juris-
consult who revived in the sixteenth century the study
of the Roman lawand professed it during the close
of his life in the university of the capital of Berry.
The learned Cujas hadin spite of his sedentary pur-
suitsled a very wandering life; he died at Bourges in
the year 1590. Sedentary pursuits is perhaps not
exactly what I should call themhaving read in the
"Biographie Universelle" (sole source of my knowledge
of the renowned Cujacius) that his usual manner of
study was to spread himself on his belly on the floor.
He did not sit downhe lay down; and the "Biographie
Universelle" has (for so grave a work) an amusing pic-
ture of the shortfatuntidy scholar dragging himself
_a plat ventre_ across his roomfrom one pile of books
to the other. The house in which these singular gym-
nastics took placeand which is now the headquarters
of the gendarmerieis one of the most picturesque at
Bourges. Dilapidated and discoloredit has a charm-
ing Renaissance front. A high wall separates it from
the streetand on this wallwhich is divided by a
large open gatewayare perched two overhanging
turrets. The open gateway admits you to the court
beyond which the melancholy mansion erects itself
decorated also with turretswith fine old windowsand
with a beautiful tone of faded red brick and rusty
stone. It is a charming encounter for a provincial by-
street; one of those accidents in the hope of which
the traveller with a propensity for sketching (whether
on a little paper block or on the tablets of his brain)
decides to turn a corner at a venture. A brawny gen-
darmein his shirt-sleeveswas polishing his boots in
the court; an ancientknotted vineforlorn of its
clustershung itself over a doorwayand dropped its
shadow on the rough grain of the wall. The place
was very sketchable. I am sorry to sayhoweverthat
it was almost the only "bit." Various other curious
old houses are supposed to exist at Bourgesand I
wandered vaguely about in search of them. But I had
little successand I ended by becoming sceptical.
Bourges is a _ville de province_ in the full force of the
termespecially as applied invidiously. The streets
narrowtortuousand dirtyhave very wide cobble-
stones; the houses for the most part are shabbywith-
out local color. The look of things is neither modern
nor antique- a kind of mediocrity of middle age.
There is an enormous number of blank walls- walls
of gardensof courtsof private houses - that avert
themselves from the streetas if in natural chagrin at
there being so little to see. Round about is a dull
flatfeatureless countryon which the magnificent
cathedral looks down. There is a peculiar dulness
and ugliness in a French town of this typewhichI
must immediately addis not the most frequent one.
In Italyeverything has a charma colora grace; even
desolation and _ennui_. In England a cathedral city
may be sleepybut it is pretty sure to be mellow. In
the course of six weeks spent _en province_howeverI
saw few places that had not more expression than
Bourges.
I went back to the cathedral; thatafter allwas
a feature. Then I returned to my hotelwhere it was
time to dineand sat downas usualwith the _commis-
voyageurs_who cut their bread on their thumb and
partook of every course; and after this repast I re-
paired for a while to the cafewhich occupied a part
of the basement of the inn and opened into its court.
This cafe was a friendlyhomelysociable spotwhere
it seemed the habit of the master of the establishment
to _tutoyer_ his customersand the practice of the cus-
tomers to _tutoyer_ the waiter. Under these circum-
stances the waiter of course felt justified in sitting
down at the same table with a gentleman who had
come in and asked him for writing materials. He
served this gentleman with a horrible little portfolio
covered with shiny black cloth and accompanied with
two sheets of thin paperthree wafersand one of
those instruments of torture which pass in France for
pens- these being the utensils invariably evoked by
such a request; and thenfinding himself at leisure
he placed himself opposite and began to write a letter
of his own. This trifling incident reminded me afresh
that France is a democratic country. I think I re-
ceived an admonition to the same effect from the free
familiar way in which the game of whist was going
on just behind me. It was attended with a great deal
of noisy pleasantryflavored every now and then with
a dash of irritation. There was a young man of whom
I made a note; he was such a beautiful specimen of
his class. Sometimes he was very facetiouschatter-
ingjokingpunningshowing off; thenas the game
went on and he lostand had to pay the _consomma-
tion_he dropped his amiabilityslanged his partner
declared he wouldn't play any moreand went away
in a fury. Nothing could be more perfect or more
amusing than the contrast. The manner of the
whole affair was such asI apprehendone would not
have seen among our English-speaking people; both
the jauntiness of the first phase and the petulance of
the second. To hold the balance straighthowever
I may remark that if the men were all fearful "cads"
they werewith their cigarettes and their inconsistency
less heavyless brutalthan our dear English-speaking
cad; just as the bright little cafe where a robust mater-
familiasdoling out sugar and darning a stockingsat
in her place under the mirror behind the _comptoir_
was a much more civilized spot than a British public-
houseor a "commercial room" with pipes and whiskey
or even than an American saloon.
XIII.
It is very certain that when I left Tours for Le
Mans it was a journey and not an excursion; for I
had no intention of coming back. The questionin-
deedwas to get away- no easy matter in Francein
the early days of Octoberwhen the whole _jeunesse_
of the country is going back to school. It is accom-
paniedapparentlywith parents and grandparents
and it fills the trains with little pale-faced _lyceens_
who gaze out of the windows with a longinglingering
airnot unnatural on the part of small members of a
race in which life is intensewho are about to be
restored to those big educative barracks that do such
violence to our American appreciation of the oppor-
tunities of boyhood. The train stopped every five
minutes; butfortunatelythe country was charming-
hilly and boskyeminently good-humoredand dotted
here and there with a smart little chateau. The old
capital of the province of the Mainewhich has given
its name to a great American Stateis a fairly interest-
ing townbut I confess that I found in it less than I
expected to admire. My expectations had doubtless
been my own fault; there is no particular reason why
Le Mans should fascinate. It stands upon a hill
indeed- a much better hill than the gentle swell of
Bourges. This hillhoweveris not steep in all direc-
tions; from the railwayas I arrivedit was not even
perceptible. Since I am making comparisonsI may
remark thaton the other handthe Boule d'Or at Le
Mans is an appreciably better inn than the Boule d'Or
at Bourges. It looks out upon a small market-place
which has a certain amount of character and seems
to be slipping down the slope on which it liesthough
it has in the middle an ugly _halle_or circular market-
houseto keep it in position. At Le Mansas at
Bourgesmy first business was with the cathedralto
whichI lost no time in directing my steps. It suf-
fered by juxta-position to the great church I had seen
a few days before; yet it has some noble features. It
stands on the edge of the eminence of the townwhich
falls straight away on two sides of itand makes a
striking massbristling behindas you see it from
belowwith rather small but singularly numerous flying
buttresses. On my way to it I happened to walk
through the one street which contains a few ancient
and curious houses- a very crooked and untidy lane
of really mediaeval aspecthonored with the denomina-
tion of the Grand' Rue. Here is the house of Queen
Berengaria- an absurd nameas the building is of a
date some three hundred years later than the wife of
Richard Coeur de Lionwho has a sepulchral monu-
ment in the south aisle of the cathedral. The structure
in question - very sketchableif the sketcher could get
far enough away from it - is an elaborate little dusky
facadeoverhanging the streetornamented with panels
of stonewhich are covered with delicate Renaissance
sculpture. A fat old womanstanding in the door of
a small grocer's shop next to it- a most gracious old
womanwith a bristling moustache and a charming
manner- told me what the house wasand also in-
dicated to me a rotten-looking brown wooden mansion
in the same streetnearer the cathedralas the Maison
Scarron. The author of the "Roman Comique" and
of a thousand facetious versesenjoyed for some years
in the early part of his lifea benefice in the cathedral
of Le Manswhich gave him a right to reside in one
of the canonical houses. He was rather an odd canon
but his history is a combination of oddities. He wooed
the comic muse from the arm-chair of a crippleand
in the same position - he was unable even to go down
on his knees - prosecuted that other suit which made
him the first husband of a lady of whom Louis XIV.
was to be the second. There was little of comedy in
the future Madame de Maintenon; thoughafter all
there was doubtless as much as there need have been
in the wife of a poor man who was moved to compose
for his tomb such an epitaph as thiswhich I quote
from the "Biographie Universelle":-
"Celui qui cy maintenant dort
Fit plus de pitie que d'envie
Et souffrit mille fois la mort
Avant que de perdre la vie.
Passantne fais icy de bruit
Et garde bien qu'il ne s'eveille
Car voicy la premiere nuit
Que le Pauvre Scarron sommeille."
There is rather a quietsatisfactory _place_ in front
of the cathedralwith some good "bits" in it; notably
a turret at the angle of one of the towersand a very
finesteep-roofed dwellingbehind low wallswhich it
overlookswith a tall iron gate. This house has two
or three little pointed towersa bigblackprecipitous
roofand a general air of having had a history. There
are houses which are scenesand there are houses
which are only houses. The trouble with the domestic
architecture of the United States is that it is not
scenicthank Heaven! and the good fortune of an old
structure like the turreted mansion on the hillside of
Le Mans is that it is not simply a house. It is a per-
sonas it wereas well. It would be wellindeedif
it might have communicated a little of its personality
to the front of the cathedralwhich has none of its
own. Shabbyrustyunfinishedthis front has a
romanesque portalbut nothing in the way of a tower.
One sees from withoutat a glancethe peculiarity of
the church- the disparity between the romanesque
navewhich is small and of the twelfth centuryand
the immense and splendid transepts and choirof a
period a hundred years later. Outsidethis end of
the church rises far above the navewhich looks merely
like a long porch leading to itwith a small and curious
romanesque porch in its own south flank. The transepts
shallow but very loftydisplay to the spectators in the
_place_ the reach of their two clere-story windowswhich
occupyabovethe whole expanse of the wall. The
south transept terminates in a sort of towerwhich is
the only one of which the cathedral can boast. Within
the effect of the choir is superb; it is a church in it-
selfwith the nave simply for a point of view. As I
stood thereI read in my Murray that it has the stamp
of the date of the perfection of pointed Gothicand I
found nothing to object to the remark. It suffers little
by confrontation with Bourgesandtaken in itself
seems to me quite as fine. A passage of double aisles
surrounds itwith the arches that divide them sup-
ported on very thick round columnsnot clustered.
There are twelve chapels in this passageand a charm-
ing little lady chapelfilled with gorgeous old glass.
The sustained height of this almost detached choir is
very noble; its lightness and graceits soaring sym-
metrycarry the eye up to places in the air from
which it is slow to descend. Like Tourslike Chartres
like Bourges (apparently like all the French cathedrals
and unlike several English ones) Le Mans is rich in
splendid glass. The beautiful upper windows of the
choir makefar alofta sort of gallery of pictures
blooming with vivid color. It is the south transept
that contains the formless image - a clumsy stone
woman lying on her back - which purports to represent
Queen Berengaria aforesaid.
The view of the cathedral from the rear isas usual
very fine. A small garden behind it masks its base;
but you descend the hill to a large _place de foire_ad-
jacent to a fine old pubic promenade which is known
as Les Jacobinsa sort of miniature Tuilerieswhere I
strolled for a while in rectangular alleysdestitute of
herbageand received a deeper impression of vanished
things. The cathedralon the pedestal of its hilllooks
considerably farther than the fair-ground and the
Jacobinsbetween the rather bare poles of whose
straightly planted trees you may admire it at a con-
venient distance. I admired it till I thought I should
remember it (better than the event has proved)and
then I wandered away and looked at another curious
old churchNotre-Dame-de-la-Couture. This sacred
edifice made a picture for ten minutesbut the picture
has faded now. I reconstruct a yellowish-brown facade
and a portal fretted with early sculptures; but the
details have gone the way of all incomplete sensations.
After you have stood awhile in the choir of the
cathedralthere is no sensation at Le Mans that goes
very far. For some reason not now to be tracedI
had looked for more than this. I think the reason
was to some extent simply in the name of the place;
for nameson the wholewhether they be good reasons
or notare very active ones. Le Mansif I am not
mistakenhas a sturdyfeudal sound; suggests some-
thing dark and squarea vision of old ramparts and
gates. Perhaps I had been unduly impressed by the
factaccidentally revealed to methat Henry II.first
of the English Plantagenetswas born there. Of course
it is easy to assure one's self in advancebut does it
not often happen that one had rather not be assured?
There is a pleasure sometimes in running the risk of
disappointment. I took minesuch as it wasquietly
enoughwhile I sat before dinner at the door of one
of the cafes in the market-place with a _bitter-et-curacao_
(invaluable pretext at such an hour!) to keep me com-
pany. I remember that in this situation there came
over me an impression which both included and ex-
cluded all possible disappointments. The afternoon
was warm and still; the air was admirably soft. The
good Manceauxin little groups and pairswere seated
near me; my ear was soothed by the fine shades of
French enunciationby the detached syllables of that
perfect tongue. There was nothing in particular in
the prospect to charm; it was an average French view.
Yet I felt a charma kind of sympathya sense of the
completeness of French life and of the lightness and
brightness of the social airtogether with a desire to
arrive at friendly judgmentsto express a positive
interest. I know not why this transcendental mood
should have descended upon me then and there; but
that idle half-hour in front of the cafein the mild
October afternoonsuffused with human soundsis
perhaps the most definite thing I brought away from
Le Mans.
XIV.
I am shocked at findingjust after this noble de-
claration of principles that in a little note-book which
at that time I carried about with methe celebrated
city of Angers is denominated a "sell." I reproduce
this vulgar term with the greatest hesitationand only
because it brings me more quickly to my point. This
point is that Angers belongs to the disagreeable class
of old towns that have beenas the English say"done
up." Not the oldnessbut the newnessof the place
is what strikes the sentimental tourist to-dayas he
wanders with irritation along second-rate boulevards
looking vaguely about him for absent gables. "Black
Angers" in shortis a victim of modern improvements
and quite unworthy of its admirable name- a name
whichlike that of Le Manshad always hadto my
eyesa highly picturesque value. It looks particularly
well on the Shakspearean page (in "King John")where
we imagine it uttered (though such would not have
been the utterance of the period) with a fine old in-
sular accent. Angers figures with importance in early
English history: it was the capital city of the Plantagenet
racehome of that Geoffrey of Anjou who marriedas
second husbandthe Empress Mauddaughter of
Henry I. and competitor of Stephenand became father
of Henry II.first of the Plantagenet kingsbornas we
have seenat Le Mans. The facts create a natural
presumption that Angers will look historic; I turned
them over in my mind as I travelled in the train from
Le Mansthrough a country that was really prettyand
looked more like the usual English than like the usual
French scenerywith its fields cut up by hedges and
a considerable rotundity in its trees. On my way
from the station to the hotelhoweverit became plain
that I should lack a good pretext for passing that night
at the Cheval Blanc; I foresaw that I should have con-
tented myself before th e end of the day. I remained
at the White Horse only long enough to discover that
it was an exceptionally good provincial innone of the
best that I encountered during six weeks spent in
these establishments.
"Stupidly and vulgarly rnodernized" - that is an-
other phrase from my note-bookand note-books are
not obliged to be reasonable. "There are some narrow
and tortuous-streetswith a few curious old houses" - I
continue to quote; "there is a castleof which the ex-
terior is most extraordinaryand there is a cathedral
of moderate interest. It is fair to say that the
Chateau d'Angers is by itself worth a pilgrimage; the
only drawback is that you have seen it in a quarter of
an hour. You cannot do more than look at itand
one good look does your business. It has no beauty
no graceno detailnothing that charms or detains
you; it is simply very old and very big- so big and
so old that this simple impression is enoughand it
takes its place in your recollections as a perfect specimen
of a superannuated stronghold. It stands at one end
of the townsurrounded by a hugedeep moatwhich
originally contained the waters of the Mainenow
divided from it by a quay. The water-front of Angers
is poor- wanting in color and in movement; and there
is always an effect of perversity in a town lying near a
great river andyet not upon it. The Loire is a few
miles off; but Angers contents itself with a meagre
affluent of that stream. The effect was naturally much
better when the hugedark mass of the castlewith its
seventeen prodigious towersrose out of the protecting
flood. These towers are of tremendous girth and soli-
dity; they are encircled with great bandsor hoopsof
white stoneand are much enlarged at the base.
Between them hang vast curtains of infinitely old-look-
ing masonryapparently a dense conglomeration of
slatethe material of which the town was originally
built (thanks to rich quarries in the neighborhood)
and to which it owed its appellation of the Black.
There are no windowsno aperturesand to-day no
battlements nor roofs. These accessories were removed
by Henry III.so thatin spite of its grimness and
blacknessthe place has not even the interest of look-
ing like a prison; it beingas I supposedthe essence
of a prison not to be open to the sky. The only
features of the enormous structure are the blacksombre
stretches and protrusions of wallthe effect of which
on so large a scaleis strange and striking. Begun by
Philip Augustusand terminated by St. Louisthe
Chateau d'Angers has of course a great deal of history.
The luckless Fouquetthe extravagant minister of
finance of Louis XIV.whose fall from the heights of
grandeur was so sudden and completewas confined
here in 1661just after his arrestwhich had taken
place at Nantes. HerealsoHuguenots and Vendeans
have suffered effective captivity.
I walked round the parapet which protects the
outer edge of the moat (it is all up hilland the moat
deepens and deepens)till I came to the entrance
which faces the townand which is as bare and
strong as the rest. The concierge took me into the
court; but there was nothing to see. The place is
used as a magazine of ammunitionand the yard con-
tains a multitude of ugly buildings. The only thing
to do is to walk round the bastions for the view; but
at the moment of my visit the weather was thickand
the bastions began and ended with themselves. So I
came out and took another look at the bigblack ex-
teriorbuttressed with white-ribbed towersand per-
ceived that a desperate sketcher might extract a
picture from itespecially if he were to bring inas
they saythe little black bronze statue of the good
King Rene (a weak production of David d'Angers)
whichstanding within sightornaments the melancholy
faubourg. He would do much betterhoweverwith
the very striking old timbered house (I suppose of the
fifteenth century) which is called the Maison d'Adam
and is easily the first specimen at Angers of the
domestic architecture of the past. This admirable
housein the centre of the towngabledelaborately
timberedand much restoredis a really imposing
monument. The basement is occupied by a linen-
draperwho flourishes under the auspicious sign of
the Mere de Famille; and above his shop the tall
front rises in five overhanging stories. As the house
occupies the angle of a little _place_this front is double
and the black beams and wooden supportsdisplayed
over a large surface and carved and interlacedhave
a high picturesqueness. The Maison d'Adam is quite
in the grand styleand I am sorry to say I failed to
learn what history attaches to its name. If I spoke just
above of the cathedral as "moderate" I suppose I
should beg its pardon; for this serious charge was
probably prompted by the fact that it consists only of
a navewithout side aisles. A little reflection now
convinces me that such a form is a distinction; and
indeedI find it mentionedrather inconsistentlyin
my note-booka little further onas "extremely simple
and grand." The nave is spoken of in the same
volume as "bigseriousand Gothic" though the choir
and transepts are noted as very shallow. But it is not
denied that the air of the whole thing is original and
striking; and it would therefore appearafter allthat
the cathedral of Angersbuilt during the twelfth and
thirteenth centuriesis a sufficiently honorable church;
the more that its high west frontadorned with a very
primitive Gothic portalsupports two elegant tapering
spiresbetween whichunfortunatelyan ugly modern
pavilion has been inserted.
I remember nothing else at Angers but the curious
old Cafe Serinwhereafter I had had my dinner at
the innI went and waited for the train whichat nine
o'clock in the eveningwas to convey mein a couple
of hoursto Nantes- an establishment remarkable for
its great size and its air of tarnished splendorits
brown gilding and smoky frescosas also for the fact
that it was hidden away on the second floor of an un-
assuming house in an unilluminated street. It hardly
seemed a place where you would drop in; but when
once you had found itit presented itselfwith the
cathedralthe castleand the Maison d'Adamas one
of the historical monuments of Angers.
XV.
If I spent two nights at Nantesit was for reasons
of convenience rather than of sentiment; thoughin-
deedI spent them in a big circular room which had
a statelyloftylast-century look- a look that con-
soled me a little for the whole place being dirty. The
highold-fashionedinn (it had a hugewindy _porte-
cochere_and you climbed a vast black stone staircase
to get to your room) looked out on a dull squaresur-
rounded with other tall housesand occupied on one
side by the theatrea pompous buildingdecorated
with columns and statues of the muses. Nantes be-
longs to the class of towns which are always spoken
of as "fine" and its position near the mouth of the
Loire gives itI believemuch commercial movement.
It is a spaciousrather regular citylookingin the
parts that I traversedneither very fresh nor very
venerable. It derives its principal character from the
handsome quays on the Loirewhich are overhung
with tall eighteenth-century houses (very numerous
tooin the other streets)- houseswith big _entresols_
marked by arched windowsclassic pedimentsbalcony-
rails of fine old iron-work. These features exist in
still better form at Bordeaux; butputting Bordeaux
asideNantes is quite architectural. The view up and
down the quays has the coolneutral tone of color
that one finds so often in French water-side places-
the bright grayness which is the tone of French land-
scape art. The whole city has rather a grandor at
least an eminently well-established air. During a day
passed in it of course I had time to go to the Musee;
the more so that I have a weakness for provincial
museums- a sentiment that depends but little on the
quality of the collection. The pictures may be bad
but the place is often curious; andindeedfrom bad
picturesin certain moods of the mindthere is a
degree of entertainment to be derived. If they are
tolerably old they are often touching; but they must
have a relative antiquityfor I confess I can do no-
thing with works of art of which the badness is of
receat origin. The coolstillempty chambers in
which indifferent collections are apt to be preserved
the red brick tilesthe diffused lightthe musty odor
the mementos around you of dead fashionsthe snuffy
custodian in a black skull capwho pulls aside a
faded curtain to show you the lustreless gem of the
museum- these things have a mild historical quality
and the sallow canvases after all illustrate something.
Many of those in the museum of Nantes illustrate the
taste of a successful warrior; having been bequeathed
to the city by Napoleon's marshalClarke (created
Duc de Feltre). In addition to these there is the
usual number of specimens of the contemporary French
schoolculled from the annual Salons and presented
to the museum by the State. Wherever the traveller
goesin Francehe is reminded of this very honorable
practice- the purchase by the Government of a cer-
tain number of "pictures of the year" which are pre-
sently distributed in the provinces. Governments suc-
ceed each other and bid for success by different
devices; but the "patronage of art" is a plankas we
should say herein every platform. The works of art
are often ill-selected- there is an official taste which
you immediately recognize- but the custom is essen-
tially liberaland a government which should neglect
it would be felt to be painfully common. The only
thing in this particular Musee that I remember is a
fine portrait of a womanby Ingres- very flat and
Chinesebut with an interest of line and a great deal
of style.
There is a castle at Nantes which resembles in
some degree that of Angersbut haswithoutmuch
less of the impressiveness of great sizeandwithin
much more interest of detail. The court contains the
remains of a very fine piece of late Gothica tall ele-
gant building of the sixteenth century. The chateau
is naturally not wanting in history. It was the residence
of the old Dukes of Brittanyand was broughtwith
the rest of the provinceby the Duchess Annethe last
representative of that raceas her dowryto Charles
VIII. I read in the excellent hand-book of M. Joanne
that it has been visited by almost every one of the
kings of Francefrom Louis XI. downward; and also
that it has served as a place of sojourn less voluntary
on the part of various other distinguished persons
from the horrible Merechal de Retzwho in the fifteenth
century was executed at Nantes for the murder of a
couple of hundred young childrensacrificed in abomin-
able ritesto the ardent Duchess of Berrymother of
the Count of Chambordwho was confined there for a
few hours in 1832just after her arrest in a neigh-
boring house. I looked at the house in question - you
may see it from the platform in front of the chateau
- and tried to figure to myself that embarrassing scene.
The duchessafter having unsuccessfully raised the
standard of revolt (for the exiled Bourbons)in the
legitimist Bretagneand being "wanted" as the phrase
isby the police of Louis Philippehad hidden herself
in a small but loyal house at Nanteswhereat the end
of five months of seclusionshe was betrayedfor gold
to the austere M. Guizotby one of her servantsan
Alsatian Jew named Deutz. For many hours before
her capture she had been compressed into an inter-
stice behind a fireplaceand by the time she was
drawn forth into the light she had been ominously
scorched. The man who showed me the castle in-
dicated also another historic spota house with little
_tourelles_on the Quai de la Fossein which Henry IV.
is said to have signed the Edict of Nantes. I am
howevernot in a position to answer for this pedigree.
There is another point in the history of the fine
old houses which command the Loireof whichI sup-
poseone may be tolerably sure; that istheir having
placid as they stand there to-daylooked down on the
horrors of the Terror of 1793the bloody reign of the
monster Carrier and his infamous _noyades_. The most
hideous episode of the Revolution was enacted at
Nanteswhere hundreds of men and womentied to-
gether in coupleswere set afloat upon rafts and sunk
to the bottom of the Loire. The tall eighteenth-century
housefull of the _air noble_in France always reminds
me of those dreadful years- of the street-scenes of the
Revolution. Superficiallythe association is incongru-
ousfor nothing could be more formal and decorous
than the patent expression of these eligible residences.
But whenever I have a vision of prisoners bound on
tumbrels that jolt slowly to the scaffoldof heads car-
ried on pikesof groups of heated _citoyennes_ shaking
their fists at closed coach-windowsI see in the back-
ground the well-ordered features of the architecture of
the period- the clear gray stonethe high pilasters
the arching lines of the _entresol_the classic pediment
the slate-covered attic. There is not much architecture
at Nantes except the domestic. The cathedralwith a
rough west front and stunted towersmakes no im-
pression as you approach it. It is true that it does its
best to recover its reputation as soon as you have
passed the threshold. Begun in 1434 and finished
about the end of the fifteenth centuryas I discover in
Murrayit has a magnificent navenot of great length
but of extraordinary height and lightness. On the
other handit has no choir whatever. There is much
entertainment in France in seeing what a cathedral
will take upon itself to possess or to lack; for it is
only the smaller number that have the full complement
of features. Some have a very fine nave and no choir;
others a very fine choir and no nave. Some have a
rich outside and nothing within; others a very blank
face and a very glowing heart. There are a hundred
possibilities of poverty and wealthand they make the
most unexpected combinations.
The great treasure of Nantes is the two noble se-
pulchral monuments which occupy either transeptand
one of which has (in its nobleness) the rare distinction
of being a production of our own time. On the south
side stands the tomb of Francis II.the last of the
Dukes of Brittanyand of his second wifeMargaret
of Foixerected in 1507 by their daughter Annewhom
we have encountered already at the Chateau de Nantes
where she was born; at Langeaiswhere she married
her first husband; at Amboisewhere she lost him; at
Bloiswhere she married her secondthe "good"
Louis XII.who divorced an impeccable spouse to
make room for herand where she herself died. Trans-
ferred to the cathedral from a demolished convent
this monumentthe masterpiece of Michel Colomb
author of the charming tomb of the children of Charles
VIII. and the aforesaid Annewhich we admired at
Saint Gatien of Toursis one of the most brilliant
works of the French Renaissance. It has a splendid
effectand is in perfect preservation. A great table of
black marble supports the reclining figures of the duke
and duchesswho lie there peacefully and majestically
in their robes and crownswith their heads each on a
cushionthe pair of which are supportedfrom behind
by threecharming little kneeling angels; at the foot of
the quiet couple are a lion and a greyhoundwith
heraldic devices. At each of the angles of the table
is a large figure in white marble of a woman elaborately
dressedwith a symbolic meaningand these figures
with their contemporary faces and clotheswhich give
them the air of realistic portraitsare truthful and liv-
ingif not remarkably beautiful. Round the sides of
the tomb are small images of the apostles. There is a
kind of masculine completeness in the workand a
certain robustness of taste.
In nothing were the sculptors of the Renaissance
more fortunate than in being in advance of us with
their tombs: they have left us noting to say in regard
to the great final contrast- the contrast between the
immobility of death and the trappings and honors that
survive. They expressed in every way in which it was
possible to express it the solemnityof their conviction
that the Marble image was a part of the personal
greatness of the defunctand the protectionthe re-
demptionof his memory. A modern tombin com-
parisonis a sceptical affair; it insists too little on the
honors. I say this in the face of the fact that one has
only to step across the cathedral of Nantes to stand in
the presence of one of the purest and most touching
of modern tombs. Catholic Brittany has erected in
the opposite transept a monument to one of the most
devoted of her sonsGeneral de Lamoricierethe de-
fender of the Popethe vanquished of Castelfidardo.
This noble workfrom the hand of Paul Duboisone
of the most interesting of that new generation of sculp-
tors who have revived in France an art of which our
overdressed century had begun to despairhas every
merit but the absence of a certain prime feeling. It
is the echo of an earlier tune- an echo with a beauti-
ful cadence. Under a Renaissance canopy of white
marbleelaborately worked with arabesques and che-
rubsin a relief so low that it gives the work a cer-
tain look of being softened and worn by timelies the
body of the Breton soldierwitha crucifix clasped to
his breast and a shroud thrown over his body. At
each of the angles sits a figure in bronzethe two best
of whichrepresenting Charity and Military Courage
had given me extraordinary pleasure when they were
exhibited (in the clay) in the Salon of 1876. They
are admirably castand they have a certain greatness:
the onea serenerobust young motherbeautiful in
line and attitude; the othera lean and vigilant young
manin a helmet that overshadows his serious eyes
resting an outstretched arman admirable military
memberupon the hilt of a sword. These figures con-
tain abundant assurance that M. Paul Dubois has been
attentive to Michael Angelowhom we have all heard
called a splendid example but a bad model. The
visor-shadowed face of his warrior is more or less a
reminiscence of the figure on the tomb of Lorenzo de'
Medici at Florence; but it is doubtless none the worse
for that. The interest of the work of Paul Dubois is
its peculiar seriousnessa kind of moral good faith
which is not the commonest feature of French artand
whichunited as it is in this case with exceeding
knowledge and a remarkable sense of formproduces
an impressionof deep refinement. The whole monu-
ment is a proof of exquisitely careful study; but I am
not sure that this impression on the part of the spec-
tator is altogether a happy one. It explains much of
its great beautyand it also explainsperhapsa little
of a certain weakness. That wordhoweveris scarcely
in place; I only mean that M. Dubois has made a vi-
sible effortwhich has been most fruitful. Simplicity
is not always strengthand our complicated modern
genius contains treasures of intention. This fathomless
modern element is an immense charm on the part of
M. Paul Dubois. I am lost in admiration of the deep
aesthetic experiencethe enlightenment of tastere-
vealed by such work. After thatI only hope that
Giuseppe Garibaldi may have a monument as fair.
XVI.
To go from Nantes to La Rochelle you travel
straight southwardacross the historic _bocage_ of La
Vendeethe home of royalist bush-fighting. The
countrywhich is exceedingly prettybristles with
copsesorchardshedgesand with trees more spread-
ing and sturdy than the traveller is apt to deem the
feathery foliage of France. It is true that as I pro-
ceeded it flattened out a good dealso that for an
hour there was a vast featureless plainwhich offered
me little entertainment beyond the general impression
that I was approaching the Bay of Biscay (from which
in realityI was yet far distant). As we drew near
La Rochellehoweverthe prospect brightened con-
siderablyand the railway kept its course beside a
charming little canalor canalized riverbordered
with treesand with smallneatbright-coloredand
yet old-fashioned cottages and villaswhich stood
back on the further sidebehind small gardenshedges
painted palingspatches of turf. The whole effect
was Dutch and delightful; and in being delightful
though not in being Dutchit prepared me for the
charms of La Rochellewhich from the moment I
entered it I perceived to be a fascinating little town
a most original mixture of brightness and dulness.
Part of its brightness comes from its being extra-
ordinarily clean- in whichafter allit _is_ Dutch; a
virtue not particularly noticeable at BourgesLe Mans
and Angers. Whenever I go southwardif it be only
twenty milesI begin to look out for the southpre-
pared as I am to find the careless grace of those lati-
tudes even in things of which it maybe said that
they may be south of somethingbut are not southern.
To go from Boston to New York (in this state of
mind) is almost as soft a sensation as descending the
Italian sideof the Alps; and to go from New York to
Philadelphia is to enter a zone of tropical luxuriance
and warmth. Given this absurd dispositionI could
not fail to flatter myselfon reaching La Rochelle
that I was already in the Midiand to perceive in
everythingin the language of the countrythe _ca-
ractere meridional._ Reallya great many things had
a hint of it. For that matterit seems to me that to
arrive in the south at a bound - to wake up thereas
it were - would be a very imperfect pleasure. The
full pleasure is to approach by stages and gradations;
to observe the successive shades of difference by
which it ceases to be the north. These shades are
exceedingly finebut your true south-lover has an eye
for them all. If he perceive them at New York and
Philadelphia- we imagine him boldly as liberated
from Boston- how could he fail to perceive them at
La Rochelle? The streets of this dear little city are
lined with arcades- goodbigstraddling arcades of
stonesuch as befit a land of hot summersand which
recalled to menot to go furtherthe dusky portions
of Bayonne. It containsmoreovera great wide
_place d'armes_which looked for all the world like the
piazza of some dead Italian townemptysunny
grass-grownwith a row of yellow houses overhanging
itan unfrequented cafewith a striped awninga tall
coldfloriduninteresting cathedral of the eighteenth
century on one sideand on the other a shady walk
which forms part of an old rampart. I followed this
walk for some timeunder the stunted treesbeside
the grass-covered bastions; it is very charmingwind-
ing and wanderingalways with trees. Beneath the
rampart is a tidal riverand on the other sidefor a
long distancethe mossy walls of the immense garden
of a seminary. Three hundred years agoLa Rochelle
was the great French stronghold of Protestantism; but
to-day it appears to be a'nursery of Papists.
The walk upon the rampart led me round to one
of the gatesi of the townwhere I found some small
modernfortifications and sundry red-legged soldiers
andbeyond the fortificationsanother shady walk-
a _mail_as the French sayas well as a _champ de
manoeuvre_- on which latter expanse the poor little
red-legs were doing their exercise. It was all very
quiet and very picturesquerather in miniature; and
at once very tidy and a little out of repair. This
howeverwas but a meagre back-view of La Rochelle
or poor side-view at best. There are other gates than
the small fortified aperture just mentioned; one of
theman old gray arch beneath a fine clock-towerI
had passed through on my way from the station.
This picturesque Tour de l'Horloge separates the town
proper from the port; for beyond the old gray arch
the place presents its brightexpressive little face to
the sea. I had a charming walk about the harbor
and along the stone piers and sea-walls that shut it
in. This indeedto take things in their orderwas
after I had had my breakfast (which I took on arriv-
ing) and after I had been to the _hotel de ville_. The
inn had a long narrow garden behind itwith some
very tall trees; and passing through this garden to a
dim and secluded _salle a manger_buried in the heavy
shadeI hadwhile I sat at my repasta feeling of
seclusion which amounted almost to a sense of in-
carceration. I lost this sensehoweverafter I had
paid my billand went out to look for traces of the
famous siegewhich is the principal title of La Rochelle
to renown. I had come thither partly because I
thought it would be interesting to stand for a few
moments in so gallant a spotand partly becauseI
confessI had a curiosity to see what had been the
starting-point of the Huguenot emigrants who founded
the town of New Rochelle in the State of New York
a place in which I had passed certain memorable
hours. It was strange to thinkas I strolled through
the peaceful little portthat these quiet watersduring
the wars of religionhad swelled with a formidable
naval power. The Rochelais had fleets and admirals
and their stout little Protestant bottoms carried de-
fiance up and down.
To say that I found any traces of the siege would
be to misrepresent the taste for vivid whitewash by
which La Rochelle is distinguished to-day. The only
trace is the dent in the marble top of the table on
whichin the _hotel de ville_Jean Guitonthe mayor of
the citybrought down his dagger with an oathwhen
in 1628 the vessels and regiments of Richelieu closed
about it on sea and land. This terrible functionary
was the soul of the resistance; he held out from
February to Octoberin the midst of pestilence and
famine. The whole episode has a brilliant place
among the sieges of history; it has been related a
hundred timesand I may only glance at it and pass.
I limit my ambitionin these light pagesto speaking
of those things of which I have personally received an
impression; and I have no such impression of the
defence of La Rochelle. The hotel de ville is a
pretty little buildingin the style of the Renaissance
of Francis I.; but it has left much of its interest in
the hands of the restorers. It has been "done up"
without mercy; its natural place would be at Rochelle
the New. A sort of battlemented curtainflanked
with turretsdivides it from the street and contains
a low door (a low door in a high wall is always
felicitous)which admits you to an inner courtwhere
you discover the face of the building. It has statues
set into itand is raised upon a very low and very
deep arcade. The principal function of the deferential
old portress who conducts you over the place is to call
your attention to the indented table of Jean Guiton;
but she shows you other objects of interest besides.
The interior is absolutely new and extremely sump-
tuousabounding in tapestriesupholsterymorocco
velvetsatin. This is especially the case with a really
beautiful _grande salle_wheresurrdunded with the
most expensive upholsterythe mayor holds his official
receptions. (So at leastsaid my worthy portress.)
The mayors of La Rochelle appear to have changed a
good deal since the days of the grim Guiton; but
these evidences of municipal splendor are interesting
for the light they throw on French manners. Imagine
the mayor of an English or an American town of
twenty thousand inhabitants holding magisterial soirees
in the town-hall! The said _grande salle_which is un-
changed in form and its larger featuresisI believe
the room in which the Rochelais debated as to whether
they should shut themselves upand decided in the
affirmative. The table and chair of Jean Guiton have
been restoredIike everything elseand are very
elegant and coquettish pieces of furniture- incongruous
relics of a season of starvation and blood. I believe
that Protestantism is somewhat shrunken to-day at La
Rochelleand has taken refuge mainly in. the _haute
societe_ and in a single place of worship. There was
nothing particular to remind me of its supposed austerity
asafter leaving the hotel de villeI walked along the
empty portions and cut out of the Tour de l'Horloge
which I have already mentioned. If I stopped and
looked up at this venerable monumentit was not to
ascertain the hourfor I foresaw that I should have
more time at La Rochelle than I knew what to do
with; but because its highgrayweather-beaten face
was an obvious subject for a sketch.
The little portwhich has two basinsand is ac-
cessible only to vessels of light tonnagehad a certain
gayety and as much local color as you please. Fisher
folk of pictuesque type were strolling aboutmost
of them Bretons; several of the men with handsome
simple facesnot at all brutaland with a splendid
brownness- the golden-brown coloron cheek and
beardthat you see on an old Venetian sail. It was
a squallyshowery daywith sudden drizzles of sun-
shine; rows of rich-toned fishing-smacks were drawn
up along the quays. The harbor is effective to the
eye by reason of three battered old towers whichat
different pointsoverhang it and look infinitely weather-
washed and sea-silvered. The most striking of these
the Tour de la Lanterneis a big gray massof the
fifteenth centuryflanked with turrets and crowned
with a Gothic steeple. I found it was called by the
people of the place the Tour des Quatre Sergents
though I know not what connection it has with the
touching history of the four young sergeants of the
garrison of La Rochellewho were arrested in 1821
as conspirators against the Government of the Bour-
bonsand executedamid general indignationin Paris
in the following year. The quaint little walkwith
its label of Rue sur les Mursto which one ascends
from beside the Grosse Horlogeleads to this curious
Tour de la Lanterne and passes under it. This walk
has the top of the old town-walltoward the seafor
a parapet on one sideand is bordered on the other
with decent but irregular little tenements of fishermen
where brown old womenwhose caps are as white as
if they were paintedseem chiefly in possession. In
this direction there is a very pretty stretch of shore
out of the townthrough the fortifications (which are
Vauban'sby the way); throughalsoa diminutive
public garden or straggling shrubberywhich edges
the water and carries its stunted verdure as far as a
big Etablissernent des Bains. It was too late in the
year to batheand the Etablissement had the bank-
rupt aspect which belongs to such places out of the
season; so I turned my back upon itand gainedby
a circuit in the course of which there were sundry
water-side items to observethe other side of the
cheery little portwhere there is a long breakwater
and a still longer sea-wallon which I walked awhile
to inhale the strongsalt breath of the Bay of Biscay.
La Rochelle servesin the months of July and August
as a _station de bains_ for a modest provincial society;
andputting aside the question of innsit must be
charming on summer afternoons.
XVII.
It is an injustice to Poitiers to approach her by
nightas I did some three hours after leaving La
Rochelle; for what Poitiers has of bestas they would
say at Poitiersis the appearance she presents to the
arriving stranger who puts his head out of the window
of the train. I gazed into the gloom from such an
aperture before we got into the stationfor I re-
membered the impression received on another occa-
sion; but I saw nothing save the universal night
spotted here and there with an ugly railway lamp.
It was only as I departedthe following daythat I
assured myself that Poitiers still makes something of
the figure she ought on the summit of her consider-
able bill. I have a kindness for any little group of
towersany cluster of roofs and chimneysthat lift
themselves from an eminence over which a long road
ascends in zigzags; such a picture creates for the mo-
ment a presumption that you are in Italyand even
leads you to believe that if you mount the winding
road you will come to an old town-wallan expanse
of creviced brownnessand pass under a gateway sur-
mounted by the arms of a mediaeval despot. Why
I should find it a pleasurein Franceto imagine my-
self in Italyis more than I can say; the illusion has
never lasted long enough to be analyzed. From the
bottom of its perch Poitiers looks large and high;
and indeedthe evening I reached itthe interminiable
climb of the omnibus of the hotel I had selected
which I found at the stationgave me the measure of
its commanding position. This hotel"magnifique
construction ornee de statues" as the Guide-Joanne
usually so reticenttakes the trouble to announcehas
an omnibusandI supposehas statuesthough I
didn't perceive them; but it has very little else save
immemorial accumulations of dirt. It is magnificent
if you willbut it is not even relatively proper; and
a dirty inn has always seemed to me the dirtiest of
human things- it has so many opportunities to betray
itself.
Poiters covers a large spaceand is as crooked
and straggling as you please; but these advantages are
not accompanied with any very salient features or any
great wealth of architecture. Although there are few
picturesque houseshoweverthere are two or three
curious old churches. Notre Dame la Grandein the
market-placea small romanesque structure of the
twelfth centuryhas a most interesting and venerable
exterior. Composedlike all the churches of Poitiers
of a light brown stone with a yellowish tingeit is
covered with primitive but ingenious sculpturesand is
really an impressive monument. Withinit has lately
been daubed over with the most hideous decorative
painting that was ever inflicted upon passive pillars
and indifferent vaults. This battered yet coherent
little edifice has the touching look that resides in
everything supremely old: it has arrived at the age at
which such things cease to feel the years; the waves
of time have worn its edges to a kind of patient dul-
ness; there is something mild and smoothlike the
stillnessthe deafnessof an octogenarianeven in its
rudeness of ornamentand it has become insensible
to differences of a century or two. The cathedral
interested me much less than Our Lady the Great
and I have not the spirit to go into statistics about it.
It is not statistical to say that the cathedral stands
half-way down the hill of Poitiersin a quiet and
grass-grown _place_with an approach of crooked lanes
and blank garden-wallsand that its most striking
dimension is the width of its facade. This width is
extraordinarybut it failssomehowto give nobleness
to the edificewhich looks within (Murray makes the
remark) like a large public hall. There are a nave
and two aislesthe latter about as high as the nave;
and there are some very fearful modern pictures
which you may see much better than you usually see
those specimens of the old masters that lurk in glow-
ing side-chapelsthere being no fine old glass to dif-
fuse a kindly gloom. The sacristan of the cathedral
showed me something much better than all this bright
bareness; he led me a short distance out of it to the
small Temple de Saint-Jeanwhich is the most curious
object at Poitiers. It is an early Christian chapel
one of the earliest in France; originallyit would seem
- that isin the sixth or seventh century- a bap-
tisterybut converted into a church while the Christian
era was still comparatively young. The Temple de
Saint-Jean is therefore a monument even more vener-
able than Notre Dame la Grandeand that numbness
of age which I imputed to Notre Dame ought to reside
in still larger measure in its crude and colorless little
walls. I call them crudein spite of their having
been baked through by the centuriesonly because
although certain rude arches and carvings are let
into themand they are surmounted at either end with
a small gablethey have (so far as I can remember)
little fascination of surface. Notre Dame is still ex-
pressivestill pretends to be alive; but the Temple
has delivered its messageand is completely at rest.
It retains a kind of atriumon the level of the street
from which you descend to the original floornow un-
coveredbut buried for years under a false bottom.
A semicircular apse wasapparently at the time of its
conversion into a churchthrown out from the east
wall. In the middle is the cavity of the old baptismal
font. The walls and vaults are covered with traces
of extremely archaic frescosattributedI believeto
the twelfth century. These vaguegauntstaring
fragments of figures areto a certain extenta reminder
of some of the early Christian churches in Rome; they
even faintly recalled to me the great mosaics of
Ravenna. The Temple de Saint-Jean has neither the
antiquity nor the completeness of those extraordinary
monumentsnearly the most impressive in Europe;
butas one may sayit is very well for Poitiers.
Not far from itin a lonely corner which was ani-
mated for the moment by the vociferations of several
oldwomen who were selling taperspresumably for
the occasion of a particular devotionis the graceful
romanesque church erected in the twelfth century to
Saint Radegonde- a lady who found means to be a
saint even in the capacity of a Merovingian queen.
It bears a general resemblance to Notre Dame la
Grandeandas I remember itis corrugated in some-
what the same manner with porous-looking carvings;
but I confess that what I chiefly recollect is the row
of old women sitting in front of iteach with a tray
of waxen tapers in her lapand upbraiding me for
my neglect of the opportunity to offer such a tribute to
the saint. I know not whether this privilege is oc-
casional or constant; within the church there was no
appearance of a festivaland I see that the name-
day of Saint Radegonde occurs in Augustso that the
importunate old women sit there alwaysperhapsand
deprive of its propriety the epithet I just applied to
this provincial corner. In spite of the old women
howeverI suspect that the place is lonely; and in-
deed it is perhaps the old women that have made the
desolation.
The lion of Poitiersin the eyes of the nativesis
doubtless the Palais de Justicein the shadow of which
the statue-guarded hoteljust mentionederects itself;
and the gem of the court-housewhich has a prosy
modern frontwith pillars and a high flight of steps
is the curious _salle des pas perdus_or central hallout
of which the different tribunals open. This is a
feature of every French court-houseand seems the
result of a conviction that a palace of justice - the
French deal in much finer names than we - should be
in some degree palatial. The great hall at Poitiers
has a long pedigreeas its walls date back to the
twelfth centuryand its open wooden roofas well as
the remarkable trio of chimney-pieces at the right end
of the room as you enterto the fifteenth. The three
tall fireplacesside by sidewith a delicate gallery
running along the top of themconstitute the originality
of this ancient chamberand make one think of the
groups that must formerly have gathered there- of
all the wet boot-solesthe trickling doubletsthe
stiffened fingersthe rheumatic shanksthat must have
been presented to such an incomparable focus of
heat. To-dayI am afraidthese mighty hearts are
forever cold; justice it probably administered with the
aid of a modern _calorifere_and the walls of the palace
are perforated with regurgitating tubes. Behind and
above the gallery that surmounts the three fireplaces
are high Gothic windowsthe tracery of which masks
in some sortthe chimneys; and in each angle of this
and of the room to the right and left of the trio of
chimneysis all open-work spiral staircaseascending
to - I forget where; perhaps to the roof of the edifice.
This whole side of the _salle_ is very lordlyand seems
to express an unstinted hospitalityto extend the
friendliest of all invitationsto bid the whole world
come and get warm. It was the invention of John
Duke of Berry and Count of Poitouabout 1395. I
give this information on the authority of the Guide-
Joannefrom which source I gather much other curious
learning; for instancethat it was in this building
when it had surely a very different frontthat Charles VII.
was proclaimed kingin 1422; and that here Jeanne
Darc was subjectedin 1429to the inquisition of
certain doctors and matrons.
The most charming thing at Poitiers is simply the
Promenade de Blossac- a small public garden at one
end of the flat top of the hill. It has a happy look
of the last century (having been arranged at that
period)and a beautiful sweep of view over the sur-
rounding countryand especially of the course of the
little river Clainwhich winds about a part of the base
of the big mound of Poitiers. The limit of this dear
little garden is formedon the side that turns away
from the townby the rampart erected in the fourteenth
centuryand by its big semicircular bastions. This
rampartof great lengthhas a low parapet; you look
over it at the charming little vegetable-gardens with
which the base of the hill appears exclusively to be
garnished. The whole prospect is delightfulespecially
the details of the part just under the wallsat the end
of the walk. Here the river makes a shining twist
which a painter might have inventedand the side of
the hill is terraced into several ledges- a sort of
tangle of small blooming patches and little pavillions
with peaked roofs and green shutters. It is idle to
attempt to reproduce all this in words; it should be
reproduced only in water-colors. The readerhow-
everwill already have remarked that disparity in
these ineffectual pageswhich are pervaded by the
attempt to sketch without a palette or brushes. He will
doubtlessalsobe struck with the grovelling vision
whichon such a spot as the ramparts of Poitiers
peoples itself with carrots and cabbages rather than
with images of the Black Prince and the captive king.
I am not sure that in looking out from the Promenade
de Blossac you command the old battle-field; it is
enough that it was not far offand that the great rout
of Frenchmen poured into the walls of Poitiersleav-
ing on the ground a number of the fallen equal to
the little army (eight thousand) of the invader. I did
think of the battle. I wonderedrather helplessly
where it had taken place; and I came away (as the
reader will see from the preceding sentence) without
finding out. This indifferencehoweverwas a result
rather of a general dread of military topography than
of a want of admiration of this particular victory
which I have always supposed to be one of the most
brilliant on record. IndeedI should be almost
ashamedand very much at a lossto say what light
it was that this glorious day seemed to me to have
left forever on the horizonand why the very name of
the place had always caused my blood gently to tingle.
It is carrying the feeling of race to quite inscrutable
lengths when a vague American permits himself an
emotion because more than five centuries agoon
French soilone rapacious Frenchman got the better
of another. Edward was a Frenchman as well as
Johnand French were the cries that urged each of
the hosts to the fight. French is the beautiful motto
graven round the image of the Black Princeas he
lies forever at rest in the choir of Canterbury: _a la
mort ne pensai-je mye_. Neverthelessthe victory of
Poitiers declines to lose itself in these considerations;
the sense of it is a part of our heritagethe joy of it
a part of our imaginationand it filters down through
centuries and migrations till it titillates a New Yorker
who forgets in his elation that he happens at that
moment to be enjoying the hospitality of France. It
was something doneI know not how justlyfor Eng-
land; and what was done in the fourteenth century
for England was done also for New York.
XVIII.
If it was really for the sake of the Black Prince
that I had stopped at Poitiers (for my prevision of
Notre Dame la Grande and of the little temple of St.
John was of the dimmest)I ought to have stopped at
Angouleme for the sake of David and Eve Sechard
of Lucien de Rubempre and of Madame de Bargeton
who when she wore a _toilette etudiee_ sported a Jewish
turban ornamented with an Eastern broocha scarf of
gauzea necklace of cameosand a robe of "painted
muslin" whatever that may be; treating herself to
these luxuries out of an income of twelve thousand
francs. The persons I have mentioned have not that
vagueness of identity which is the misfortune of his-
torical characters; they are realsupremely realthanks
to their affiliation to the great Balzacwho had invented
an artificial reality which was as much better than the
vulgar article as mock-turtle soup is than the liquid it
emulates. The first time I read "Les Illusions Perdues"
I should have refused to believe that I was capable of
passing the old capital of Anjou without alighting to
visit the Houmeau. But we never know what we are
capable of till we are testedas I reflected when I
found myself looking back at Angouleme from the
window of the trainjust after we had emerged from
the long tunnel that passes under the town. This
tunnel perforates the hill on whichlike Poitiers
Angouleme rears itselfand which gives it an eleva-
tion still greater than that of Poitiers. You may have
a tolerable look at the cathedral without leaving the
railway-carriage; for it stands just above the tunnel
and is exposedmuch foreshortenedto the spectator
below. There is evidently a charming walk round the
plateau of the towncommanding those pretty views
of which Balzac gives an account. But the train
whirled me awayand these are my only impressions.
The truth is that I had no needjust at that moment
of putting myself into communication with Balzac; for
opposite to me in the compartment were a couple of
figures almost as vivid as the actors in the "Comedie
Humaine." One of these was a very genial and dirty
old priestand the other was a reserved and concen-
trated young monk- the latter (by which I mean a
monk of any kind) being a rare sight to-day in France.
This young manindeedwas mitigatedly monastic.
He had a big brown frock and cowlbut he had also
a shirt and a pair of shoes; he hadinstead of a
hempen scourge round his waista stout leather thong
and he carried with him a very profane little valise.
He also readfrom beginning to endthe "Figaro"
which the old priestwho had done the samepresented
to him; and he looked altogether as ifhad he not
been a monkhe would have made a distinguished
officer of engineers. When he was not reading the
"Figaro" he was conning his breviary or answering
with rapid precision and with a deferential but dis-
couraging drynessthe frequent questions of his com-
panionwho was of quite another type. This worthy
had a boredgood-naturedunbuttonedexpansive
look; was talkativerestlessalmost disreputably human.
He was surrounded by a great deal of small luggage
and had scattered over the carriage his bookshis
papersthe fragments of his lunchand the contents
of an extraordinary bagwhich he kept beside him -
a kind of secular reliquary - and which appeared to
contain the odds and ends of a lifetimeas he took
from it successively a pair of slippersan old padlock
(which evidently didn't belong to it)an opera-glassa
collection of almanacsand a large sea-shellwhich he
very carefully examined. I think that if he had not
been afraid of the young monkwho was so much
more serious than hehe would have held the shell to
his earlike a child. Indeedhe was a very childish
and delightful old priestand his companion evidently
thought him most frivolous. But I liked him the better
of the two. He was not a country curebut an eccle-
siastic of some rankwho had seen a good deal both
of the church and of the world; and if I too had not
been afraid of his colleaguewho read the "Figaro"
as seriously as if it had been an encyclicalI should
have entered into conversation with him.
All this while I was getting on to Bordeauxwhere
I permitted myself to spend three days. I am afraid
I have next to nothing to show for themand that
there would be little profit in lingering on this episode
which is the less to be justified as I had in former
years examined Bordeaux attentively enough. It con-
tains a very good hotel- an hotel not good enough
howeverto keep you there for its own sake. For the
restBordeaux is a bigrichhandsomeimposing com-
mercial townwith long rows of fine old eighteenth-
century houseswhich overlook the yellow Garonne. I
have spoken of the quays of Nantes as finebut those
of Bordeaux have a wider sweep and a still more
architectural air. The appearance of such a port as
this makes the Anglo-Saxon tourist blush for the sor-
did water-fronts of Liverpool and New Yorkwhich
with their larger activityhave so much more reason
to be stately. Bordeaux gives a great impression of
prosperous industriesand suggests delightful ideas
images of prune-boxes and bottled claret. As the focus
of distribution of the best wine in the worldit is in-
deed a sacred city- dedicated to the worship of
Bacchus in the most discreet form. The country all
about it is covered with precious vineyardssources of
fortune to their owners and of satisfaction to distant
consumers; and as you look over to the hills beyond
the Garonne you see them in the autumn sunshine
fretted with the rusty richness of this or that immortal
_clos_. But the principal picturewithin the townis that
of the vast curving quaysbordered with houses that
look like the _hotels_ of farmers-general of the last cen-
turyand of the widetawny rivercrowded with ship-
ping and spanned by the largest of bridges. Some of
the types on the water-side are of the sort that arrest
a sketcher- figures of stalwartbrown-faced Basques
such as I had seen of old in great numbers at Biarritz
with their loose circular capstheir white sandalstheir
air of walking for a wager. Never was a toughera
harder race. They are not marinersnor watermen
butputting questions of temper asidethey are the
best possible dock-porters. "Il s'y fait un commerce
terrible" a _douanier_ said to meas he looked up and
down the interminable docks; and such a place has
indeed much to say of the wealththe capacity for
productionof France- the brightcheerfulsmokeless
industry of the wonderful country which produces
above allthe agreeable things of lifeand turns even
its defeats and revolutions into gold. The whole town
has an air of almost depressing opulencean appear-
ance which culminates in the great _place_ which sur-
rounds the Grand-Theatre- an establishment in the
highest styleencircled with columnsarcadeslamps
gilded cafes. One feels it to be a monument to the
virtue of the well-selected bottle. If I had not for-
bidden myself to lingerI should venture to insist on
thisandat the risk of being considered fantastic
trace an analogy between good claret and the best
qualities of the French mind; pretend that there is a
taste of sound Bordeaux in all the happiest manifes-
tations of that fine organand thatcorrespondingly
there is a touch of French reasonFrench complete-
nessin a glass of Pontet-Canet. The danger of such
an excursion would lie mainly in its being so open to
the reader to take the ground from under my feet by
saying that good claret doesn't exist. To this I should
have no reply whatever. I should be unable to tell
him where to find it. I certainly didn't find it at
Bordeauxwhere I drank a most vulgar fluid; and it
is of course notorious that a large part of mankind is
occupied in vainly looking for it. There was a great
pretence of putting it forward at the Exhibition which
was going on at Bordeaux at the time of my visitan
"exposition philomathique" lodged in a collection of
big temporary buildings in the Allees d'Or1eansand
regarded by the Bordelais for the moment as the most
brilliant feature of their city. Here were pyramids of
bottlesmountains of bottlesto say nothing of cases
and cabinets of bottles. The contemplation of these
glittering tiers was of course not very convincing; and
indeed the whole arrangement struck me as a high
impertinence. Good wine is not an optical pleasure
it is an inward emotion; and if there was a chamber
of degustation on the premisesI failed to discover it.
It was not in the search for itindeedthat I spent
half an hour in this bewildering bazaar. Like all
"expositions" it seemed to me to be full of ugly
thingsand gave one a portentous idea of the quantity
of rubbish that man carries with him on his course
through the ages. Such an amount of luggage for a
journey after all so short! There were no individual
objects; there was nothing but dozens and hundreds
all machine-made and expressionlessin spite of the
repeated grimacethe conscious smartnessof "the last
new thing" that was stamped on all of them. The
fatal facilityof the French _article_ becomes at last as
irritating as the refrain of a popular song. The poor
"Indiens Galibis" struck me as really more interesting
- a group of stunted savages who formed one of the
attractions of the placeand were confined in a pen
in the open airwith a rabble of people pushing and
squeezinghanging over the barrierto look at them.
They had no grimaceno pretension to be newno
desire to catch your eye. They looked at their visitors
no more than they looked at each otherand seemed
ancientindifferentterribly bored.
XIX.
There is much entertainment in the journey through
the widesmiling garden of Gascony; I speak of it as
I took it in going from Bordeaux to Toulouse. It is
the southquite the southand had for the present
narrator its full measure of the charm he is always
determined to find in countries that may even by
courtesy be said to appertain to the sun. It was
moreoverthe happy and genial view of these mild
latitudeswhichHeaven knowsoften have a dreari-
ness of their own; a land teeming with corn and wine
and speaking everywhere (that iseverywhere the phyl-
loxera had not laid it waste) of wealth and plenty.
The road runs constantly near the Garonnetouching
now and then its slowbrownrather sullen streama
sullenness that encloses great dangers and disasters.
The traces of the horrible floods of 1875 have dis-
appearedand the land smiles placidly enough while
it waits for another immersion. Toulouseat the period
I speak ofwas up to its middle (and in places above
it) in waterand looks still as if it had been thoroughly
soaked- as if it had faded and shrivelled with a long
steeping. The fields and copsesof courseare more
forgiving. The railway line follows as well the charm-
ing Canal du Midiwhich is as pretty as a riverbar-
ring the straightnessand here and there occupies the
foregroundbeneath a screen of densetall treeswhile
the Garonne takes a larger and more irregular course
a little way beyond it. People who are fond of canals
- andspeaking from the pictorial standpointI hold
the taste to be most legitimate - will delight in this
admirable specimen of the classwhich has a very in-
teresting historynot to be narrated here. On the
other side of the road (the left)all the wayruns a
longlow line of hillsor rather one continuous hill
or perpetual cliffwith a straight topin the shape of
a ledge of rockwhich might pass for a ruined wall.
I am afraid the reader will lose patience with my habit
of constantly referring to the landscape of Italyas if
that were the measure of the beauty of every other.
Yet I am still more afraid that I cannot apologize for
itand must leave it in its culpable nakedness. It is
an idle habit; but the reader will long since have dis-
covered that this was an idle journeyand that I give
my impressions as they came to me. It came to me
thenthat in all this view there was something trans-
alpine with a greater smartness and freshness and
much less elegance and languor. This impression was
occasionally deepened by the appearanceon the long
eminence of which I speakof a villagea churchor
a chateauwhich seemed to look down at the plain
from over the ruined wall. The perpetual vinesthe
bright-faced flat-roofed housescovered with tilesthe
softness and sweetness of the light and airrecalled
the prosier portions of the Lombard plain. Toulouse
itself has a little of this Italian expressionbut not
enough to give a color to its darkdirtycrooked streets
which are irregular without being eccentricand which
if it were not for thesuperb church of Saint-Sernin
would be quite destitute of monuments.
I have already alluded to the way in which the
names of certain places impose themselves on the
mindand I must add that of Toulouse to the list of
expressive appellations. It certainly evokes a vision
- suggests something highly _meridional_. But the city
it must be confessedis less pictorial than the word
in spite of the Place du Capitolein spite of the quay
of the Garonnein spite of the curious cloister of the
old museum. What justifies the images that are latent
in the word is not the aspectbut the historyof the
town. The hotel to which the well-advised traveller
will repair stands in a corner of the Place du Capitole
which is the heart and centre of Toulouseand which
bears a vague and inexpensive resemblance to Piazza
Castello at Turin. The Capitolwith a wide modern
faceoccupies one sideandlike the palace at Turin
looks across at a high arcadeunder which the hotels
the principal shopsand the lounging citizens are
gathered. The shops are probably better than the
Turinesebut the people are not so good. Stunted
shabbyrather vitiated lookingthey have none of the
personal richness of the sturdy Piedmontese; and I
will take this occasion to remark that in the course of
a journey of several weeks in the French provinces I
rarely encountered a well-dressed male. Can it be
possible the republics are unfavorable to a certain
attention to one's boots and one's beard? I risk this
somewhat futile inquiry because the proportion of mens ???
coats and trousers seemed to be about the same in
France and in my native land. It was notably lower
than in England and in Italyand even warranted
the supposition that most good provincials have their
chin shaven and their boots blacked but once a week.
I hasten to addlest my observation should appear to
be of a sadly superficial characterthat the manners
and conversation of these gentlemen bore (whenever
I had occasion to appreciate them) no relation to the
state of their chin and their boots. They were almost
always marked by an extreme amenity. At Toulouse
there was the strongest temptation to speak to people
simply for the entertainment of hearing them reply
with that curiousthat fascinating accent of the
Languedocwhich appears to abound in final con-
sonantsand leads the Toulousains to say _bien-g_ and
_maison-g_like Englishmen learning French. It is as
if they talked with their teeth rather than with their
tongue. I find in my note-book a phrase in regard to
Toulouse which is perhaps a little ill-naturedbut
which I will transcribe as it stands: "The oddity is
that the place should be both animated and dull. A
bigbrown-skinned populationclattering about in a
flattortuous townwhich produces nothing whatever
that I can discover. Except the church of Saint-
Sernin and the fine old court of the Hotel d'Assezat
Toulouse has no architecture; the houses are for the
most part of brickof a grayish-red colorand have no
particular style. The brick-work of the place is in fact
very poor- inferior to that of the north Italian towns
and quite wanting in the richness of tone which this
homely material takes on in the damp climates of the
north." And then my note-book goes on to narrate a
little visit to the Capitolwhich was soon madeas the
building was in course of repair and half the rooms
were closed.
XX.
The history of Toulouse is detestablesaturated
with blood and perfidy; and the ancient custom of
the Floral Gamesgrafted upon all sorts of internecine
traditionsseemswith its false pastoralismits mock
chivalryits display of fine feelingsto set off rather
than to mitigate these horrors. The society was
founded in the fourteenth centuryand it has held
annual meetings ever since- meetings at which poems
in the fine old _langue d'oc_ are declaimed and a
blushing laureate is chosen. This business takes place
in the Capitolbefore the chief magistrate of the town
who is known as the _capitoul_and of all the pretty
women as well- a class very numerous at Toulouse.
It was impossible to have a finer person than that of
the portress who pretended to show me the apart-
ments in which the Floral Games are held; a big
brownexpansive womanstill in the prime of life
with a speaking eyean extraordinary assuranceand
a pair of magenta stockingswhich were inserted into
the neatest and most polished little black sabots
and whichas she clattered up the stairs before me
lavishly displaying themmade her look like the
heroine of an _opera-bouffe_. Her talk was all in _n_'s
_g_'sand _d_'sand in mute _e_'s strongly accentedas
_autre__theatre__splendide_- the last being an epithet
she applied to everything the Capitol containedand
especially to a horrible picture representing the famous
Clemence Isaurethe reputed foundress of the poetical
contestpresiding on one of these occasions. I won-
dered whether Clemence Isaure had been anything
like this terrible Toulousaine of to-daywho would
have been a capital figure-head for a floral game.
The lady in whose honor the picture I have just men-
tioned was painted is a somewhat mythical personage
and she is not to be found in the "Biographie Uni-
verselle." She ishowevera very graceful myth; and
if she never existedher statue doesat least- a
shapeless effigytransferred to the Capitol from the
so-called tomb of Clemence in the old church of La
Daurade. The great hall in which the Floral Games
are held was encumbered with scaffoldingsand I
was unable to admire the long series of busts of the
bards who have won prizes and the portraits of all
the capitouls of Toulouse. As a compensation I was
introduced to a big bookcasefilled with the poems
that have been crowned since the days of the trou-
badours (a portentous collection)and the big butcher's
knife with whichaccording to the legendHenry
Duke of Montmorencywho had conspired against the
great cardinal with Gaston of Orleans and Mary de ??????
Mediciwasin 1632beheaded on this spot by the
order of Richelieu. With these objects the interest of
the Capitol was exhausted. The buildingindeed
has not the grandeur of its namewhich is a sort
of promise that the visitor will find some sensible
embodiment of the old Roman tradition that once
flourished in this part of France. It is inferior in
impressiveness to the other three famous Capitols of
the modern world- that of Rome (if I may call the
present structure modern) and those of Washington
and Albany!
The only Roman remains at Toulouse are to be
found in the museum- a very interesting establish-
mentwhich I was condemned to see as imperfectly
as I had seen the Capitol. It was being rearranged;
and the gallery of paintingswhich is the least in-
teresting featurewas the only part that was not
upside-down. The pictures are mainly of the mo-
dern French schooland I remember nothing but a
powerfulthough disagreeable specimen of Henner
who paints the human bodyand paints it so well
with a brush dipped in blackness; andplaced among
the paintingsa bronze replica of the charming young
David of Mercie. These things have been set out in
the church of an old monasterylong since suppressed
and the rest of the collection occupies the cloisters.
These are two in number- a small onewhich you
enter first from the streetand a very vast and ele-
gant one beyond itwhich with its light Gothic arches
and slim columns (of the fourteenth century)its broad
walk its little gardenwith old tombs and statues in
the centreis by far the most picturesquethe most
sketchablespot in Toulouse. It must be doubly so
when the Roman bustsinscriptionsslabs and sarco-
phagiare ranged along the walls; it must indeed (to
compare small things with greatand as the judicious
Murray remarks) bear a certain resemblance to the
Campo Santo at Pisa. But these things are absent
now; the cloister is a litter of confusionand its trea-
sures have been stowed awayconfusedlyin sundry
inaccessible rooms. The custodian attempted to con-
sole me by telling me that when they are exhibited
again it will be on a scientific basisand with an
order and regularity of which they were formerly
innocent. But I was not consoled. I wanted simply
the spectaclethe pictureand I didn't care in the
least for the classification. Old Roman fragmentsex-
posed to light in the open airunder a southern sky
in a quadrangle round a gardenhave an immortal
charm simply in their general effect; and the charm
is all the greater when the soil of the very place has
yielded them up.
XXI.
My real consolation was an hour I spent in Saint-
Serninone of the noblest churches in southern France
and easily the first among those of Toulouse. This
great structurea masterpiece of twelfth-century ro-
manesqueand dedicated to Saint Saturninus- the
Toulousains have abbreviated- isI thinkalone worth
a journey to Toulouse. What makes it so is the
extraordinary seriousness of its interior; no other term
occurs to me as expressing so well the character of
its clear gray nave. As a general thingI do not
favor the fashion of attributing moral qualities to
buildings; I shrink from talking about tender porticos
and sincere campanili; but I find I cannot get on at
all without imputing some sort of morality to Saint-
Sernin. As it stands to-daythe church has been
completely restored by Viollet-le-Duc. The exterior is
of brickand has little charm save that of a tower of
four rows of archesnarrowing together as they ascend.
The nave is of great length and heightthe barrel-roof
of stonethe effect of the round arches and pillars in
the triforium especially fine. There are two low aisles
on either side. The choir is very deep and narrow;
it seems to close togetherand looks as if it were
meant for intensely earnest rites. The transepts are
most nobleespecially the arches of the second tier.
The whole church is narrow for its lengthand is
singularly complete and homogeneous. As I say all
thisI feel that I quite fail to give an impression of
its manly gravityits strong proportions or of the lone-
some look of its renovated stones as I sat there while
the October twilight gathered. It is a real work of
arta high conception. The cryptinto which I was
eventually led captive by an importunate sacristanis
quite another affairthough indeed I suppose it may
also be spoken of as a work of art. It is a rich museum
of relicsand contains the head of Saint Thomas
Aquinaswrapped up in a napkin and exhibited in a
glass case. The sacristan took a lamp and guided me
aboutpresenting me to one saintly remnant after an-
other. The impression was grotesquebut sorne of
the objects were contained in curious old cases of
beaten silver and brass; these thingsat leastwhich
looked as if they had been transmitted from the early
churchwere venerable. There washowevera kind
of wholesale sanctity about the place which overshot
the mark; it pretends to be one of the holiest spots
in the world. The effect is spoiled by the way the
sacristans hang about and offer to take you into it for
ten sous- I was accosted by two and escaped from
another- and by the familiar manner in which you
pop in and out. This episode rather broke the charm
of Saint-Serninso that I took my departure and went
in search of the cathedral. It was scarcely worth find-
ingand struck me as an odddislocated fragment.
The front consists only of a portalbeside which a tall
brick towerof a later periodhas been erected. The
nave was wrapped in dimnesswith a few scattered
lamps. I could only distinguish an immense vault
like a high cavernwithout aisles. Here and there in
the gloom was a kneeling figure; the whole place was
mysterious and lop-sided. The choir was curtained
off; it appeared not to correspond with the nave- that
isnot to have the same axis. The only other ec-
clesiastical impression I gathered at Toulouse came to
me in the church of La Dauradeof which the front
on the quay by the Garonnewas closed with scaffold-
ings; so that one entered it from behindwhere it is
completely masked by housesthrough a door which
has at first no traceable connection with it. It is a
vasthighmodernisedheavily decorated churchdimly
lighted at all timesI should supposeand enriched
by the shades of evening at the time I looked into it.
I perceived that it consisted mainly of a large square
beneath a domein the centre of which a single person
- a lady - was praying with the utmost absorption.
The manner of access to the church interposed such
an obstacle to the outer profanities that I had a sense
of intrudingand presently withdrewcarrying with me
a picture of thevaststill interiorthe gilded roof
gleaming in the twilightand the solitary worshipper.
What was she praying forand was she not almost
afraid to remain there alone?
For the restthe picturesque at Toulouse consists
principally of the walk beside the Garonnewhich is
spannedto the faubourg of Saint-Cyprienby a stout
brick bridge. This hapless suburbthe baseness of
whose site is noticeablelay for days under the water
at the time of the last inundations. The Garonne
had almost mounted to the roofs of the housesand
the place continues to present a blightedfrightened
look. Two or three personswith whom I had some
conversationspoke of that time as a memory of horror.
I have not done with my Italian comparisons; I shall
never have done with them. I am therefore free to
say that in the way in which Toulouse looks out on
the Garonne there was something that reminded me
vaguely of the way in which Pisa looks out on the
Arno. The red-faced houses - all of brick - along the
quay have a mixture of brightness and shabbinessas
well as the fashion of the open _loggia_ in the top-
story. The riverwith another bridge or twomight
be the Arnoand the buildings on the other side of
it - a hospitala suppressed convent - dip their feet
into it with real southern cynicism. I have spoken of
the old Hotel d'Assezat as the best house at Toulouse;
with the exception of the cloister of the museumit is
the only "bit" I remember. It has fallen from the
state of a noble residence of the sixteenth century to
that of a warehouse and a set of offices; but a certain
dignity lingers in its melancholy courtwhich is divided
from the street by a gateway that is still imposing
and in which a clambering vine and a red Virginia-
creeper were suspended to the rusty walls of brick
stone.
The most interesting house at Toulouse is far from
being the most striking. At the door of No. 50 Rue
des Filatiersa featurelesssolid structurewas found
hangingone autumn eveningthe body of the young
Marc-Antoine Calaswhose ill-inspired suicide was to
be the first act of a tragedy so horrible. The fana-
ticism aroused in the townsfolk by this incident; the
execution by torture of Jean Calasaccused as a
Protestant of having hanged his sonwho had gone
over to the Church of Rome; the ruin of the family;
the claustration of the daughters; the flight of the
widow to Switzerland; her introduction to Voltaire;
the excited zeal of that incomparable partisanand
the passionate persistence with whichfrom year to
yearhe pursued a reversal of judgmenttill at last he
obtained itand devoted the tribunal of Toulouse to
execration and the name of the victims to lasting
wonder and pity- these things form part of one of
the most interesting and touching episodes of the social
history of the eighteenth century. The story has the
fatal progressionthe dark rigidityof one of the tragic
dramas of the Greeks. Jean Calasadvanced in life
blamelessbewilderedprotesting. his innocencehad
been broken on the wheel; and the sight of his decent
dwellingwhich brought home to me all that had been
suflered therespoiled for mefor half an hourthe
impression of Toulouse.
XXII.
I spent but a few hours at Carcassonne; but those
hours had a rounded felicityand I cannot do better
than transcribe from my note-book the little record
made at the moment. Vitiated as it may be by
crudity and incoherencyit has at any rate the fresh-
ness of a great emotion. This is the best quality that
a reader may hope to extract from a narrative in
which "useful information" and technical lore even of
the most general sort are completely absent. For
Carcassonne is movingbeyond a doubt; and the
traveller whoin the course of a little tour in France
may have felt himself urgedin melancholy moments
to say that on the whole the disappointments are as
numerous as the satisfactionsmust admit that there
can be nothing better than this.
The countryafter you leave Toulousecontinues
to be charming; the more so that it merges its flatness
in the distant Cevennes on one sideand on the other
far away on your rightin the richer range of the
Pyrenees. Olives and cypressespergolas and vines
terraces on the roofs of housessoftiridescent moun-
tainsa warm yellow light- what more could the dif-
ficult tourist want? He left his luggage at the station
warily determined to look at the inn before committing
himself to it. It was so evident (even to a cursory
glance) that it might easily have been much better
that he simply took his way to the townwith the
whole of a superb afternoon before him. When I say
the townI mean the towns; there being two at Car-
cassonneperfectly distinctand each with excellent
claims to the title. They have settled the matter be-
tween themhoweverand the elderthe shrine of
pilgrimageto which the other is but a stepping-stone
or evenas I may saya humble door-mattakes the
name of the Cite. You see nothing of the Cite from
the station; it is masked by the agglomeration of the
_ville-basse_which is relatively (but only relatively) new.
A wonderful avenue of acacias leads to it from the
station- leads pastratherand conducts you to a
little high-backed bridge over the Audebeyond which
detached and erecta distinct mediaeval silhouettethe
Cite presents itself. Like a rival shopon the in-
vidious side of a streetit has "no connection" with
the establishment across the wayalthough the two
places are united (if old Carcassonne may be said to be
united to anything) by a vague little rustic fau-
bourg. Perched on its solid pedestalthe perfect de-
tachment of the Cite is what first strikes you. To take
leavewithout delayof the _ville-basse_I may say that
the splendid acacias I have mentioned flung a sum-
merish dusk over the placein which a few scattered
remains of stout walls and big bastions looked vener-
able and picturesque. A little boulevard winds round
the townplanted with trees and garnished with more
benches than I ever saw provided by a soft-hearted
municipality. This precinct had a warmlazydusty
southern lookas if the people sat out-of-doors a great
dealand wandered about in the stillness of summer
nights. The figure of the elder townat these hours
must be ghostly enough on its neighboring hill. Even
by day it has the air of a vignette of Gustave Dorea
couplet of Victor Hugo. It is almost too perfect- as
if it were an enormous modelplaced on a big green
table at a museum. A steeppaved waygrass-grown
like all roads where vehicles never passstretches up
to it in the sun. It has a double enceintecomplete
outer walls and complete inner (theseelaborately forti-
fiedare the more curious); and this congregation of
rampartstowersbastionsbattlementsbarbicansis
as fantastic and romantic as you please. The approach
I mention here leads to the gate that looks toward
Toulouse- the Porte de l'Aude. There is a second
on the other sidecalledI believethe Porte Nar-
bonnaisea magnificent gateflanked with towers thick
and talldefended by elaborate outworks; and these
two apertures alone admit you to the place- putting
aside a small sally-portprotected by a great bastion
on the quarter that looks toward the Pyrenees.
As a votaryalwaysin the first instanceof a
general impressionI walked all round the outer en-
ceinte- a process on the very face of it entertaining.
I took to the right of the Porte de l'Audewithout
entering itwhere the old moat has been filled in.
The filling-in of the moat has created a grassy level
at the foot of the big gray towerswhichrising at
frequent intervalsstretch their stiff curtain of stone
from point to point. The curtain drops without a
fold upon the quiet grasswhich was dotted here and
there with a humble nativedozing away the golden
afternoon. The natives of the elder Carcassonne are
all humble; for the core of the Cite has shrunken and
decayedand there is little life among the ruins. A
few tenacious laborerswho work in the neighboring
fields or in the _ville-basse_and sundry octogenarians
of both sexeswho are dying where they have lived
and contribute much to the pictorial effect- these
are the principal inhabitants. The process of con-
verting the place from an irresponsible old town into
a conscious "specimen" has of course been attended
with eliminations; the population hasas a general
thingbeen restored away. I should lose no time in
saying that restoration is the great mark of the Cite.
M. Viollet-le-Duc has worked his will upon itput it
into perfect orderrevived the fortifications in every
detail. I do not pretend to judge the performance
carried out on a scale and in a spirit which really
impose themselves on the imagination. Few archi-
tects have had such a chanceand M. Viollet-le-Duc
must have been the envy of the whole restoring fra-
ternity. The image of a more crumbling Carcassonne
rises in the mindand there is no doubt that forty
years ago the place was more affecting. On the other
handas we see it to-dayit is a wonderful evocation;
and if there is a great deal of new in the oldthere
is plenty of old in the new. The repaired crenella-
tionsthe inserted patchesof the walls of the outer
circle sufficiently express this commixture. My walk
brought me into full view of the Pyreneeswhichnow
that the sun had begun to sink and the shadows to
grow longhad a wonderful violet glow. The platform
at the base of the walls has a greater width on this
sideand it made the scene more complete. Two or
three old crones had crawled out of the Porte Nar-
bonnaiseto examine the advancing visitor; and a
very ancient peasantlying there with his back against
a towerwas tending half a dozen lean sheep. A poor
man in a very old blousecrippled and with crutches
lying beside himhad been brought out and placed
on a stoolwhere he enjoyed the afternoon as best he
might. He looked so ill and so patient that I spoke
to him; found that his legs were paralyzed and he was
quite helpless. He had formerly been seven years in
the armyand had made the campaign of Mexico with
Bazaine. Born in the old Citehe had come back
there to end his days. It seemed strangeas he sat
therewith those romantic walls behind him and the
great picture of the Pyrenees in frontto think that he
had been across the seas to the far-away new world
had made part of a famous expeditionand was now
a cripple at the gate of the mediaeval city where he
had played as a child. All this struck me as a great
deal of history for so modest a figure- a poor little
figure that could only just unclose its palm for a small
silver coin.
He was not the only acquaintance I made at Car-
cassonne. I had not pursued my circuit of the walls
much further when I encountered a person of quite
another typeof whom I asked some question which
had just then presenteditselfand who proved to be
the very genius of the spot. He was a sociable son
of the _ville-basse_a gentlemanandas I afterwards
learnedan employe at the prefecture- a personin
shortmuch esteemed at Carcassonne. (I may say all
thisas he will never read these pages.) He had been
ill for a monthand in the company of his little dog
was taking his first airing; in his own phrase he was
_amoureux-fou de la Cite_- he could lose no time in
coming back to it. He talked of itindeedas a lover
andgiving me for half an hour the advantage of his
companyshowed me all the points of the place. (I
speak here always of the outer enceinte; you penetrate
to the inner - which is the specialty of Carcassonne
and the great curiosity - only by application at the
lodge of the regular custodiana remarkable func-
tionarywhohalf an hour laterwhen I had been in-
troduced to him by my friend the amateurmarched
me over the fortifications with a tremendous accompani-
ment of dates and technical terms.) My companion
pointed out to me in particular the traces of different
periods in the structure of the walls. There is a por-
tentous amount of history embedded in thembegin-
ning with Romans and Visigoths; here and there are
marks of old breacheshastily repaired. We passed
into the town- into that part of it not included in the
citadel. It is the queerest and most fragmentary little
place in the worldas everything save the fortifications
is being suffered to crumble awayin order that the
spirit of M. Viollet-le-Duc alone may pervade itand
it may subsist simply as a magnificent shell. As the
leases of the wretched little houses fall inthe ground
is cleared of them; and a mumbling old woman ap-
proached me in the course of my circuitinviting me
to condole with her on the disappearance of so many
of the hovels which in the last few hundred years
(since the collapse of Carcassonne as a stronghold)
had attached themselves to the base of the wallsin
the space between the two circles. These habitations
constructed of materials taken from the ruinsnestled
there snugly enough. This intermediate space had
therefore become a kind of streetwhich has crumbled
in turnas the fortress has grown up again. There
are other streetsbesidevery diminutive and vague
where you pick your way over heaps of rubbish and
become conscious of unexpected faces looking at you
out of windows as detached as the cherubic heads.
The most definite thing in the place was the little
cafewhere. the waitersI thinkmust be the ghosts of
the old Visigoths; the most definitethat isafter the
little chateau and the little cathedral. Everything in
the Cite is little; you can walk round the walls in
twenty minutes. On the drawbridge of the chateau
whichwith a picturesque old faceflanking towers
and a dry moatis to-day simply a bare _caserne_
lounged half a dozen soldiersunusually small. No-
thing could be more odd than to see these objects en-
closed in a receptacle which has much of the appear-
ance of an enormous toy. The Cite and its population
vaguely reminded me of an immense Noah's ark.
XXIII.
Carcassonne dates from the Roman occupation of
Gaul. The place commanded one of the great roads
into Spainand in the fourth century Romans and
Franks ousted each other from such a point of vantage.
In the year 436TheodoricKing of the Visigoths
superseded both these parties; and it is during his oc-
cupation that the inner enceinte was raised upon the
ruins of the Roman fortifications. Most of the Visigoth
towers that are still erect are seated upon Roman sub-
structions which appear to have been formed hastily
probably at the moment of the Frankish invasion.
The authors of these solid defencesthough occasionally
disturbedheld Carcassonne and the neighboring coun-
tryin which they had established their kingdom of
Septimaniatill the year 713when they were expelled
by the Moors of Spainwho ushered in an unillumined
period of four centuriesof which no traces remain.
These facts I derived from a source no more recondite
than a pamphlet by M. Viollet-le-Duc- a very luminous
description of the fortificationswhich you may buy
from the accomplished custodian. The writer makes
a jump to the year 1209when Carcassonnethen
forming part of the realm of the viscounts of Beziers
and infected by the Albigensian heresywas besieged
in the name of the Popeby the terrible Simon de
Montfort and his army of crusaders. Simon was ac-
customed to successand the town succumbed in the
course of a fortnight. Thirty-one years laterhaving
passed into the hands of the King of Franceit was
again besieged by the young Raymond de Trincavel
the last of the viscounts of Beziers; and of this siege
M. Viollet-le-Duc gives a long and minute account
which the visitor who has a head for such things may
followwith the brochure in handon the fortifications
themselves. The young Raymond de Trincavelbaffled
and repulsedretired at the end of twenty-four days.
Saint Louis and Philip the Boldin the thirteenth cen-
turymultiplied the defences of Carcassonnewhich
was one of the bulwarks of their kingdom on the
Spanish quarter; and from this time forthbeing re-
garded as impregnablethe place had nothing to fear.
It was not even attacked; and whenin 1355Edward
the Black Prince marched into itthe inhabitants had
opened the gates to the conqueror before whom all
Languedoc was prostrate. I am not one of those who
as I said just nowhave a head for such thingsand
having extracted these few facts had made all the
use of M. Viollet-le-Duc'spamphlet of which I was cap-
able.
I have mentioned that my obliging friend the
_amoureux-fou_ handed me over to the door-keeper of
the citadel. I should add that I was at first committed
to the wife of this functionarya stout peasant-woman
who took a key down from a nailconducted me to a
postern doorand ushered me into the presence of her
husband. Having just begun his rounds with a party
of four personshe was not many steps in advance. I
added myself perforce to this partywhich was not
brilliantly composedexcept that two of its members
were gendarmes in full toggerywho announced in the
course of our tour that they had been stationed for a
year at Carcassonneand had never before had the
curiosity to come up to the Cite. There was something
brilliantcertainlyin that. The _gardien_ was an extra-
ordinarily typical little Frenchmanwho struck me even
more forcibly than the wonders of the inner enceinte;
and as I am bound to assumeat whatever cost to my
literary vanitythat there is not the slightest danger
of his reading these remarksI may treat him as public
property. With his diminutive stature and his per-
pendicular spirithis flushed faceexpressive protuber-
ant eyeshigh peremptory voiceextreme volubility
lucidityand neatness of utterancehe reminded me of
the gentry who figure in the revolutions of his native
land. If he was not a fierce little Jacobinhe ought
to have beenfor I am sure there were many men of
his pattern on the Committee of Public Safety. He
knew absolutely what he was aboutunderstood the
place thoroughlyand constantly reminded his audience
of what he himself had done in the way of excavations
and reparations. He described himself as the brother
of the architect of the work actually going forward
(that which has been done since the death of M. Viol-
let-le-DucI suppose he meant)and this fact was more
illustrative than all the others. It reminded meas
one is reminded at every turnof the democratic con-
ditions of French life: a man of the peoplewith a
wife _en bonnet_extremely intelligentfull of special
knowledgeand yet remaining essentially of the people
and showing his intelligence with a kind of ferocity
of defiance. Such a personage helps one to under-
stand the red radicalism of Francethe revolutions
the barricadesthe sinister passion for theories. (I do
notof coursetake upon myself to say that the indi-
vidual I describe - who can know nothing of the
liberties I am taking with him - is actually devoted to
these ideals; I only mean that many such devotees
must have his qualities.) In just the _nuance_ that I
have tried to indicate hereit is a terrible pattern of
man. Permeated in a high degree by civilizationit
is yet untouched by the desire which one finds in the
Englishmanin proportion as he rises in the worldto
approximate to the figure of the gentleman. On the
other handa _nettete_a faculty of expositionsuch as
the English gentleman is rarely either blessed or cursed
with.
This brilliantthis suggestive warden of Carcas-
sonne marched us about for an hourharanguingex-
plainingillustratingas he went; it was a complete
little lecturesuch as might have been delivered at
the Lowell Instituteon the manger in which a first-
rate _place forte_ used to be attacked and defended
Our peregrinations made it very clear that Carcassone
was impregnable; it is impossible to imaginewithout
having seen themsuch refinements of immurement
such ingenuities of resistance. We passed along the
battlements and _chemins de ronde_ascended and de-
scended towerscrawled under archespeered out of
loop-holeslowered ourselves into dungeonshalted in
all sorts of tight placeswhile the purpose of some-
thing or other was described to us. It was very
curiousvery interesting; above allit was very pic-
torialand involved perpetual peeps into the little
crookedcrumblingsunnygrassyempty Cite. In
placesas you stand upon itthe great towered and
embattled enceinte produces an illusion; it looks as
if it were still equipped and defended. One vivid
challengeat any rateit flings down before you; it
calls upon you to make up your mind on the matter
of restoration. For myselfI have no hesitation; I
prefer in every case the ruinedhowever ruinedto
the reconstructedhowever splendid. What is left is
more precious than what is added: the one is history
the other is fiction; and I like the former the better of
the two- it is so much more romantic. One is posi-
tiveso far as it goes; the other fills up the void with
things more dead than the void itselfinasmuch as
they have never had life. After that I am free to
say that the restoration of Carcassonne is a splendid
achievement. The little custodian dismissed us at
lastafter havingas usualinducted us into the inevi-
table repository of photographs. These photographs
are a great nuisanceall over the Midi. They are
exceedingly badfor the most part; and the worst -
those in the form of the hideous little _album-pano-
rama_ - are thrust upon you at every turn. They
are a kind of tax that you must pay; the best way is
to pay to be let off. It was not to be denied that
there was a relief in separating from our accomplished
guidewhose manner of imparting information re-
minded me of the energetic process by which I have
seen mineral waters bottled. All this while the after-
noon had grown more lovely; the sunset had deepened
the horizon of hills grown purple; the mass of the
Canigou became more delicateyet more distinct. The
day had so far faded that the interior of the little
cathedral was wrapped in twilightinto which the
glowing windows projected something of their color.
This church has high beauty and valuebut I will
spare the reader a presentation of details which I my-
self had no opportunity to master. It consists of a
romanesque naveof the end of the eleventh century
and a Gothic choir and transepts of the beginning of
the fourteenth; andshut up in its citadel like a precious
casket in a cabinetit seems - or seemed at that hour
- to have a sort of double sanctity. After leaving it
and passing out of the two circles of wallsI treated
myselfin the most infatuated mannerto another walk
round the Cite. It is certainly this general impression
that is most striking- the impression from outside
where the whole place detaches itself at once from
the landscape. In the warm southern dusk it looked
more than ever like a city in a fairy-tale. To make
the thing perfecta white young moonin its first
quartercame out and hung just over the dark sil-
houette. It was hard to come away- to incommode
one's self for anything so vulgar as a railway-train; I
would gladly have spent the evening in revolving
round the walls of Carcassonne. But I had in a
measure engaged to proceed to Narbormeand there
was a certain magic that name which gave me
strength- Narbonnethe richest city in Roman Gaul.
XXIV.
At Narbonne I took up my abode at the house of
a _serrurier mecanicien_and was very thankful for the
accommodation. It was my misfortune to arrive at
this ancient city late at nighton the eve of market-
day; and market-day at Narbonne is a very serious
affair. The innson this occasionare stuffed with
wine-dealers; for the country roundaboutdedicated
almost exclusively to Bacchushas hitherto escaped
the phylloxera. This deadly enemy of the grape is
encamped over the Midi in a hundred places; blighted
vineyards and ruined proprietors being quite the order
of the day. The signs of distress are more frequent
as you advance into Provencemany of the vines being
laid under waterin the hope of washing the plague
away. There are healthy regions stillhoweverand
the vintners find plenty to do at Narbonne. The
traffic in wine appeared to be the sole thought of the
Narbonnais; every one I spoke to had something to
say about the harvest of gold that bloomed under its
influence. "C'est inouimonsieurl'argent qu'il y a
dans ce pays. Des gens a qui la vente de leur vin
rapporte jusqu'a 500000 francs par an." That little
speechaddressed to me by a gentleman at the inn
gives the note of these revelations. It must be said
that there was little in the appearance either of the
town or of its population to suggest the possession of
such treasures. Narbonne is a _sale petite ville_ in all
the force of the termand my first impression on ar-
riving there was an extreme regret that I had not
remained for the night at the lovely Carcassonne. My
journey from that delectable spot lasted a couple of
hoursand was performed in darkness- a darkness
not so densehoweverbut that I was able to make
outas we passed itthe great figure of Bezierswhose
ancient roofs and towersclustered on a goodly hill-
toplooked as fantastic as you please. I know not
what appearance Beziers may present by day; but by
night it has quite the grand air. On issuing from the
station at NarbonneI found that the only vehicle in
waiting was a kind of bastard tramcara thing shaped
as if it had been meant to go upon rails; that is
equipped with small wheelsplaced beneath itand
with a platform at either endbut destined to rattle
over the stones like the most vulgar of omnibuses.
To complete the oddity of this conveyanceit was
under the supervisionnot of a conductorbut of a
conductress. A fair young womanwith a pouch sus-
pended from her girdlehad command of the platform;
and as soon as the car was full she jolted us into the
town through clouds of the thickest dust I ever have
swallowed. I have had occasion to speak of the activity
of women in France- of the way they are always in
the ascendant; and here was a signal example of their
general utility. The young lady I have mentioned
conveyed her whole company to the wretched little
Hotel de Francewhere it is to be hoped that some
of them found a lodging. For myselfI was informed
that the place was crowded from cellar to atticand
that its inmates were sleeping three or four in a room.
At Carcassonne I should have had a bad bedbut at
NarbonneapparentlyI was to have no bed at all. I
passed an hour or two of flat suspensewhile fate
settled the question of whether I should go on to
Perpignanreturn to Beziersor still discover a modest
couch at Narbonne. I shall not have suffered in vain
howeverif my example serves to deter other travellers
from alighting unannounced at that city on a Wednes-
day evening. The retreat to Beziersnot attempted
in timeproved impossibleand I was assured that at
Perpignanwhich I should not reach till midnightthe
affluence of wine-dealers was not less than at Nar-
bonne. I interviewed every hostess in the townand
got no satisfaction but distracted shrugs. Finallyat
an advanced hourone of the servants of the Hotel
de Francewhere I had attempted to dinecame to
me in triumph to proclaim that he had secured for
me a charming apartment in a _maison bourgeoise_. I
took possession of it gratefullyin spite of its having
an entrance like a stableand being pervaded by an
odor compared with which that of a stable would
have been delicious. As I have mentionedmy land-
lord was a locksmithand he had strange machines
which rumbled and whirred in the rooms below my
own. NeverthelessI sleptand I dreamed of Car-
cassonne. It was better to do that than to dream of
the Hotel de France.
I was obliged to cultivate relations with the cuisine
of this establishment. Nothing could have been more
_meridional_; indeedboth the dirty little inn and Nar-
bonne at large seemed to me to have the infirmities
of the southwithout its usual graces. Narrownoisy
shabbybelittered and encumberedfilled with clatter
and chatterthe Hotel de France would have been
described in perfection by Alphonse Daudet. For what
struck me above all in it was the note of the Midi
as he has represented it- the sound of universal talk.
The landlord sat at supper with sundry friendsin a
kind of glass cagewith a genial indifference to arriv-
ing guests; the waiters tumbled over the loose luggage
in the hall; the travellers who had been turned away
leaned gloomily against door-posts; and the landlady
surrounded by confusionunconscious of responsibility
and animated only by the spirit of conversationbandied
high-voiced compliments with the _voyageurs de com-
merce_. At ten o'clock in the morning there was a
table d'hote for breakfast- a wonderful repastwhich
overflowed into every room and pervaded the whole
establishment. I sat down with a hundred hungry
marketersfatbrowngreasy menwith a good deal of
the rich soil of Languedoc adhering to their hands
and their boots. I mention the latter articles because
they almost put them on the table. It was very hot
and there were swarms of flies; the viands had the
strongest odor; there was in particular a horrible mix-
ture known as _gras-double_a light grayglutinous
nauseating messwhich my companions devoured in
large quantities. A man opposite to me had the dir-
tiest fingers I ever saw; a collection of fingers which
in England would have excluded him from a farmers'
ordinary. The conversation was mainly bucolic; though
a part of itI rememberat the table at which I sat
consisted of a discussion as to whether or no the maid-
servant were _sage_- a discussion which went on under
the nose of this young ladyas she carried about the
dreadful _gras-double_and to which she contributed
the most convincing blushes. It was thoroughly _meri-
dional_.
In going to Narbonne I had of course counted upon
Roman remains; but when I went forth in search of
them I perceived that I had hoped too fondly. There
is really nothing in the place to speak of; that ison
the day of my visit there was nothing but the market
which was in complete possession. "This intricate
curiousbut lifeless town" Murray calls it; yet to me
it appeared overflowing with life. Its streets are mere
crookeddirty lanesbordered with perfectly insignifi-
cant houses; but they were filled with the same clatter
and chatter that I had found at the hotel. The market
was held partly in the little square of the hotel de
villea structure which a flattering wood-cut in the
Guide-Joanne had given me a desire to behold. The
reality was not impressivethe old color of the front
having been completely restored away. Such interest
as it superficially possesses it derives from a fine
mediaeval tower which rises beside itwith turrets at
the angles- always a picturesque thing. The rest of
the market was held in another _place_still shabbier
than the firstwhich lies beyond the canal. The Canal
du Midi flows through the townandspanned at this
point by a small suspension-bridgepresented a cer-
tain sketchability. On the further side were the venders
and chafferers- old women under awnings and big um-
brellasrickety tables piled high with fruitwhite caps
and brown facesblousessabotsdonkeys. Beneath
this picture was another- a long row of washerwomen
on their knees on the edge of the canalpounding
and wringing the dirty linen of Narbonne- no great
quantityto judge by the costume of the people. In-
numerable rusty menscattered all over the place
were buying and selling winestraddling about in
pairsin groupswith their hands in their pocketsand
packed together at the doors of the cafes. They were
mostly fat and brown and unshaven; they ground their
teeth as they talked; they were very _meridionaux_.
The only two lions at Narbonne are the cathedral
and the museumthe latter of which is quartered in
the hotel de ville. The cathedralclosely shut in by
housesand with the west front undergoing repairsis
singular in two respects. It consists exclusively of a
choirwhich is of the end of the thirteenth century
and the beginning of the nextand of great magnifi-
cence. There is absolutely nothing else. This choir
of extraordinary elevationforms the whole church. I
sat there a good while; there was no other visitor. I
had taken a great dislike to poor little Narbonne
which struck me as sordid and overheatedand this
place seemed to extend to meas in the Middle Ages
the privilege of sanctuary. It is a very solemn corner.
The other peculiarity of the cathedral is thatexter-
nallyit bristles with battlementshaving anciently
formed part of the defences of the _archeveche_which
is beside it and which connects it with the hotel de
ville. This combination of the church and the for-
tress is very curiousand during the Middle Ages was
not without its value. The palace of the former arch-
bishops of Narbonne (the hotel de ville of to-day
forms part of it) was both an asylum and an arsenal
during the hideous wars by which the Languedoc was
ravaged in the thirteenth century. The whole mass
of buildings is jammed together in a manner that
from certain points of view makes it far from apparent
which feature is which. The museum occupies several
chambers at the top of the hotel de villeand is not
an imposing collection. It was closedbut I induced
the portress to let me in- a silentcadaverous person
in a black coiflike a _beguine_who sat knitting in one
of the windows while I went the rounds. The number
of Roman fragments is smalland their quality is not
the finest; I must add that this impression was hastily
gathered. There is indeed a work of art in one of
the rooms which creates a presumption in favor of the
place- the portrait (rather a good one) of a citizen
of Narbonnewhose name I forgetwho is described
as having devoted all his time and his intelligence to
collecting the objects by which the. visitor is sur-
rounded. This excellent man was a connoisseurand
the visitor is doubtless often an ignoramus.
XXV.
"Cettewith its glistening houses white
Curves with the curving beach away
To where the lighthouse beacons bright
Far in the bay."
That stanza of Matthew Arnold'swhich I hap-
pened to remembergave a certain importance to the
half-hour I spent in the buffet of the station at Cette
while I waited for the train to Montpellier. I had left
Narbonne in the afternoonand by the time I reached
Cette the darkness had descended. I therefore missed
the sight of the glistening housesand had to console
myself with that of the beacon in the bayas well as
with a _bouillon_ of which I partook at the buffet afore-
said; forsince the morningI had not ventured to
return to the table d'hote at Narbonne. The Hotel
Nevetat Montpellierwhich I reached an hour later
has an ancient renown all over the south of France-
advertises itselfI believeas _le plus vaste du midi_. It
seemed to me the model of a good provincial inn; a
big ramblingcreaking establishmentwith brown
labyrinthine corridorsa queer old open-air vestibule
into which the diligencein the _bon temps_used to
penetrateand an hospitality more expressive than
that of the new caravansaries. It dates from the days
when Montpellier was still accounted a fine winter re-
sidence for people with weak lungs; and this rather
melancholy traditiontogether with the former celebrity
of the school of medicine still existing therebut from
which the glory has departedhelps to account for its
combination of high antiquity and vast proportions.
The old hotels were usually more concentrated; but
the school of medicine passed for one of the attrac-
tions of Montpellier. Long before Mentone was dis-
covered or Colorado inventedBritish invalids travelled
down through France in the post-chaise or the public
coach to spend their winters in the wonderful place
which boasted both a climate and a faculty. The air
is mildno doubtbut there are refinements of mild-
ness which were not then suspectedand which in a
more analytic age have carried the annual wave far
beyond Montpellier. The place is charmingall the
same; and it served the purpose of John Locke; who
made a long stay therebetween 1675 and 1679and
became acquainted with a noble fellow-visitorLord
Pembroketo whom he dedicated the famous Essay.
There are places that pleasewithout your being able
to say whereforeand Montpellier is one of the num-
ber. It has some charming viewsfrom the great pro-
menade of the Peyrou; but its position is not strikingly
fair. Beyond this it contains a good museum and the
long facades of its schoolbut these are its only de-
finite treasures. Its cathedral struck me as quite the
weakest I had seenand I remember no other monu-
ment that made up for it. The place has neither the
gayety of a modern nor the solemnity of an ancient
townand it is agreeable as certain women are agree-
able who are neither beautiful nor clever. An Italian
would remark that it is sympathetic; a German would
admit that it is _gemuthlich_. I spent two days there
mostly in the rainand even under these circum-
stances I carried away a kindly impression. I think
the Hotel Nevet had something to do with itand the
sentiment of relief with whichin a quieteven a
luxuriousroom that looked out on a gardenI reflected
that I had washed my hands of Narbonne. The phyl-
loxera has destroyed the vines in the country that sur-
rounds Montpellierand at that moment I was capable
of rejoicing in the thought that I should not breakfast
with vintners.
The gem of the place is the Musee Fabreone of
the best collections of paintings in a provincial city.
Francois Fabrea native of Montpellierdied there in
1837after having spent a considerable part of his
life in Italywhere he had collected a good many
valuable pictures and some very poor onesthe latter
class including several from his own hand. He was
the hero of a remarkable episodehaving succeeded
no less a person than Vittorio Alfieri in the affections
of no less a person than Louise de StolbergCountess
of Albanywidow of no less a person than Charles
Edward Stuartthe second pretender to the British
crown. Surely no woman ever was associated senti-
mentally with three figures more diverse- a disqualified
sovereignan Italian dramatistand a bad French
painter. The productions of M. Fabrewho followed
in the steps of Davidbear the stamp of a cold me-
diocrity; there is not much to be said even for the
portrait of the genial countess (her life has been written
by M. Saint-Rene-Taillandierwho depicts her as de-
lightful)which hangs in Florencein the gallery of
the Uffizziand makes a pendant to a likeness of
Alfieri by the same author. Stendhalin his "Me-
moires d'un Touriste" says that this work of art
represents her as a cook who has pretty hands. I am
delighted to have an opportunity of quoting Stendhal
whose two volumes of the "Memoires d'un Touriste"
every traveller in France should carry in his port-
manteau. I have had this opportunity more than once
for I have met him at Toursat Nantesat Bourges;
and everywhere he is suggestive. But he has the de-
fect that he is never pictorialthat he never by any
chance makes an imageand that his style is per-
versely colorlessfor a man so fond of contemplation.
His taste is often singularly false; it is the taste of the
early years of the present centurythe period that
produced clocks surmounted with sentimental "sub-
jects." Stendhal does not admire these clocksbut
he almost does. He admires Domenichino and Guer-
cinoand prizes the Bolognese school of painters be-
cause they "spoke to the soul." He is a votary of the
new classicis fond of tallsquireregular buildings
and thinks Nantesfor instancefull of the "air noble."
It was a pleasure to me to reflect that five-and-forty
years ago he had alighted in that cityat the very inn
in which I spent a nightand which looks down on
the Place Graslin and the theatre. The hotel that was
the best in 1837 appears to be the best to-day. On
the subject of TouraineStendhal is extremely refresh-
ing; he finds the scenery meagre and much overrated
and proclaims his opinion with perfect frankness. He
doeshoweverscant justice to the banks of the Loire;
his want of appreciation of the picturesque - want of
the sketcher's sense - causes him to miss half the
charm of a landscape which is nothing if not "quiet"
as a painter would sayand of which the felicities
reveal themselves only to waiting eyes. He even
despises the Indrethe river of Madame Sand. The
"Memoires d'un Touriste" are written in the character
of a commercial travellerand the author has nothing
to say about Chenonceaux or Chambordor indeed
about any of the chateaux of that part of France; his
system being to talk only of the large townswhere he
may be supposed to find a market for his goods. It
was his ambition to pass for an ironmonger. But in
the large towns he is usually excellent companythough
as discursive as Sterneand strangely indifferentfor a
man of imaginationto those superficial aspects of
things which the poor pages now before the reader are
mainly an attempt to render. It is his conviction that
Alfieriat Florencebored the Countess of Albany ter-
ribly; and he adds that the famous Gallophobe died
of jealousy of the little painter from Montpellier. The
Countess of Albany left her property to Fabre; and I
suppose some of the pieces in the museum of his
native town used to hang in the sunny saloons of that
fine old palace on the Arno which is still pointed out
to the stranger in Florence as the residence of Alfieri.
The institution has had other benefactorsnotably
a certain M. Bruyaswho has enriched it with an extra-
ordinary number of portraits of himself. As these
howeverare by different handssome of them dis-
tinguishedwe may suppose that it was less the model
than the artists to whom M. Bruyas wished to give
publicity. Easily first are two large specimens of
David Tenierswhich are incomparable for brilliancy
and a glowing perfection of execution. I have a weak-
ness for this singular geniuswho combined the delicate
with the grovellingand I have rarely seen richer
examples. Scarcely less valuable is a Gerard Dow
which hangs near themthough it must rank lower as
having kept less of its freshness. This Gerard Dow
did me good; for a master is a masterwhatever he
may paint. It represents a woman paring carrots
while a boy before her exhibits a mouse-trap in which
he has caught a frightened victim. The good-wife has
spread a cloth on the top of a big barrel which serves
her as a tableand on this browngreasy napkinof
which the texture is wonderfully renderedlie the raw
vegetables she is preparing for domestic consumption.
Beside the barrel is a large caldron lined with copper
with a rim of brass. The way these things are painted
brings tears to the eyes; but they give the measure of
the Musee Fabrewhere two specimens of Teniers and
a Gerard Dow are the jewels. The Italian pictures are
of small value; but there is a work by Sir Joshua Rey-
noldssaid to be the only one in France- an infant
Samuel in prayerapparently a repetition of the pic-
ture in England which inspired the little plaster im-
agedisseminated in Protestant landsthat we used to
admire in our childhood. Sir Joshuasomehowwas
an eminently Protestant painter; no one can forget
thatwho in the National Gallery in London has looked
at the picture in which he represents several young
ladies as nymphsvoluminously drapedhanging gar-
lands over a statue- a picture suffused indefinably
with the Anglican spiritand exasperating to a mem-
ber of one of the Latin races. It is an odd chance
thereforethat has led him into that part of France
where Protestants have been least _bien vus_. This is the
country of the dragonnades of Louis XIV. and of the
pastors of the desert. From the garden of the Peyrou
at Montpellieryou may see the hills of the Cevennes
to which they of the religion fled for safetyand out
of which they were hunted and harried.
I have only to addin regard to the Musee Fabre
that it contains the portrait of its founder- a little
pursyfat-facedelderly manwhose countenance con-
tains few indications of the power that makes distin-
guished victims. He ishoweverjust such a personage
as the mind's eye sees walking on the terrace of the
Peyrou of an October afternoon in the early years of
the century; a plump figure in a chocolate-colored coat
and a _culotte_ that exhibits a good leg- a culotte pro-
vided with a watch-fob from which a heavy seal is
suspended. This Peyrou (to come to it at last) is a
wonderful placeespecially to be found in a little pro-
vincial city. France is certainly the country of towns
that aim at completeness; more than in other lands
they contain stately features as a matter of course. We
should never have ceased to hear about the Peyrouif
fortune had placed it at a Shrewsbury or a Buffalo. It
is true that the place enjoys a certain celebrity at
homewhich it amply deservesmoreover; for nothing
could be more impressive and monumental. It consists
of an "elevated platform" as Murray says- an im-
mense terracelaid outin the highest part of the town
as a gardenand commanding in all directions a view
which in clear weather must be of the finest. I strolled
there in the intervals of showersand saw only the
nearer beauties- a great pompous arch of triumph in
honor of Louis XIV. (which is notproperly speaking
in the gardenbut faces itstraddling across the _place_
by which you approach it from the town)an equestrian
statue of that monarch set aloft in the middle of the
terraceand a very exalted and complicated fountain
which forms a background to the picture. This foun-
tain gushes from a kind of hydraulic templeor _cha-
teau d'eau_to which you ascend by broad flights of
stepsand which is fed by a splendid aqueduct
stretched in the most ornamental and unexpected
manner across the neighboring valley. All this work
dates from the middle of the last century. The com-
bination of features - the triumphal archor gate; the
widefair terracewith its beautiful view; the statue
of the grand monarch; the big architectural fountain
which would not surprise one at Romebut goes sur-
prise one at Montpellier; and to complete the effect
the extraordinary aqueductcharmingly fore-shortened
- all this is worthy of a capitalof a little court-city.
The whole placewith its repeated stepsits balus-
tradesits massive and plentiful stone-workis full of
the air of the last century- _sent bien son dix-huitieme
siecle_; none the less soI am afraidthatas I read in
my faithful Murrayafter the revocation of the Edict
of Nantesthe blockthe stakethe wheelhad been
erected here for the benefit of the desperate Camisards.
XXVI.
It was a pleasure to feel one's self in Provence
again- the land where the silver-gray earth is im-
pregnated with the light of the sky. To celebrate
the eventas soon as I arrived at Nimes I engaged
a caleche to convey me to the Pont du Gard. The
day was yet youngand it was perfectly fair; it ap-
peared wellfor a longish driveto take advantage
without delayof such security. After I had left the
town I became more intimate with that Provencal
charm which I had already enjoyed from the window
of the trainand which glowed in the sweet sunshine
and the white rocksand lurked in the smoke-puffs
of the little olives. The olive-trees in Provence are
half the landscape. They are neither so tallso stout
nor so richly contorted as I have seen them beyond
the Alps; but this mild colorless bloom seems the
very texture of the country. The road from Nimes
for a distance of fifteen milesis superb; broad enough
for an armyand as white and firm as a dinner-table.
It stretches away over undulations which suggest a
kind of harmony; and in the curves it makes through
the widefree countrywhere there is never a hedge
or a walland the detail is always exquisitethere is
something majesticalmost processional. Some twenty
minutes before I reached the little inn that marks the
termination of the drivemy vehicle met with an ac-
cident which just missed being seriousand which
engaged the attention of a gentlemanwhofollowed
by his groom and mounted on a strikingly handsome
horse happened to ride up at the moment. This young
manwhowith his good looks and charming manner
might have stepped out of a novel of Octave Feuillet
gave me some very intelligent advice in reference to
one of my horses that had been injuredand was so
good as to accompany me to the innwith the re-
sources of which he was acquaintedto see that his
recommendations were carried out. The result of our
interview was that he invited me to come and look at
a small but ancient chateau in the neighborhood
which he had the happiness - not the greatest in the
worldhe intimated - to inhabitand at which I en-
gaged to present myself after I should have spent an
hour at the Pont du Gard. For the momentwhen
we separatedI gave all my attention to that great
structure. You are very near it before you see it; the
ravine it spans suddenly opens and exhibits the
picture. The scene at this point grows extremely
beautiful. The ravine is the valley of the Gardon
which the road from Nimes has followed some time
without taking account of itbut whichexactly at the
right distance from the aqueductdeepens and ex-
pandsand puts on those characteristics which are best
suited to give it effect. The gorge becomes romantic
stilland solitaryandwith its white rocks and wild
shrubberyhangs over the clearcolored riverin whose
slow course there is here and there a deeper pool.
Over the valleyfrom side to sideand ever so high
in the airstretch the three tiers of the tremendous
bridge. They are unspeakably imposingand nothing
could well be more Roman. The hugenessthe soli-
ditythe unexpectednessthe monumental rectitude of
the whole thing leave you nothing to say - at the time
- and make you stand gazing. You simply feel that
it is noble and perfectthat it has the quality of
greatness. A roadbranching from the highwayde-
scends to the level of the river and passes under one
of the arches. This road has a wide margin of grass
and loose stoneswhich slopes upward into the bank
of the ravine. You may sit here as long as you please
staring up at the lightstrong piers; the spot is ex-
tremely naturalthough two or three stone benches
have been erected on it. I remained there an hour
and got a cornplete impression; the place was per-
fectly soundlessand for the timeat leastlonely;
the splendid afternoon had begun to fadeand there
was a fascination in the object I had come to see. It
came to pass that at the same time I discovered in it
a certain stupiditya vague brutality. That element
is rarely absent from great Roman workwhich is
wanting in the nice adaptation of the means to the
end. The means are always exaggerated; the end is
so much more than attained. The Roman rigidity
was apt to overshoot the markand I suppose a race
which could do nothing small is as defective as a race
that can do nothing great. Of this Roman rigidity
the Pont du Gard is an admirable example. It would
be a great injusticehowevernot to insist upon its
beauty- a kind of manly beautythat of an object
constructed not to please but to serveand impressive
simply from the scale on which it carries out this
intention. The number of arches in each tier is dif-
ferent; they are smaller and more numerous as they
ascend. The preservation of the thing is extra-
ordinary; nothing has crumbled or collapsed; every
feature remains; and the huge blocks of stoneof a
brownish-yellow(as if they had been baked by the
Provencal sun for eighteen centuries)pile themselves
without mortar or cementas evenly as the day they
were laid together. All this to carry the water of a
couple of springs to a little provincial city! The con-
duit on the top has retained its shape and traces of
the cement with which it was lined. When the vague
twilight began to gatherthe lonely valley seemed to
fill itself with the shadow of the Roman nameas if
the mighty empire were still as erect as the supports
of the aqueduct; and it was open to a solitary tourist
sitting there sentimentalto believe that no people has
ever beenor will ever beas great as thatmeasured
as we measure the greatness of an individualby the
push they gave to what they undertook. The Pont du
Gard is one of the three or four deepest impressions
they have left; it speaks of them in a manner with
which they might have been satisfied.
I feel as if it were scarcely discreet to indicate the
whereabouts of the chateau of the obliging young
man I had met on the way from Nimes; I must con-
tent myself with saying that it nestled in an en-
chanting valley- _dans le fond_as they say in France
- and that I took my course thither on footafter
leaving the Pont du Gard. I find it noted in my
journal as "an adorable little corner." The principal
feature of the place is a couple of very ancient towers
brownish-yellow in hueand mantled in scarlet Vir-
ginia-creeper. One of these towersreputed to be
of Saracenic originis isolatedand is only the more
effective; the other is incorporated in the house
which is delightfully fragmentary and irregular. It
had got to be late by this timeand the lonely _castel_
looked crepuscular and mysterious. An old house-
keeper was sent forwho showed me the rambling
interior; and then the young man took me into a
dim old drawing-roomwhich had no less than four
chimney-piecesall unlightedand gave me a refec-
tion of fruit and sweet wine. When I praised the
wine and asked him what it washe said simply
"C'est du vin de ma mere!" Throughout my little
joumey I had never yet felt myself so far from Paris;
and this was a sensation I enjoyed more than my
hostwho was an involuntary exileconsoling him-
self with laying out a _manege_which he showed me
as I walked away. His civility was greatand I was
greatly touched by it. On my way back to the little
inn where I had left my vehicleI passed the Pont
du Gardand took another look at it. Its great arches
made windows for the evening skyand the rocky
ravinewith its dusky cedars and shining riverwas
lonelier than before. At the inn I swallowedor tried
to swallowa glass of horrible wine with my coach-
man; after whichwith my reconstructed teamI drove
back to Nimes in the moonlight. It only added a
more solitary whiteness to the constant sheen of the
Provencal landscape.
XXVII.
The weather the next day was equally fairso that
it seemed an imprudence not to make sure of Aigues-
Mortes. Nimes itself could wait; at a pinchI could
attend to Nimes in the rain. It was my belief that
Aigues-Mortes was a little gemand it is natural to
desire that gems should have an opportunity to sparkle.
This is an excursion of but a few hoursand there is
a little friendlyfamiliardawdling train that will con-
vey youin time for a noonday breakfastto the small
dead town where the blessed Saint-Louis twice em-
barked for the crusades. You may get back to Nimes
for dinner; the run - or rather the walkfor the train
doesn't run - is of about an hour. I found the little
journey charmingand looked out of the carriage win-
dowon my rightat the distant Cevennescovered
with tones of amber and blueandall aroundat
vineyards red with the touch of October. The grapes
were gonebut the plants had a color of their own.
Within a certain distance of Aigues-Mortes they give
place to wide salt-marshestraversed by two canals;
and over this expanse the train rumbles slowly upon
a narrow causewayfailing for some timethough you
know you are near the object of your curiosityto
bring you to sight of anything but the horizon. Sud-
denly it appearsthe towered and embattled mass
lying so low that the crest of its defences seems to
rise straight out of the ground; and it is not till the
train stopsclose before themthat you are able to
take the full measure of its walls.
Aigues-Mortes stands on the edge of a wide _etang_
or shallow inlet of the seathe further side of which
is divided by a narrow band of coast from the Gulf
of Lyons. Next after Carcassonneto which it forms
an admirable _pendant_it is the most perfect thing of
the kind in France. It has a rival in the person of
Avignonbut the ramparts of Avignon are much less
effective. Like Carcassonneit is completely sur-
rounded with its old fortifications; and if they are far
simpler in character (there is but one circle)they are
quite as well preserved. The moat has been filled
upand the site of the town might be figured by a
billiard-table without pockets. On this absolute level
covered with coarse grassAigues-Mortes presents quite
the appearance of the walled town that a school-boy
draws upon his slateor that we see in the background
of early Flemish pictures- a simple parallelogramof
a contour almost absurdly barebroken at intervals by
angular towers and square holes. Suchliterally speak-
ingis this delightful little citywhich needs to be seen
to tell its full story. It is extraordinarily pictorial
and if it is a very small sister of Carcassonneit has
at least the essential features of the family. Indeed
it is even more like an image and less like a reality
than Carcassonne; for by position and prospect it
seems even more detached from the life of the present
day. It is true that Aigues-Mortes does a little busi-
ness; it sees certain bags of salt piled into barges
which stand in a canal beside itand which carry their
cargo into actual places. But nothing could well be
more drowsy and desultory than this industry as I
saw it practisedwith the aid of two or three brown
peasants and under the eye of a solitary douanier
who strolled on the little quay beneath the western
wall. "C'est bien plaisantc'est bien paisible" said
this worthy manwith whom I had some conversa-
tion; and pleasant and peaceful is the place indeed
though the former of these epithets may suggest an
element of gayety in which Aigues-Mortes is deficient.
The sandthe saltthe dull sea-viewsurround it with
a brightquiet melancholy. There are fifteen towers
and nine gatesfive of which are on the southern side
overlooking the water. I walked all round the place
three times (it doesn't take long)but lingered most
under the southern wallwhere the afternoon light
slept in the dreamiestsweetest way. I sat down on
an old stoneand looked away to the desolate salt-
marshes and the stillshining surface of the _etang_
andas I did soreflected that this was a queer little
out-of-the-world corner to have been chosenin the
great dominions of either monarchfor that pompous
interview which took placein 1538between Francis I.
and Charles V. It was also not easy to perceive how
Louis IX.when in 1248 and 1270 he started for the
Holy Landset his army afloat in such very undeveloped
channels. An hour later I purchased in the town a
little pamphlet by M. Marius Topinwho undertakes
to explain this latter anomalyand to show that there
is water enough in the portas we may call it by
courtesyto have sustained a fleet of crusaders. I was
unable to trace the channel that he points outbut
was glad to believe thatas he contendsthe sea has
not retreated from the town since the thirteenth century.
It was comfortable to think that things are not so
changed as that. M. Topin indicates that the other
French ports of the Mediterranean were not then _dis-
ponsibles_and that Aigues-Mortes was the most eligible
spot for an embarkation.
Behind the straight walls and the quiet gates the
little town has not crumbledlike the Cite of Carcas-
sonne. It can hardly be said to be alive; but if it is
dead it has been very neatly embalmed. The hand
of the restorer rests on it constantly; but this artist
has notas at Carcassonnehad miracles to accomplish.
The interior is very still and emptywith small stony
whitewashed streetstenanted by a stray doga stray
cata stray old woman. In the middle is a little _place_
with two or three cafes decorated by wide awnings-
a little _place_ of which the principal feature is a very
bad bronze statue of Saint Louis by Pradier. It is
almost as bad as the breakfast I had at the inn that
bears the name of that pious monarch. You may walk
round the enceinte of Aigues-Mortesboth outside and
in; but you may notas at Carcassonnemake a por-
tion of this circuit on the _chemin de ronde_the little
projecting footway attached to the inner face of the
battlements. This footwaywide enough only for a
single pedestrianis in the best orderand near each
of the gates a flight of steps leads up to it; but a
locked gateat the top of the stepsmakes access im-
possibleor at least unlawful. Aigues-Morteshowever
has its citadelan immense towerlarger than any of
the othersa little detachedand standing at the north-
west angle of the town. I called upon the _casernier_
the custodian of the walls- and in his absence I was
conducted through this big Tour de Constance by his
wifea very mildmeek womanyellow with the traces
of fever and ague- a scourge whichas might be ex-
pected in a town whose name denotes "dead waters"
enters freely at the nine gates. The Tour de Con-
stance is of extraordinary girth and soliditydivided
into three superposed circular chamberswith very fine
vaultswhich are lighted by embrasures of prodigious
depthconverging to windows little larger than loop-
holes. The place served for years as a prison to many
of the Protestants of the south whom the revocation
of the Edict of Nantes had exposed to atrocious
penaltiesand the annals of these dreadful chambers
during the first half of the last century were written
in tears and blood. Some of the recorded cases of
long confinement there make one marvel afresh at
what man has inflicted and endured. In a country in
which a policy of extermination was to be put into
practice this horrible tower was an obvious resource.
From the battlements at the topwhich is surmounted
by an old disused light-houseyou see the little com-
pact rectangular townwhich looks hardly bigger than
a garden-patchmapped out beneath youand follow
the plain configuration of its defences. You take
possession of itand you feel that you will remember
it always.
XXVIII.
After this I was free to look about me at Nimes
and I did so with such attention as the place appeared
to require. At the risk of seeming too easily and too
frequently disappointedI will say that it required
rather less than I had been prepared to give. It is a
town of three or four fine featuresrather than a town
withas I may saya general figure. In general
Nimes is poor; its only treasures are its Roman re-
mainswhich are of the first order. The new French
fashions prevail in many of its streets; the old houses
are paltryand the good houses are new; while beside
my hotel rose a big spick-and-span churchwhich
had the oddest air of having been intended for
Brooklyn or Cleveland. It is true that this church
looked out on a square completely French- a square
of a fine modern dispositionflanked on one side by a
classical _palais de justice_ embellished with trees and
parapetsand occupied in the centre with a group of
allegorical statuessuch as one encounters only in the
cities of Francethe chief of these being a colossal
figure by Pradierrepresenting Nimes. An English
an Americantown which should have such a monu-
mentsuch a squareas thiswould be a place of
great pretensions; but like so many little _villes de
province_ in the country of which I writeNimes is
easily ornamental. What nobler ornament can there
be than the Roman baths at the foot of Mont Cavalier
and the delightful old garden that surrounds them?
All that quarter of Nimes has every reason to be
proud of itself; it has been revealed to the world at
large by copious photography. A clearabundant
stream gushes from the foot of a high hill (covered
with trees and laid out in paths)and is distributed
into basins which sufficiently refer themselves to the
period that gave them birth- the period that has
left its stamp on that pompous Peyrou which we ad-
mired at Montpellier. Here are the same terraces and
steps and balustradesand a system of water-works
less impressiveperhapsbut very ingenious and charm-
ing. The whole place is a mixture of old Rome and
of the French eighteenth century; for the remains of
the antique baths are in a measure incorporated in
the modern fountains. In a corner of this umbrageous
precinct stands a small Roman ruinwhich is known
as a temple of Dianabut was more apparently a
_nymphaeum_and appears to have had a graceful con-
nection with the adjacent baths. I learn from Murray
that this little templeof the period of Augustus
"was reduced to its present state of ruin in 1577;"
the moment at which the townspeoplethreatened
with a siege by the troops of the crownpartly
demolished itlest it should serve as a cover to the
enemy. The remains are very fragmentarybut they
serve to show that the place was lovely. I spent half
an hour in it on a perfect Sunday morning (it is en-
closed by a high _grille_carefully tendedand has a
warden of its own)and with the help of my imagina-
tion tried to reconstruct a little the aspect of things
in the Gallo-Roman days. I do wrongperhapsto
say that 1 _tried_; from a flight so deliberate I should
have shrunk. But there was a certain contagion of
antiquity in the air; and among the ruins of baths
and templesin the very spot where the aqueduct that
crosses the Gardon in the wondrous manner I had
seen discharged itselfthe picture of a splendid
paganism seemed vaguely to glow. Roman baths-
Roman baths; those words alone were a scene. Every-
thing was changed: I was strolling in a _jardin francais_;
the bosky slope of the Mont Cavalier (a very modest
mountain)hanging over the placeis crowned with a
shapeless towerwhich is as likely to be of mediaeval
as of antique origin; and yetas I leaned on the
parapet of one of the fountainswhere a flight of
curved steps (a hemicycleas the French say) descended
into a basin full of darkcool recesseswhere the slabs
of the Roman foundations gleam through the clear
green water- as in this attitude I surrendered myself
to contemplation and reverieit seemed to me that I
touched for a moment the ancient world. Such mo-
ments are illuminatingand the light of this one mingles
in my memorywith the dusky greenness of the Jardin
de la Fontaine.
The fountain proper - the source of all these dis-
tributed waters - is the prettiest thing in the worlda
reduced copy of Vaucluse. It gushes up at the foot
of the Mont Cavalierat a point where that eminence
rises with a certain cliff-like effectandlike other
springs in the same circumstancesappears to issue
from the rock with a sort of quivering stillness. I
trudged up the Mont Cavalier- it is a matter of five
minutes- and having committed this cockneyism en-
hanced it presently by another. I ascended the stupid
Tour Magnethe mysterious structure I mentioned a
moment ago. The only feature of this dateless tube
except the inevitable collection of photographs to
which you are introduced by the door-keeperis the
view you enjoy from its summit. This view isof
courseremarkably finebut I am ashamed to say I
have not the smallest recollection of it; for while I
looked into the brilliant spaces of the air I seemed
still to see only what I saw in the depths of the Roman
baths- the imagedisastrously confused and vagueof
a vanished world. This worldhoweverhas left at
Nimes a far more considerable memento than a few
old stones covered with water-moss. The Roman arena
is the rival of those of Verona and of Arles; at a
respectful distance it emulates the Colosseum. It is a
small Colosseumif I may be allowed the expression
and is in a much better preservation than the great
circus at Rome. This is especially true of the external
wallswith their archespillarscornices. I must add
that one should not speak of preservationin regard
to the arena at Nimeswithout speaking also of repair.
After the great ruin ceased to be despoiledit began
to be protectedand most of its wounds have been
dressed with new material. These matters concern
the archaeologist; and I felt hereas I felt afterwards
at Arlesthat one of the profanein the presence of
such a monumentcan only admire and hold his
tongue. The great impressionon the wholeis an
impression of wonder that so much should have sur-
vived. What remains at Nimesafter all dilapidation
is estimatedis astounding. I spent an hour in the
Arenes on that same sweet Sunday morningas I
came back from the Roman bathsand saw that the
corridorsthe vaultsthe staircasesthe external casing
are still virtually there. Many of these parts are
wanting in the Colosseumwhose sublimity of size
howevercan afford to dispense with detail. The seats
at Nimeslike those at Veronahave been largely
renewed; not that this mattered muchas I lounged
on the cool surface of one of themand admired the
mighty concavity of the place and the elliptical sky-
linebroken by uneven blocks and forming the rim of
the monstrous cup- a cup that had been filled with
horrors. And yet I made my reflections; I said to
myself that though a Roman arena is one of the most
impressive of the works of manit has a touch of that
same stupidity which I ventured to discover in the
Pont du Gard. It is brutal; it is monotonous; it is
not at all exquisite. The Arenes at Nimes were ar-
ranged for a bull-fight- a form of recreation thatas
I was informedis much _dans les habitudes Nimoises_
and very common throughout Provencewhere (still
according to my information) it is the usual pastime
of a Sunday afternoon. At Arles and Nimes it has a
characteristic settingbut in the villages the patrons
of the game make a circle of carts and barrelson
which the spectators perch themselves. I was sur-
prised at the prevalencein mild Provenceof the
Iberian viceand hardly know whether it makes the
custom more respectable that at Nimes and Arles the
thing is shabbily and imperfectly done. The bulls
are rarely killedand indeed often are bulls only in
the Irish sense of the term- being domestic and
motherly cows. Such an entertainment of course does
not supply to the arena that element of the exquisite
which I spoke of as wanting. The exquisite at Nimes
is mainly represented by the famous Maison Carree.
The first impression you receive from this delicate
little buildingas you stand before itis that you have
already seen it many times. Photographsengravings
modelsmedalshave placed it definitely in your eye
so that from the sentiment with which you regard it
curiosity and surprise are almost completelyand per-
haps deplorablyabsent. Admiration remainshow-
ever- admiration of a familiar and even slightly
patronizing kind. The Maison Carree does not over-
whelm you; you can conceive it. It is not one of the
great sensations of the antique art; but it is perfectly
felicitousandin spite of having been put to all sorts
of incongruous usesmarvellously preserved. Its slender
columnsits delicate proportionsits charming com-
pactnessseemed to bring one nearer to the century
that built it than the great superpositions of arenas
and bridgesand give it the interest that vibrates from
one age to another when the note of taste is struck.
If anything were needed to make this little toy-temple
a happy productionthe service would be rendered by
the second-rate boulevard that conducts to itadorned
with inferior cafes and tobacco-shops. Herein a
respectable recesssurrounded by vulgar habitations
and with the theatreof a classic pretensionopposite
stands the small "square house" so called because it
is much longer than it is broad. I saw it first in the
eveningin the vague moonlightwhich made it look
as if it were cast in bronze. Stendhal saysjustly
that it has the shape of a playing-cardand he ex-
presses his admiration for it by the singular wish
that an "exact copy" of it should be erected in Paris.
He even goes so far as to say that in the year 1880
this tribute will have been rendered to its charms;
nothing would be more simpleto his mindthan to
"have" in that city "le Pantheon de Romequelques
temples de Grece." Stendhal found it amusing to
write in the character of a _commis-voyageur_and some-
times it occurs to his reader that he really was one.
XXIX.
On my way from Nimes to ArlesI spent three
hours at Tarascon; chiefly for the love of Alphonse
Daudetwho has written nothing more genial than
"Les Aventures Prodigieuses de Taitarin" and the
story of the "siege" of the brightdead little town
(a mythic siege by the Prussians) in the "Conies du
Lundi." In the introduction whichfor the new
edition of his workshe has lately supplied to "Tar-
tarin" the author of this extravagant but kindly
satire gives some account of the displeasure with
which he has been visited by the ticklish Tarascon-
nais. Daudet relates that in his attempt to shed a
humorous light upon some of the more erratic phases
of the Provencal characterhe selected Tarascon at a
venture; not because the temperament of its natives
is more vainglorious than that of their neighborsor
their rebellion against the "despotism of fact" more
markedbut simply because he had to name a par-
ticular Provencal city. Tartarin is a hunter of lions
and charmer of womena true "_produit du midi_" as
Daudet sayswho has the most fantastic and fabulous
adventures. He is a minimized Don Quixotewith
much less dignitybut with equal good faith; and the
story of his exploits is a little masterpiece of the
light comical. The Tarasconnaishoweverdeclined to
take the jokeand opened the vials of their wrath
upon the mocking child of Nimeswho would have
been better employedthey doubtless thoughtin show-
ing up the infirmities of his own family. I am bound
to add that when I passed through Tarascon they did
not appear to be in the least out of humor. Nothing
could have been brightersoftermore suggestive of
amiable indifferencethan the picture it presented to
my mind. It lies quietly beside the Rhonelooking
across at Beaucairewhich seems very distant and in-
dependentand tacitly consenting to let the castle of
the good King Rene of Anjouwhich projects very
boldly into the riverpass for its most interesting feature.
The other features areprimarilya sort of vivid sleepi-
ness in the aspect of the placeas if the September
noon (it had lingered on into October) lasted longer
there than elsewhere; certain low arcadeswhich make
the streets look gray and exhibit empty vistas; and a
very curious and beautiful walk beside the Rhone
denominated the Chaussee- a long and narrow cause-
waydensely shaded by two rows of magnificent old
treesplanted in its embankmentand rendered doubly
effectiveat the moment I passed over itby a little
train of collegianswho had been taken out for mild
exercise by a pair of young priests. Lastlyone may
say that a striking element of Tarasconas of any town
that lies on the Rhoneis simply the Rhone itself: the
big brown floodof uncertain temperwhich has never
taken time to forget that it is a child of the mountain
and the glacierand that such an origin carries with it
great privileges. Laterat AvignonI observed it in
the exercise of these privilegeschief among which was
that of frightening the good people of the old papal
city half out of their wits.
The chateau of King Rene serves to-day as the
prison of a districtand the traveller who wishes to
look into it must obtain his permission at the _Mairie
of Tarascon_. If he have had a certain experience of
French mannershis application will be accompanied
with the forms of a considerable obsequiosityand in
this case his request will be granted as civilly as it
has been made. The castle has more of the air of a
severely feudal fortress than I should suppose the
period of its construction (the first half of the fifteenth
century) would have warranted; being tremendously
bare and perpendicularand constructed for comfort
only in the sense that it was arranged for defence. It
is a square and simple masscomposed of small yellow
stonesand perched on a pedestal of rock which easily
commands the river. The building has the usual cir-
cular towers at the cornersand a heavy cornice at
the topand immense stretches of sun-scorched wall
relieved at wide intervals by small windowsheavily
cross-barred. It hasabove allan extreme steepness
of aspect; I cannot express it otherwise. The walls
are as sheer and inhospitable as precipices. The castle
has kept its large moatwhich is now a hollow filled
with wild plants. To this tall fortress the good Rene
retired in the middle of the fifteenth centuryfinding
it apparently the most substantial thing left him in a
dominion which had included Naples and Sicily
Lorraine and Anjou. He had been a much-tried
monarch and the sport of a various fortunefighting
half his life for thrones he didn't care forand exalted
only to be quickly cast down. Provence was the
country of his affectionand the memory of his troubles
did not prevent him from holding a joyous court at
Tarascon and at Aix. He finished the castle at
Tarasconwhich had been begun earlier in the century
- finished itI supposefor consistency's sakein the
manner in which it had originally been designed rather
than in accordance with the artistic tastes that formed
the consolation of his old age. He was a paintera
writera dramatista modern dilettanteaddicted to
private theatricals. There is something very attractive
in the image that he has imprinted on the page of
history. He was both clever and kindand many
reverses and much suffering had not imbittered him
nor quenched his faculty of enjoyment. He was fond
of his sweet Provenceand his sweet Provence has
been grateful; it has woven a light tissue of legend
around the memory of the good King Rene.
I strolled over his dusky habitation - it must have
taken all his good-humor to light it up - at the heels
of the custodianwho showed me the usual number of
castle-properties: a deepwell-like court; a collection of
winding staircases and vaulted chambersthe embra-
sures of whose windows and the recesses of whose
doorways reveal a tremendous thickness of wall. These
things constitute the general identity of old castles;
and when one has wandered through a good many
with due discretion of step and protrusion of head
one ceases very much to distinguish and remember
and contents one's self with consigning them to the
honorable limbo of the romantic. I must add that this
reflection did not the least deter me from crossing the
bridge which connects Tarascon with Beaucairein
order to examine the old fortress whose ruins adorn
the latter city. It stands on a foundation of rock much
higher than that of Tarasconand looks over with a
melancholy expression at its better-conditioned brother.
Its position is magnificentand its outline very gallant.
I was well rewarded for my pilgrimage; for if the castle
of Beaucaire is only a fragmentthe whole placewith
its position and its viewsis an ineffaceable picture. It
was the stronghold of the Montmorencysand its last
tenant was that rash Duke Francoiswhom Richelieu
seizing every occasion to trample on a great noble
caused to be beheaded at Toulousewhere we sawin
the Capitolthe butcher's knife with which the cardinal
pruned the crown of France of its thorns. The castle
after the death of this victimwas virtually demolished.
Its sitewhich Nature to-day has taken again to herself
has an extraordinary charm. The mass of rock that it
formerly covered rises high above the townand is as
precipitous as the side of the Rhone. A tall rusty iron
gate admits you from a quiet corner of Beaucaire to a
wild tangled gardencovering the side of the hill-
for the whole place forms the public promenade of the
townsfolk- a garden without flowerswith little steep
rough paths that wind under a plantation of small
scrubby stone-pines. Above this is the grassy platform
of the castleenclosed on one side only (toward the
river) by a large fragment of wall and a very massive
dungeon. There are benches placed in the lee of the
walland others on the edge of the platformwhere
one may enjoy a viewbeyond the riverof certain
peeled and scorched undulations. A sweet desolation
an everlasting peaceseemed to hang in the air. A
very old man (a fragmentlike the castle itself) emerged
from some crumbling corner to do me the honors- a
very gentleobsequioustotteringtoothlessgrateful old
man. He beguiled me into an ascent of the solitary
towerfrom which you may look down on the big
sallow river and glance at diminished Tarasconand
the barefacedbald-headed hills behind it. It may
appear that I insist too much upon the nudity of the
Provencal horiion- too muchconsidering that I have
spoken of the prospect from the heights of Beaucaire as
lovely. But it is an exquisite bareness; it seems to
exist for the purpose of allowing one to follow the de-
licate lines of the hillsand touch with the eyesas it
werethe smallest inflections of the landscape. It
makes the whole thing seem wonderfully bright and
pure.
Beaucaire used to be the scene of a famous fair
the great fair of the south of France. It has gone the
way of most fairseven in Francewhere these delight-
ful exhibitions hold their own much better than might
be supposed. It is still held in the month of July;
but the bourgeoises of Tarascon send to the Magasin
du Louvre for their smart dressesand the principal
glory of the scene is its long tradition. Even now
howeverit ought to be the prettiest of all fairsfor it
takes place in a charming wood which lies just beneath
the castlebeside the Rhone. The boothsthe barracks
the platforms of the mountebanksthe bright-colored
crowddiffused through this midsummer shadeand
spotted here and there with the rich Provencal sun-
shine must be of the most pictorial effect. It is highly
probabletoothat it offers a large collection of pretty
faces; for even in the few hours that I spent at
Tarascon I discovered symptoms of the purity of
feature for which the women of the _pays d'Arles_ are
renowned. The Arlesian head-dresswas visible in the
streets; and this delightful coiffure is so associated with
a charming facial ovala dark mild eyea straight
Greek noseand a mouth worthy of all the restthat
it conveys a presumption of beauty which gives the
wearer time either to escape or to please you. I have
read somewherehoweverthat Tarascon is supposed
to produce handsome menas Arles is known to deal
in handsome women. It may be that I should have
found the Tarasconnais very fine fellowsif I had en-
countered enough specimens to justify an induction.
But there were very few males in the streetsand the
place presented no appearance of activity. Here and
there the black coif of an old woman or of a young
girl was framed by a low doorway; but for the restas
I have saidTarascon was mostly involved in a siesta.
There was not a creature in the little church of Saint
Marthawhich I made a point of visiting before I re-
turned to the stationand whichwith its fine Romanesque
sideportal and its pointed and crocketed Gothic spire
is as curious as it need bein view of its tradition. It
stands in a quiet corner where the grass grows between
the small cobble-stonesand you pass beneath a deep
archway to reach it. The tradition relates that Saint
Martha tamed with her own handsand attached to
her girdlea dreadful dragonwho was known as the
Tarasqueand is reported to have given his name to
the city on whose site (amid the rocks which form the
base of the chateau) he had his cavern. The dragon
perhapsis the symbol of a ravening paganismdis-
pelled by the eloquence of a sweet evangelist. The
bones of the interesting saintat all eventswere found
in the eleventh centuryin a cave beneath the spot on
which her altar now stands. I know not what had be-
come of the bones of the dragon.
XXX.
There are two shabby old inns at Arleswhich
compete closely for your custom. I mean by this that
if you elect to go to the Hotel du Forumthe Hotel
du Nordwhich is placed exactly beside it (at a right
angle) watches your arrival with ill-concealed dis-
approval; and if you take the chances of its neighbor
the Hotel du Forum seems to glare at you invidiously
from all its windows and doors. I forget which of
these establishments I selected; whichever it wasI
wished very much thatit had been the other. The
two stand together on the Place des Hommesa little
public square of Arleswhich somehow quite misses
its effect. As a cityindeedArles quite misses its
effect in every way; and if it is a charming placeas
I think it isI can hardly tell the reason why. The
straight-nosed Arlesiennes account for it in some degree;
and the remainder may be charged to the ruins of the
arena and the theatre. Beyond thisI remember with
affection the ill-proportioned little Place des Hommes;
not at all monumentaland given over to puddles and
to shabby cafes. I recall with tenderness the tortuous
and featureless streetswhich looked like the streets of
a villageand were paved with villanous little sharp
stonesmaking all exercise penitential. Consecrated
by association is even a tiresome walk that I took the
evening I arrivedwith the purpose of obtaining a
view of the Rhone. I had been to Arles beforeyears
agoand it seemed to me that I remembered finding
on the banks of the stream some sort of picture. I
think that on the evening of which I speak there was
a watery moonwhich it seemed to me would light up
the past as well as the present. But I found no pic-
tureand I scarcely found the Rhone at all. I lost
my wayand there was not a creature in the streets to
whom I could appeal. Nothing could be more pro-
vincial than the situation of Arles at ten o'clock at
night. At last I arrived at a kind of embankment
where I could see the great mud-colored stream slip-
ping along in the soundless darkness. It had come
on to rainI know not what had happened to the
moonand the whole place was anything but gay. It
was not what I had looked for; what I had looked for
was in the irrecoverable past. I groped my way back
to the inn over the infernal _cailloux_feeling like a dis-
comfited Dogberry. I remember now that this hotel
was the one (whichever that may be) which has the
fragment of a Gallo-Roman portico inserted into one
of its angles. I had chosen it for the sake of this ex-
ceptional ornament. It was damp and darkand the
floors felt gritty to the feet; it was an establishment at
which the dreadful _gras-double_ might have appeared
at the table d'hoteas it had done at Narbonne. Never-
thelessI was glad to get back to it; and nevertheless
too- and this is the moral of my simple anecdote-
my pointless little walk (I don't speak of the pave-
ment) suffuses itselfas I look back upon itwith a
romantic tone. And in relation to the innI suppose
I had better mention that I am well aware of the in-
consistency of a person who dislikes the modern cara-
vansaryand yet grumbles when he finds a hotel of
the superannuated sort. One ought to chooseit would
seemand make the best of either alternative. The
two old taverns at Arles are quite unimproved; such
as they must have been in the infancy of the modern
worldwhen Stendhal passed that wayand the lum-
bering diligence deposited him in the Place des
Hommessuch in every detail they are to-day. _Vieilles
auberges de France_one ought to enjoy their gritty
floors and greasy window-panes. Let it be put on re-
cordthereforethat I have beenI won't say less com-
fortablebut at least less happyat better inns.
To be really historicI should have mentioned that
before going to look for the Rhone I had spent part
of the evening on the opposite side of the little place
and that I indulged in this recreation for two definite
reasons. One of these was that I had an opportunity
of conversing at a cafe with an attractive young Eng-
lishmanwhom I had met in the afternoon at Tarascon
and more remotelyin other yearsin London; the
other was that there sat enthroned behind the counter
a splendid mature Arlesiennewhom my companion
and I agreed that it was a rare privilege to contem-
plate. There is no rule of good manners or morals
which makes it improperat a cafeto fix one's eyes
upon the _dame de comptoir_; the lady isin the nature
of thingsa part of your _consommation_. We were there-
fore feee to admire without restriction the handsomest
person I had ever seen give change for a five-franc
piece. She was a large quiet womanwho would never
see forty again; of an intensely feminine typeyet
wonderfully rich and robustand full of a certain phy-
sical nobleness. Though she was not really oldshe
was antiqueand she was very graveeven a little sad.
She had the dignity of a Roman empressand she
handled coppers as if they had been stamped with
the head of Caesar. I have seen washerwomen in the
Trastevere who were perhaps as handsome as she; but
even the head-dress of the Roman contadina con-
tributes less to the dignity of the person born to wear
it than the sweet and stately Arlesian capwhich sits
at once aloft and on the back of the head; which is
accompanied with a wide black bow covering a con-
siderable part of the crown; and whichfinallyaccom-
modates itself indescribably well to the manner in
which the tresses of the front are pushed behind the
cars.
This admirable dispenser of lumps of sugar has
distracted me a little; for I am still not sufficiently
historical. Before going to the cafe I had dinedand
before dining I had found time to go and look at the
arena. Then it was that I discovered that Arles has
no general physiognomyandexcept the delightful
little church of Saint Trophimusno architectureand
that the rugosities of its dirty lanes affect the feet
like knife-blades. It was not thenon the other handthat
I saw the arena best. The second day of my stay at
Arles I devoted to a pilgrimage to the strange old hill
town of Les Bauxthe mediaeval Pompeiiof which I
shall give myself the pleasure of speaking. The even-
ing of that dayhowever (my friend and I returned in
time for a late dinner)I wandered among the Roman
remains of the place by the light of a magnificent
moonand gathered an impression which has lost little
of its silvery glow. The moon of the evening before
had been aqueous and erratic; but if on the present
occasion it was guilty of any irregularitythe worst it
did was only to linger beyond its time in the heavens
in order to let us look at things comfortably. The
effect was admirable; it brought back the impression
of the wayin Rome itselfon evenings like thatthe
moonshine rests upon broken shafts and slabs of an-
tique pavement. As we sat in the theatrelooking at
the two lone columns that survive - part of the decora-
tion of the back of the stage - and at the fragments
of ruin around themwe might have been in the
Roman forum. The arena at Arleswith its great
magnitudeis less complete than that of Nimes; it has
suffered even more the assaults of time and of the
children of timeand it has been less repaired. The
seats are almost wholly wanting; but the external walls
minus the topmost tier of archesare massivelyrug-
gedlycomplete; and the vaulted corridors seem as
solid as the day they were built. The whole thing is
superbly vastand as monumentalfor place of light
amusement - what is called in America a "variety-
show" - as it entered only into the Roman mind to
make such establishments. The _podium_ is much higher
than at Nimesand many of the great white slabs that
faced it have been recovered and put into their places.
The proconsular box has been more or less recon-
structedand the great converging passages of approach
to it are still majestically distinct: so thatas I sat
there in the moon-charmed stillnessleaning my elbows
on the battered parapet of the ringit was not im-
possible - to listen to the murmurs and shuddersthe
thick voice of the circusthat died away fifteen hun-
dred years ago.
The theatre has a voice as wellbut it lingers on
the ear of time with a different music. The Roman
theatre at Arles seemed to me one of the most charm-
ing and touching ruins I had ever beheld; I took a
particular fancy to it. It is less than a skeleton- the
arena may be called a skeleton; for it consists only of
half a dozen bones. The traces of the row of columns
which formed the scene - the permanent back-scene -
remain; two marble pillars - I just mentioned them -
are uprightwith a fragment of their entablature. Be
fore them is the vacant space which was filled by the
stagewith the line of the prosoenium distinctmarked
by a deep grooveimpressed upon slabs of stonewhich
looks as if the bottom of a high screen had been in-
tended to fit into it. The semicircle formed by the
seats - half a cup - rises opposite; some of the rows
are distinctly marked. The floorfrom the bottom of
the stagein the shape of an arc of which the chord
is formed by the line of the orchestrais covered by
slabs of colored marble - redyellowand green -
whichthough terribly battered and cracked to-day
give one an idea of the elegance of the interior. Every-
thing shows that it was on a great scale: the large
sweep of its enclosing wallsthe massive corridors that
passed behind the auditoriumand of which we can
still perfectly take the measure. The way in which
every seat commanded the stage is a lesson to the
architects of our epochas also the immense size of
the place is a proof of extraordinary power of voice
on the part of the Roman actors. It was after we had
spent half an hour in the moonshine at the arena that
we came on to this more ghostly and more exquisite
ruin. The principal entrance was lockedbut we
effected an easy _escalade_scaled a low parapetand
descended into the place behind file scenes. It was
as light as dayand the solitude was complete. The
two slim columnsas we sat on the broken benches
stood there like a pair of silent actors. What I called
touchingjust nowwas the thought that here the
human voicethe utterance of a great languagehad
been supreme. The air was full of intonations and
cadences; not of the echo of smashing blowsof riven
armorof howling victims and roaring beasts. The
spot isin shortone of the sweetest legacies of the
ancient world; and there seems no profanation in the
fact that by day it is open to the good people of
Arleswho use it to passby no means in great num-
bersfrom one part of the town to the other; treading
the old marble floorand brushingif need bethe
empty benches. This familiarity does not kill the
place again; it makes iton the contrarylive a little
- makes the present and the past touch each other.
XXXI.
The third lion of Arles has nothing to do with the
ancient worldbut only with the old one. The church
of Saint Trophimuswhose wonderful Romanesque
porch is the principal ornament of the principal _place_
- a _place_ otherwise distinguished by the presence of
a slim and tapering obelisk in the middleas well as
by that of the Hotel de Ville and the museum - the
interesting church of Saint Trophimus swears a little
as the French saywith the peculiar character of
Arles. It is very remarkablebut I would rather it
were in another place. Arles is delightfully pagan
and Saint Trophimuswith its apostolic sculpturesis
rather a false note. These sculptures are equally re-
markable for their primitive vigor and for the perfect
preservation in which they have come down to us.
The deep recess of a round-arched porch of the
twelfth century is covered with quaint figureswhich
have not lost a nose or a finger. An angularByzan-
tine-looking Christ sits in a diamond-shaped frame at
the summit of the archsurrounded by little angels
by great apostlesby winged beastsby a hundred
sacred symbols and grotesque ornaments. It is a
dense embroidery of sculptureblack with timebut as
uninjured as if it had been kept under glass. One
good mark for the French Revolution! Of the in-
terior of the churchwhich has a nave of the twelfth
centuryand a choir three hundred years more recent
I chiefly remember the odd feature that the Romanesque
aisles are so narrow that you literally - or almost -
squeeze through them. You do so with some eager-
nessfor your natural purpose is to pass out to the
cloister. This cloisteras distinguished and as per-
fect as the porchhas a great deal of charm. Its four
sideswhich are not of the same period (the earliest
and best are of the twelfth century)have an elaborate
arcadesupported on delicate pairs of columnsthe
capitals of which show an extraordinary variety of
device and ornament. At the corners of the quadrangle
these columns take the form of curious human figures.
The whole thing is a gem of lightness and preserva-
tionand is often cited for its beauty; but - if it
doesn't sound too profane - I preferespecially at
Arlesthe ruins of the Roman theatre. The antique
element is too precious to be mingled with anything
less rare. This truth was very present to my mind
during a ramble of a couple of hours that I took just
before leaving the place; and the glowing beauty of
the morning gave the last touch of the impression. I
spent half an hour at the Museum; then I took an-
other look at the Roman theatre; after which I walked
a little out of the town to the Aliscampsthe old
Elysian Fieldsthe meagre remnant of the old pagan
place of sepulturewhich was afterwards used by the
Christiansbut has been for ages desertedand now
consists only of a melancholy avenue of cypresses
lined with a succession of ancient sarcophagiempty
mossyand mutilated. An iron-foundryor some hor-
rible establishment which is conditioned upon tall
chimneys and a noise of hammering and banginghas
been established near at hand; but the cypresses shut
it out well enoughand this small patch of Elysium is
a very romantic corner.
The door of the Museum stands ajarand a vigilant
custodianwith the usual batch of photographs on
his mindpeeps out at you disapprovingly while you
linger oppositebefore the charming portal of Saint
Trophimuswhich you may look at for nothing.
When you succumb to the silent influence of his eye
and go over to visit his collectionyou find yourself
in a desecrated churchin which a variety of ancient
objectsdisinterred in Arlesian soilhave been ar-
ranged without any pomp. The best of theseI be-
lievewere found in the ruins of the theatre. Some of
the most curious of them are early Christian sar-
cophagiexactly on the pagan modelbut covered with
rude yet vigorously wrought images of the apostles
and with illustrations of scriptural history. Beauty
of the highest kindeither of conception or of execu-
tionis absent from most of the Roman fragments
which belong to the taste of a late period and a
provincial civilization. But a gulf divides them from
the bristling little imagery of the Christian sarcophagi
in whichat the same timeone detects a vague
emulation of the rich examples by which their authors
were surrounded. There is a certain element of style
in all the pagan things; there is not a hint of it in
the early Christian relicsamong whichaccording to
M. Joanneof the Guideare to be found more fine
sarcophagi than in any collection but that of St. John
Lateran. In two or three of the Roman fragments
there is a noticeable distinction; principally in a
charming bust of a boyquite perfectwith those
salient eyes that one sees in certain antique bustsand
to which the absence of vision in the marble mask
gives a lookoften very touchingas of a baffled effort
to see; also in the head of a womanfound in the
ruins of the theatrewhoalas! has lost her noseand
whose noblesimple contourbarring this deficiency
recalls the great manner of the Venus of Milo. There
are various rich architectural fragments which in-
dicate that that edifice was a very splendid affair.
This little Museum at Arlesin shortis the most Ro-
man thing I know ofout of Rome.
XXXII.
I find that I declared one eveningin a little
journal I was keeping at that timethat I was weary
of writing (I was probably very sleepy)but that it
was essential I should make some note of my visit to
Les Baux. I must have gone to sleep as soon as I
had recorded this necessityfor I search my small diary
in vain for any account of that enchanting spot. I
have nothing but my memory to consult- a memory
which is fairly good in regard to a general impression
but is terribly infirm in the matter of details and
items. We knew in advancemy companion and I
that Les Baus was a pearl of picturesqueness; for
had we not read as much in the handbook of Murray
who has the testimony of an English nobleman as to
its attractions? We also knew that it lay some miles
from Arieson the crest of the Alpillesthe craggy
little mountains whichas I stood on the breezy plat-
form of Beaucaireformed to my eye a charmingif
somewhat remotebackground to Tarascon; this as-
surance having been given us by the landlady of the
inn at Arlesof whom we hired a rather lumbering
conveyance. The weather was not promisingbut it
proved a good day for the mediaeval Pompeii; a gray
melancholymoistbut rainlessor almost rainless
daywith nothing in the sky to floutas the poet
saysthe dejected and pulverized past. The drive
itself was charming; for there is an inexhaustible
sweetness in the gray-green landscape of Provence.
It is never absolutely flatand yet is never really
ambitiousand is full both of entertainment and re-
pose. It is in constant undulationand the bareness
of the soil lends itself easily to outline and profile.
When I say the barenessI mean the absence of
woods and hedges. It blooms with heath and scented
shrubs and stunted olive; and the white rock shining
through the scattered herbage has a brightness which
answers to the brightness of the sky. Of course it
needs the sunshinefor all southern countries look a
little false under the ground glass of incipient bad
weather. This was the case on the day of my pil-
grimage to Les Baux. NeverthelessI was as glad
to keep going as I was to arrive; and as I went it
seemed to me that true happiness would consist in
wandering through such a land on footon September
afternoonswhen one might stretch one's self on the
warm ground in some shady hollowand listen to the
hum of bees and the whistle of melancholy shepherds;
for in Provence the shepherds whistle to their flocks.
I saw two or three of themin the course of this drive
to Les Bauxmeandering aboutlooking behindand
calling upon the sheep in this way to followwhich
the sheep always didvery promptlywith ovine
unanimity. Nothing is more picturesque than to see
a slow shepherd threading his way down one of the
winding paths on a hillsidewith his flock close be-
hind himnecessarily expandedyet keeping just at
his heelsbending and twisting as it goesand looking
rather like the tail of a dingy comet.
About four miles from Arlesas you drive north-
ward toward the Alpillesof which Alphonse Daudet
has spoken so oftenandas he might sayso in-
timatelystand on a hill that overlooks the road
the very considerable ruins of the abbey of Mont-
majourone of the innumerable remnants of a feudal
and ecclesiastical (as well as an architectural) past
that one encounters in the South of France; remnants
whichit must be confessedtend to introduce a cer-
tain confusion and satiety into the passive mind of
the tourist. Montmajourhoweveris very impressive
and interesting; the only trouble with it is that
unless you have stopped and retumed to Arlesyou
see it in memory over the head of Les Bauxwhich
is a much more absorbing picture. A part of the
mass of buildings (the monastery) dates only from the
last century; and the stiff architecture of that period
does not lend itself very gracefully to desolation: it
looks too much as if it had been burnt down the year
before. The monastery was demolished during the
Revolutionand it injures a little the effect of the
very much more ancient fragments that are connected
with it. The whole place is on a great scale; it was
a rich and splendid abbey. The churcha vast
basilica of the eleventh centuryand of the noblest
proportionsis virtually intact; I mean as regards
its essentialsfor the details have completely vanished.
The huge solid shell is full of expression; it looks
as if it had been hollowed out by the sincerity of
early faithand it opens into a cloister as impressive
as itself. Wherever one goesin Franceone meets
looking backward a littlethe spectre of the great
Revolution; and one meets it always in the shape of
the destruction of something beautiful and precious.
To make us forgive it at allhow much it must also
have destroyed that was more hateful than itself!
Beneath the church of Montmajour is a most extra-
ordinary cryptalmost as big as the edifice above
itand making a complete subterranean templesur-
rounded with a circular galleryor deambulatory
which expands it intervals into five square chapels.
There are other thingsof which I have but a con-
fused memory: a great fortified keep; a queer little
primitive chapelhollowed out of the rockbeneath
these later structuresand recommended to the
visitor's attention as the confessional of Saint Tro-
phimuswho shares with so many worthies the glory
of being the first apostle of the Gauls. Then there
is a strangesmall churchof the dimmest antiquity
standing at a distance from the other buildings. I
remember that after we had let ourselves down a
good many steepish places to visit crypts and con-
fessionalswe walked across a field to this archaic
cruciform edificeand went thence to a point further
down the roadwhere our carriage was awaiting
us. The chapel of the Holy Crossas it is called
is classed among the historic monuments of France;
and I read in a queerramblingill-written book
which I picked up at Avignonand in which the
authorM. Louis de Lainbelhas buried a great deal
of curious information on the subject of Provence
under a style inspiring little confidencethat the
"delicieuse chapelle de Sainte-Croix" is a "veritable
bijou artistique." He speaks of "a piece of lace in
stone" which runs from one end of the building to
the otherbut of which I am obliged to confess that
I have no recollection. I retainhowevera suf-
ficiently clear impression of the little superannuated
templewith its four apses and its perceptible odor of
antiquity- the odor of the eleventh century.
The ruins of Les Baux remain quite indistinguish-
ableeven when you are directly beneath themat
the foot of the charming little Alpilleswhich mass
themselves with a kind of delicate ruggedness. Rock
and ruin have been so welded together by the con-
fusions of timethat as you approach it from behind
- that isfrom the direction of Arles - the place
presents simply a general air of cragginess. Nothing
can be prettier than the crags of Provence; they are
beautifully modelledas painters sayand they have
a delightful silvery color. The road winds round the
foot of the hills on the top of which Lea Baux is
plantedand passes into another valleyfrom which
the approach to the town is many degrees less pre-
cipitousand may be comfortably made in a carriage.
Of course the deeply inquiring traveller will alight as
promptly as possible; for the pleasure of climbing
into this queerest of cities on foot is not the least
part of the entertainment of going there. Then you
appreciate its extraordinary positionits picturesque-
nessits steepnessits desolation and decay. It
hangs - that iswhat remains of it - to the slanting
summit of the mountain. Nothing would be more
natural than for the whole place to roll down into
the valley. A part of it has done so - for it is not
unjust to suppose that in the process of decay the
crumbled particles have sought the lower level;
while the remainder still clings to its magnificent
perch.
If I called Les Baux a cityjustaboveit was not
that I was stretching a point in favor of the small
spot which to-day contains but a few dozen inhabi-
tants. The history of the plate is as extraordinary
as its situation. It was not only a citybut a state;
not only a statebut an empire; and on the crest of
its little mountain called itself sovereign of a territory
or at least of scattered towns and countieswith which
its present aspect is grotesquely out of relation. The
lords of Les Bauxin a wordwere great feudal pro-
prietors; and there-was a time during which the island
of Sardiniato say nothing of places nearer home
such as Arles and Marseillespaid them homage. The
chronicle of this old Provencal house has been written
in a style somewhat unctuous and floweryby M. Jules
Canonge. I purchased the little book - a modest
pamphlet - at the establishment of the good sisters
just beside the churchin one of the highest parts of
Les Baux. The sisters have a school for the hardy little
Baussenqueswhom I heard piping their lessonswhile
I waited in the cold _parloir_ for one of the ladies to
come and speak to me. Nothing could have been
more perfect than the manner of this excellent woman
when she arrived; yet her small religious house
seemed a very out-of-the-way corner of the world. It
was spotlessly neatand the rooms looked as if they
had lately been papered and painted: in this respect
at the mediaeval Pompeiithey were rather a discord.
They wereat any ratethe newestfreshest thing at
Les Baux. I remember going round to the church
after I had left the good sistersand to a little quiet
terracewhich stands in front of itornamented with
a few small trees and bordered with a wallbreast-
highover which you look down steep hillsidesoff
into the air and all about the neighbouring country.
I remember saying to myself that this little terrace
was one of those felicitous nooks which the tourist
of taste keeps in his mind as a picture. The church
was small and brown and darkwith a certain rustic
richness. All thishoweveris no general description
of Les Baux.
I am unable to give any coherent account of the
placefor the simple reason that it is a mere con-
fusion of ruin. It has not been preserved in lava like
Pompeiiand its streets and housesits ramparts and
castlehave become fragmentarynot through the
sudden destructionbut through the gradual with-
drawalof a population. It is not an extinguished
but a deserted city; more deserted far than even
Carcassonne and Aigues-Morteswhere I found so
much entertainment in the grass-grown element. It
is of very small extentand even in the days of its
greatnesswhen its lords entitled themselves counts
of Cephalonia and Neophantiskings of Arles and
Vienneprinces of Achaiaand emperors of Constan-
tinople- even at this flourishing periodwhenas M.
Jules Canonge remarks"they were able to depress
the balance in which the fate of peoples and kings is
weighed" the plucky little city contained at the most
no more than thirty-six hundred souls. Yet its lords
(whohoweveras I have saidwere able to present
a long list of subject townsmost of themthough a
few are renownedunknown to fame) were seneschals
and captains-general of Piedmont and Lombardy
grand admirals of the kingdom of Naplesand its
ladies were sought in marriage by half the first
princes in Europe. A considerable part of the little
narrative of M. Canonge is taken up with the great
alliances of the House of Bauxwhose fortunesma-
trimonial and otherhe traces from the eleventh cen-
tury down to the sixteenth. The empty shells of a
considerable number of old housesmany of which
must have been superbthe lines of certain steep
little streetsthe foundations of a castleand ever so
many splendid viewsare all that remains to-day of
these great titles. To such a list I may add a dozen
very polite and sympathetic peoplewho emerged from
the interstices of the desultory little town to gaze at
the two foreigners who had driven over from Arles
and whose horses were being baited at the modest
inn. The resources of this establishment we did not
venture otherwise to testin spite of the seductive
fact that the sign over the door was in the Provencal
tongue. This little group included the bakera rather
melancholy young manin high boots and a cloak
with whom and his companions we had a good deal
of conversation. The Baussenques of to-day struck
me as a very mild and agreeable racewith a good
deal of the natural amenity whichon occasions like
this onethe travellerwho iswaiting for his horses
to be put in or his dinner to be preparedobserves
in the charming people who lend themselves to con-
versation in the hill-towns of Tuscany. The spot
where our entertainers at Les Baux congregated was
naturally the most inhabited portion of the town; as
I saythere were at least a dozen human figures
within sight. Presently we wandered away from them
scaled the higher placesseated ourselves among the
ruins of the castleand looked down from the cliff
overhanging that portion of the road which I have
mentioned as approaching Les Baux from behind. I
was unable to trace the configuration of the castle as
plainly as the writers who have described it in the
guide-booksand I am ashamed to say that I did not
even perceive the three great figures of stone (the
three Marysas they are called; the two Marys of
Scripturewith Martha)which constitute one of the
curiosities of the placeand of which M. Jules Canonge
speaks with almost hyperbolical admiration. A brisk
showerlasting some ten minutesled us to take refuge
in a cavityof mysterious originwhere the melancholy
baker presently discovered ushaving had the _bonne
pensee_ of coming up for us with an umbrella which
certainly belongedin former agesto one of the Ste-
phanettes or Berangeres commemorated by M. Canonge.
His ovenI am afraidwas cold so long as our visit
lasted. When the rain was over we wandered down
to the little disencumbered space before the inn
through a small labyrinth of obliterated things. They
took the form of narrowprecipitous streetsbordered
by empty houseswith gaping windows and absent
doorsthrough which we had glimpses of sculptured
chimney-pieces and fragments of stately arch and vault.
Some of the houses are still inhabited; but most of
them are open to the air and weather. Some of them
have completely collapsed; others present to the street
a front which enables one to judge of the physiognomy
of Les Baux in the days of its importance. This im-
portance had pretty well passed away in the early part
of the sixteenth centurywhen the place ceased to be
an independent principality. It became - by bequest
of one of its lordsBernardin des Bauxa great cap-
tain of his time - part of the appanage of the kings of
Franceby whom it was placed under the protection
of Arleswhich had formerly occupied with regard to
it a different position. I know not whether the Arle-
sians neglected their trust; but the extinction of the
sturdy little stronghold is too complete not to have
begun long ago. Its memories are buried under its
ponderous stones. As we drove away from it in the
gloamingmy friend and I agreed that the two or three
hours we had spent there were among the happiest
impressions of a pair of tourists very curious in the
picturesque. We almost forgot that we were bound to
regret that the shortened day left us no time to drive
five miles furtherabove a pass in the little mountains
- it had beckoned to us in the morningwhen we
came in sight of italmost irresistibly - to see the Ro-
man arch and mausoleum of Saint Remy. To compass
this larger excursion (including the visit to Les Baux)
you must start from Arles very early in the morning;
but I can imagine no more delightful day.
XXXIII.
I had been twice at Avignon beforeand yet I was
not satisfied. I probably am satisfied now; neverthe-
lessI enjoyed my third visit. I shall not soon forget
the firston which a particular emotion set indelible
stamp. I was travelling northwardin 1870after four
months spentfor the first timein Italy. It was the
middle of Januaryand I had found myselfunexpected-
lyforced to return to England for the rest of the
winter. It was an insufferable disappointment; I was
wretched and broken-hearted. Italy appeared to me
at that time so much better than anything else in the
worldthat to rise from table in the middle of the
feast was a prospect of being hungry for the rest of
my days. I had heard a great deal of praise of the
south of France; but the south of France was a poor
consolation. In this state of mind I arrived at Avignon
which under a brighthard winter sun was tingling -
fairly spinning - with the _mistral_. I find in my journal
of the other day a reference to the acuteness of my
reluctance in January1870. Franceafter Italyap-
pearedin the language of the latter country_poco sim-
patica_; and I thought it necessaryfor reasons now in-
conceivableto read the "Figaro" which was filled
with descriptions of the horrible Troppmannthe mur-
derer of the _famille_ Kink. TroppmannKink_le crime
do Pantin_very names that figured in this episode
seemed to wave me back. Had I abandoned the so-
norous south to associate with vocables so base?
It was very coldthe other dayat Avignon; for
though there was no mistralit was raining as it rains
in Provenceand the dampness had a terrible chill in
it. As I sat by my firelate at night - for in genial
Avignonin OctoberI had to have a fire - it came
back to me that eleven years before I had at that
same hour sat by a fire in that same roomandwrit-
ing to a friend to whom I was not afraid to appear
extravaganthad made a vow that at some happier
period of the future I would avenge myself on the _ci-
devant_ city of the Popes by taking it in a contrary
sense. I suppose that I redeemed my vow on the oc-
casion of my second visit better than on my third; for
then I was on my way to Italyand that vengeanceof
coursewas complete. The only drawback was that I
was in such a hurry to get to Ventimiglia (where the
Italian custom-house was to be the sign of my triumph)
that I scarcely took time to make it clear to myself at
Avignon that this was better than reading the "Figaro."
I hurried on almost too fast to enjoy the consciousness
of moving southward. On this last occasion I was un-
fortunately destitute of that happy faith. Avignon was
my southernmost limit; after which I was to turn round
and proceed back to England. But in the interval I
had been a great deal in Italyand that made all the
difference.
I had plenty of time to think of thisfor the rain
kept me practically housed for the first twenty-four
hours. It had been raining inthese regions for a
monthand people had begun to look askance at the
Rhonethough as yet the volume of the river was not
exorbitant. The only excursion possiblewhile the
torrent descendedwas a kind of horizontal diveac-
companied with infinite splashingto the little _musee_
of the townwhich is within a moderate walk of the
hotel. I had a memory of it from my first visit; it
had appeared to me more pictorial than its pictures.
I found that recollection had flattered it a littleand
that it is neither better nor worse than most provincial
museums. It has the usual musty chill in the airthe
usual grass-grown fore-courtin which a few lumpish
Roman fragments are disposedthe usual red tiles on
the floorand the usual specimens of the more livid
schools on the walls. I rang up the _gardien_who ar-
rived with a bunch of keyswiping his mouth; he un-
locked doors for meopened shuttersand while (to
my distressas if the things had been worth lingering
over) he shuffled about after mehe announced the
names of the pictures before which I stoppedin a
voice that reverberated through the melancholy halls
and seemed to make the authorship shameful when it
was obscureand grotesque when it pretended to be
great. Then there were intervals of silencewhile I
stared absent-mindedlyat hap-hazardat some indis-
tinguishable canvasand the only sound was the down-
pour of the rain on the skylights. The museum of
Avignon derives a certain dignity from its Roman frag-
ments. The town has no Roman monuments to show;
in this respectbeside its brilliant neighborsArles and
Nimesit is a blank. But a great many small objects
have been found in its soil- potteryglassbronzes
lampsvessels and ornaments of gold and silver. The
glass is especially chaming- small vessels of the most
delicate shape and substancemany of them perfectly
preserved. These diminutiveintimate things bring
one near to the old Roman life; they seem like pearls
strung upon the slender thread that swings across the
gulf of time. A little glass cup that Roman lips have
touched says more to us than the great vessel of an
arena. There are two small silver _casseroles_with chi-
selled handlesin the museum of Avignonthat struck
me as among the most charming survivals of anti-
quity.
I did wrong just aboveto speak of my attack on
this establishment as the only recreation I took that
first wet day; for I remember a terribly moist visit to
the former palace of the Popeswhich could have
taken place only in the same tempestuous hours. It is
true that I scarcely know why I should have gone out
to see the Papal palace in the rainfor I had been
over it twice beforeand even then had not found the
interest of the place so complete as it ought to be; the
factneverthelessremains that this last occasion is
much associated with an umbrellawhich was not
superfluous even in some of the chambers and cor-
ridors of the gigantic pile. It had already seemed to
me the dreariest of all historical buildingsand my
final visit confirmed the impression. The place is as
intricate as it is vastand as desolate as it is dirty.
The imagination hasfor some reason or otherto
make more than the effort usual in such cases to re-
store and repeople it. The factindeedis simply that
the palace has been so incalculably abused and altered.
The alterations have been so numerous thatthough I
have duly conned the enumerationssupplied in guide-
booksof the principal perversionsI do not pretend
to carry any of them in my head. The huge bare
masswithout ornamentwithout gracedespoiled of its
battlements and defaced with sordid modern windows
covering the Rocher des Domsand looking down over
the Rhone and the broken bridge of Saint-Benazet
(which stops in such a sketchable manner in mid-
stream)and across at the lonely tower of Philippe le
Bel and the ruined wall of Villeneuvemakes at a dis-
tancein spite of its povertya great figurethe effect
of which is carried out by the tower of the church be-
side it (crowned though the latter bein a top-heavy
fashionwith an immense modern image of the Virgin)
and by the thickdark foliage of the garden laid out
on a still higher portion of the eminence. This garden
recallsfaintly and a trifle perverselythe grounds of
the Pincian at Rome. I know not whether it is the
shadow of the Papal namepresent in both places
combined with a vague analogy between the churches
- whichapproached in each case by a flight of steps
seemed to defend the precinct- but each time I have
seen the Promenade des Doms it has carried my
thoughts to the wider and loftier terrace from which
you look away at the Tiber and Saint Peter's.
As you stand before the Papal palaceand espe-
cially as you enter ityou are struck with its being a
very dull monument. History enough was enacted
here: the great schism lasted from 1305 to 1370dur-
ing which seven Popesall Frenchmencarried on the
court of Avignon on principles that have not com-
mended themselves to the esteem of posterity. But
history has been whitewashed awayand the scandals
of that period have mingled with the dust of dilapi-
dations and repairs. The building has for many years
been occupied as a barrack for regiments of the line
and the main characteristics of a barrack - an extreme
nudity and a very queer smell - prevail throughout its
endless compartments. Nothing could have been more
cruelly dismal than the appearance it presented at the
time of this third visit of mine. A regimentchanging
quartershad departed the day beforeand another
was expected to arrive (from Algeria) on the morrow.
The place had been left in the befouled and belittered
condition which marks the passage of the military after
they have broken carnpand it would offer but a me-
lancholy welcome to the regiment that was about to
take possession. Enormous windows had been left
carelessly open all over the buildingand the rain and
wind were beating into empty rooms and passages;
making draughts which purifiedperhapsbut which
scarcely cheered. For an arrivalit was horrible. A
handful of soldiers had remained behind. In one of
the big vaulted rooms several of them were lying on
their wretched bedsin the dim lightin the coldin
the dampwith the bleakbare walls before themand
their overcoatsspread over thempulled up to their
noses. I pitied them immenselythough they may
have felt less wretched than they looked. I thought
not of the old profligacies and crimesnot of the
funnel-shaped torture-chamber (whichafter exciting
the shudder of generationshas been ascertained now
I believeto have been a mediaeval bakehouse)not of
the tower of the _glaciere_ and the horrors perpetrated
here in the Revolutionbut of the military burden of
young France. One wonders how young France en-
dures itand one is forced to believe that the French
conscript hasin addition to his notorious good-humor
greater toughness than is commonly supposed by those
who consider only the more relaxing influences of
French civilization. I hope he finds occasional com-
pensation for such moments as I saw those damp
young peasants passing on the mattresses of their
hideous barrackwithout anything around to remind
them that they were in the most civilized of countries.
The only traces of former splendor now visible in
the Papal pile are the walls and vaults of two small
chapelspainted in frescoso battered and effaced as
to be scarcely distinguishableby Simone Memmi. It
offersof coursea peculiarly good field for restoration
and I believe the government intend to take it in
hand. I mention this fact without a sigh; for they
cannot well make it less interesting than it is at
present.
XXXIV.
Fortunatelyit did not rain every day (though I
believe it was raining everywhere else in the depart-
ment); otherwise I should not have been able to go
to Villeneuve and to Vaucluse. The afternoonindeed
was lovely when I walked over the interminable bridge
that spans the two arms of the Rhonedivided here
by a considerable islandand directed my courselike
a solitary horseman - on footto the lonely tower
which forms one of the outworks of Villeneuve-les-
Avignon. The picturesquehalf-deserted little town
lies a couple of miles further up the river. The im-
mense round towers of its old citadel and the long
stretches of ruined wall covering the slope on which
it liesare the most striking features of the nearer
viewas you look from Avignon across the Rhone. I
spent a couple of hours in visiting these objectsand
there was a kind of pictorial sweetness in the episode;
but I have not many details to relate. The isolated
tower I just mentioned has much in common with the
detached donjon of Montmajourwhich I had looked
at in going to Les Bauxand to which I paid my
respects in speaking of that excursion. Also the work
of Philippe le Bel (built in 1307)it is amazingly big
and stubbornand formed the opposite limit of the
broken bridgewhose first arches (on the side of
Avignon) alone remain to give a measure of the oc-
casional volume of the Rhone. Half an hour's walk
brought me to Villeneuvewhich lies away from the
riverlooking like a big villagehalf depopulatedand
occupied for the most part by dogs and catsold
women and small children; these lastin generalre-
markably prettyin the manner of the children of
Provence. You pass through the placewhich seems
in a singular degree vague and unconsciousand come
to the rounded hill on which the ruined abbey lifts
its yellow walls- the Benedictine abbey of Saint-
Andreat once a churcha monasteryand a fortress.
A large part of the crumbling enceinte disposes itself
over the hill; but for the restall that has preserved
any traceable cohesion is a considerable portionof
the citadel. The defence of the place appears to have
been intrusted largely to the huge round towers that
flank the old gate; one of whichthe more complete
the ancient warden (having first inducted me into his
own dusky little apartmentand presented me with
a great bunch of lavender) enabled me to examine in
detail. I would almost have dispensed with the privi-
legefor I think I have already mentioned that an ac-
quaintance with many feudal interiors has wrought a
sad confusion in my mind. The image of the outside
always remains distinct; I keep it apart from other
images of the same sort; it makes a picture sufficiently
ineffaceable. But the guard-roomswinding staircases
loop-holesprisonsrepeat themselves and intermingle;
they have a wearisome family likeness. There are
always black passages and cornersand walls twenty
feet thick; and there is always some high place to
climb up to for the sake of a "magnificent" view.
The viewstooare apt to get muddled. These dense
gate-towers of Philippe le Bel struck mehoweveras
peculiarly wicked and grim. Their capacity is of the
largestand they contain over so many devilish little
dungeonslighted by the narrowest slit in the pro-
digious wallwhere it comes over one with a good
deal of vividness and still more horror that wretched
human beings ever lay there rotting in the dark. The
dungeons of Villeneuve made a particular impression
on me- greater than anyexcept those of Loches
which must surely be the most grewsome in Europe.
I hasten to add that every dark hole at Villeneuve is
called a dungeon; and I believe it is well established
that in this mannerin almost all old castles and
towersthe sensibilities of the modern tourist are un-
scrupulously played upon. There were plenty of black
holes in the Middle Ages that were not dungeonsbut
household receptacles of various kinds; and many a
tear dropped in pity for the groaning captive has really
been addressed to the spirits of the larder and the
faggot-nook. For all thisthere are some very bad
corners in the towers of Villeneuveso that I was not
wide of the mark when I began to think againas I
had often thought beforeof the stoutness of the human
composition in the Middle Agesand the tranquillity
of nerve of people to whom the groaning captive and
the blackness of a "living tomb" were familiar ideas
which did not at all interfere with their happiness or
their sanity. Our modern nervesour irritable sym-
pathiesour easy discomforts and fearsmake one think
(in some relations) less respectfully of human nature.
Unlessindeedit be trueas I have heard it main-
tainedthat in the Middle Ages every one did go mad
- every one _was_ mad. The theory that this was a
period of general insanity is not altogether indefensible.
Within the old walls of its immense abbey the
town of Villeneuve has built itself a rough faubourg;
the fragments with which the soil was covered having
beenI supposea quarry of material. There are no
streets; the smallshabby housesalmost hovelsstraggle
at random over the uneven ground. The only im-
portant feature is a convent of cloistered nunswho
have a large garden (always within the walls) behind
their houseand whose doleful establishment you look
down intoor down at simplyfrom the battlements of
the citadel. One or two of the nuns were passing in
and out of the house; they wore gray robeswith a
bright red cape. I thought their situation most pro-
vincial. I came awayand wandered a little over the
base of the hilloutside the walls. Small white stones
cropped through the grassover which low olive-trees
were scattered. The afternoon had a yellow bright-
ness. I sat down under one of the little treeson the
grass- the delicate gray branches were not much
above my head- and restedand looked at Avignon
across the Rhone. It was very softvery still and
pleasantthough I am not sure it was all I once should
have expected of that combination of elements: an old
city wall for a backgrounda canopy of olivesand
for a couchthe soil of Provence.
When I came back to Avignon the twilight was
already thick; but I walked up to the Rocher des
Doms. Here I again had the benefit of that amiable
moon which had already lighted up for me so many
romantic scenes. She was fulland she rose over the
Rhoneand made it look in the distance like a silver
serpent. I remember saying to myself at this mo-
mentthat it would be a beautiful evening to walk
round the walls of Avignon- the remarkable walls
which challenge comparison with those of Carcassonne
and Aigues-Mortesand which it was my dutyas an
observer of the picturesqueto examine with some at-
tention. Presenting themselves to that silver sheen
they could not fail to be impressive. Soat leastI
said to myself; butunfortunatelyI did not believe
what I said. It is a melancholy fact that the walls of
Avignon had never impressed me at alland I had
never taken the trouble to make the circuit. They
are continuous and completebut for some mysterious
reason they fail of their effect. This is partly because
they are very lowin some places almost absurdly so;
being buried in new accumulations of soiland by
the filling in of the moat up to their middle. Then
they have been too well tended; they not only look at
present very newbut look as if they had never been
old. The fact that their extent is very much greater
makes them more of a curiosity than those of Carcas-
sonne; but this is exactlyas the same timewhat is
fatal to their pictorial unity. With their thirty-seven
towers and seven gates they lose themselves too much
to make a picture that will compare with the ad-
mirable little vignette of Carcassonne. I may mention
now that I am speaking of the general mass of Avignon
that nothing is more curious than the way in which
viewed from a distanceit is all reduced to nought by
the vast bulk of the palace of the Popes. From across
the Rhoneor from the trainas you leave the place
this great gray block is all Avignon; it seems to occupy
the whole cityextensivewith its shrunken population
as the city is.
XXXV.
It was the morning after thisI think (a certain
Saturday)that when I came out of the Hotel de
l'Europewhich lies in a shallow concavity just within
the city gate that opens on the Rhone- came out to
look at the sky from the little _place_ before the inn
and see how the weather promised for the obligatory
excursion to Vaucluse- I found the whole town in a
terrible taking. I say the whole town advisedly; for
every inhabitant appeared to have taken up a position
on the bank of the riveror on the uppermost parts
of the promenade of the Domswhere a view of its
course was to be obtained. It had risen surprisingly
in the nightand the good people of Avignon had
reason to know what a rise of the Rhone might signify.
The townin its lower portionsis quite at the mercy
of the swollen waters; and it was mentioned to me
that in 1856 the Hotel de l'Europein its convenient
hollowwas flooded up to within a few feet of the
ceiling of the dining-roomwhere the long board which
had served for so many a table d'hote floated dis-
reputablywith its legs in the air. On the present
occasion the mountains of the Ardechewhere it had
been raining for a monthhad sent down torrents
whichall that fine Friday nightby the light of the
innocent-looking moonpoured themselves into the
Rhone and its tributarythe Durance. The river was
enormousand continued to rise; and the sight was
beautiful and horrible. The water in many places
was already at the base of the city walls; the quay
with its parapet just emergingbeing already covered.
The countryseen from the Plateau des Domsre-
sembled a vast lakewith protrusions of treeshouses
bridgesgates. The people looked at it in silenceas
I had seen people before - on the occasion of a rise
of the Arnoat Pisa - appear to consider the prospects
of an inundation. "Il monte; il monte toujours" -
there was not much said but that. It was a general
holidayand there was an air of wishing to profitfor
sociability's sakeby any interruption of the common-
place (the popular mind likes "a change" and the
element of change mitigates the sense of disaster); but
the affair was not otherwise a holiday. Suspense and
anxiety were in the airand it never is pleasant to be
reminded of the helplessness of man. In the presence
of a loosened riverwith its ravagingunconquerable
volumethis impression is as strong as possible; and
as I looked at the deluge which threatened to make
an island of the Papal palaceI perceived that the
scourge of water is greater than the scourge of fire.
A blaze may be quenchedbut where could the flame
be kindled that would arrest the quadrupled Rhone?
For the population of Avignon a good deal was at
stakeand I am almost ashamed to confess that in the
midst of the public alarm I considered the situation
from the point of view of the little projects of a senti-
mental tourist. Would the prospective inundation inter-
fere with my visit to Vaucluseor make it imprudent
to linger twenty-four hours longer at Avignon? I must
add that the tourist was not perhapsafter allso
sentimental. I have spoken of the pilgrimage to the
shrine of Petrarch as obligatoryand that wasin fact
the light in which it presented itself to me; all the
more that I had been twice at Avignon without under-
taking it. This why I was vexed at the Rhone - if
vexed I was - for representing as impracticable an ex-
cursion which I cared nothing about. How little I
cared was manifest from my inaction on former oc-
casions. I had a prejudice against Vancluseagainst
Petrarcheven against the incomparable Laura. I was
sure that the place was cockneyfied and threadbare
and I had never been able to take an interest in the
poet and the lady. I was sure that I had known many
women as charming and as handsome as sheabout
whom much less noise had been made; and I was
convinced that her singer was factitious and literary
and that there are half a dozen stanzas in Wordsworth
that speak more to the soul than the whole collection
of his _fioriture_. This was the crude state of mind in
which I determined to goat any riskto Vaucluse.
Now that I think it overI seem to remember that I
had hopedafter allthat the submersion of the roads
would forbid it. Since morning the clouds had gathered
againand by noon they were so heavy that there was
every prospect of a torrent. It appeared absurd to
choose such a time as this to visit a fountain - a
fountain whichwould be indistinguishable in the
general cataract. Nevertheless I took a vow that if
at noon the rain should not have begun to descend
upon Avignon I would repair to the head-spring of the
Sorgues. When the critical moment arrivedthe clouds
were hanging over Avignon like distended water-bags
which only needed a prick to empty themselves. The
prick was not givenhowever; all nature was too much
occupied in following the aberration of the Rhone to
think of playing tricks elsewhere. AccordinglyI started
for the station in a spirit whichfor a tourist who
sometimes had prided himself on his unfailing supply
of sentimentwas shockingly perfunctory.
"For tasks in hours of insight willed
May be in hours of gloom fulfilled."
I remembered these lines of Matthew Arnold (written
apparentlyin an hour of gloom)and carried out the
ideaas I wentby hoping that with the return of in-
sight I should be glad to have seen Vaucluse. Light
has descended upon me since thenand I declare that
the excursion is in every way to be recommended.
The place makes a great impressionquite apart from
Petrarch and Laura.
There was no rain; there was onlyall the after-
noona mildmoist windand a sky magnificently
blackwhich made a _repoussoir_ for the paler cliffs of
the fountain. The roadby traincrosses a flatex-
pressionless countrytoward the range of arid hills
which lie to the east of Avignonand which spring
(says Murray) from the mass of the Mont-Ventoux. At
Isle-sur-Sorguesat the end of about an hourthe fore-
ground becomes much more animated and the distance
much more (or perhaps I should say much less) actual.
I descended from the trainand ascended to the top
of an omnibus which was to convey me into the re-
cesses of the hills. It had not been among my pre-
visions that I should be indebted to a vehicle of that
kind for an opportunity to commune with the spirit of
Petrarch; and I had to borrow what consolation I
could from the fact that at least I had the omnibus to
myself. I was the only passenger; every one else was
at Avignonwatching the Rhone. I lost no time in
perceiving that I could not have come to Vaucluse at
a better moment. The Sorgues was almost as full as
the Rhoneand of a color much more romantic. Rush-
ing along its narrowed channel under an avenue of
fine _platanes_ (it is confined between solid little embank-
ments of stone)with the good-wives of the villageon
the brinkwashing their linen in its contemptuous
floodit gave promise of high entertainment further on.
The drive to Vaucluse is of about three quarters of
an hour; and though the riveras I saywas promis-
ingthe big pale hillsas the road winds into them
did not look as if their slopes of stone and shrub were
a nestling-place for superior scenery. It is a part of
the merit of Vaucluseindeedthat it is as much as
possible a surprise. The place has a right to its name
for the valley appears impenetrable until you get fairly
into it. One perverse twist follows anotheruntil the
omnibus suddenly deposits you in front of the "cabinet"
of Petrarch. After that you have only to walk along
the left bank of the river. The cabinet of Petrarch is
to-day a hideous little _cafe_bedizenedlike a sign-
boardwith extracts from the ingenious "Rime." The
poet and his lady areof coursethe stock in trade of
the little villagewhich has had for several generations
the privilege of attracting young couples engaged in
their wedding-tourand other votaries of the tender
passion. The place has long been familiaron festal
Sundaysto the swains of Avignon and their attendant
nymphs. The little fish of the Sorgues are much
esteemedandeaten on the spotthey constitutefor
the children of the once Papal citythe classic sub-
urban dinner. Vaucluse has been turned to account
howevernot only by sentimentbut by industry; the
banks of the stream being disfigured by a pair of
hideous mills for the manufacture of paper and of
wool. In an enterprising and economical age the
water-power of the Sorgues was too obvious a motive;
and I must say thatas the torrent rushed past them
the wheels of the dirty little factories appeared to turn
merrily enough. The footpath on the left bankof
which I just spokecarries onefortunatelyquite out
of sight of themand out of sound as wellinasmuch
as on the day of my visit the stream itselfwhich was
in tremendous forcetended more and moreas one
approached the fountainto fill the valley with its own
echoes. Its color was magnificentand the whole
spectacle more like a corner of Switzerland than a
nook in Provence. The protrusions of the mountain
shut it inand you penetrate to the bottom of the re-
cess which they form. The Sorgues rushes and rushes;
it is almost like Niagara after the jump of the cataract.
There are dreadful little booths beside the pathfor
the sale of photographs and _immortelles_- I don't know
what one is to do with the immortelles- where you
are offered a brush dipped in tar to write your name
withal on the rocks. Thousands of vulgar personsof
both sexesand exclusivelyit appearedof the French
nationalityhad availed themselves of this implement;
for every square inch of accessible stone was scored
over with some human appellation. It is not only we
in Americathereforewho besmirch our scenery; the
practice existsin a more organized form (like every-
thing else in France)in the country of good taste.
You leave the little booths and stalls behind; but the
bescribbled cragbristling with human vanitykeeps
you company even when you stand face to face with
the fountain. This happens when you find yourself
at the foot of the enormous straight cliff out of which
the river gushes. It rears itself to an extraordinary
height- a huge forehead of bare stone- looking as
if it were the half of a tremendous moundsplit open
by volcanic action. The little valleyseeing it there
at a bendstops suddenlyand receives in its arms
the magical spring. I call it magical on account of
the mysterious manner in which it comes into the
worldwith the huge shoulder of the mountain rising
over itas if to protect the secret. From under the
mountain it silently riseswithout visible movement
filling a small natural basin with the stillest blue
water. The contrast between the stillness of this basin
and the agitation of the water directly after it has
overflowedconstitutes half the charm of Vaucluse.
The violence of the stream when once it has been set
loose on the rocks is as fascinating and indescribable
as that of other cataracts; and the rocks in the bed of
the Sorgues have been arranged by a master-hand.
The setting of the phenomenon struck me as so simple
and so fine - the vast sad cliffcovered with the after-
noon lightstill and solid foreverwhile the liquid ele-
ment rages and roars at its base - that I had no diffi-
culty in understanding the celebrity of Vaucluse. I
understood itbut I will not say that I understood
Petrarch. He must have been very self-supportingand
Madonna Laura must indeed have been much to him.
The aridity of the hills that shut in the valley is
completeand the whole impression is best conveyed
by that very expressive French epithet _morne_. There
are the very fragmentary ruins of a castle (of one of
the bishops of Cavaillon) on a high spur of the moun-
tainabove the river; and there is another remnant of
a feudal habitation on one of the more accessible
ledges. Having half an hour to spare before my
omnibus was to leave (I must beg the reader's pardon
for this atrociously false note; call the vehicle a _dili-
gence_and for some undiscoverable reason the offence
is minimized)I clambered up to this latter spotand
sat among the rocks in the company of a few stunted
olives. The Sorguesbeneath mereaching the plain
flung itself crookedly across the meadowslike an un-
rolled blue ribbon. I tried to think of the _amant de
Laure_for literature's sake; but I had no great success
and the most I coulddo was to say to myself that I
must try again. Several months have elapsed since
thenand I am ashamed to confess that the trial has
not yet come off. The only very definite conviction I
arrived at was that Vaucluse is indeed cockneyfied
but that I should have been a foolall the samenot
to come.
XXXVI.
I mounted into my diligence at the door of the
Hotel de Petrarque et de Laureand we made our
way back to Isle-sur-Sorgues in the fading light. This
villagewhere at six o'clock every one appeared to
have gone to bedwas fairly darkened by its high
dense plane-treesunder which the rushing riveron
a level with its parapetslooked unnaturallyalmost
wickedly blue. It was a glimpse which has left a
picture in my mind: the little closed housesthe place
empty and soundless in the autumn dusk but for the
noise of watersand in the middleamid the blackness
of the shadethe gleam of the swiftstrange tide. At
the station every one was talking of the inundation
being in many places an accomplished factandin
particularof the condition of the Durance at some
point that I have forgotten. At Avignonan hour
laterI found the water in some of the streets. The
sky cleared in the eveningthe moon lighted up the
submerged suburbsand the population again collected
in the high places to enjoy the spectacle. It exhibited
a certain samenesshoweverand by nine o'clock there
was considerable animation in the Place Crillonwhere
there is nothing to be seen but the front of the theatre
and of several cafes - in additionindeedto a statue
of this celebrated bravewhose valor redeemed some
of the numerous military disasters of the reign of
Louis XV. The next morning the lower quarters of
the town were in a pitiful state; the situation seemed
to me odious. To express my disapproval of itI lost
no time in taking the train for Orangewhichwith its
other attractionshad the merit of not being seated on
the Rhone. It was my destiny to move northward;
but even if I had been at liberty to follow a less un-
natural course I should not then have undertaken it
inasmuchas the railway between Avignon and Mar-
seilles was credibly reported to be (in places) under
water. This was the case with almost everything but
the line itselfon the way to Orange. The day proved
splendidand its brilliancy only lighted up the desola-
tion. Farmhouses and cottages were up to their middle
in the yellow liquidity; haystacks looked like dull little
islands; windows and doors gaped openwithout faces;
and interruption and flight were represented in the
scene. It was brought home to me that the _popula-
tions rurales_ have many different ways of suffering
and my heart glowed with a grateful sense of cockney-
ism. It was under the influence of this emotion that
I alighted at Orangeto visit a collection of eminently
civil monuments.
The collection consists of but two objectsbut these
objects are so fine that I will let the word pass. One
of them is a triumphal archsupposedly of the period
of Marcus Aurelius; the other is a fragmentmagnifi-
cent in its ruinof a Roman theatre. But for these
fine Roman remains and for its nameOrange is a
perfectly featureless little town; without the Rhone -
whichas I have mentionedis several miles distant -
to help it to a physiognomy. It seems one of the
oddest things that this obscure French borough -
obscureI meanin our modern erafor the Gallo-
Roman Arausio must have beenjudging it by its
arches and theatrea place of some importance -
should have given its name to the heirs apparent of
the throne of Hollandand been borne by a king of
England who had sovereign rights over it. During
the Middle Ages it formed part of an independent
principality; but in 1531 it fellby the marriage of
one of its princesseswho had inherited itinto the
family of Nassau. I read in my indispensable Mur-
ray that it was made over to France by the treaty of
Utrecht. The arch of triumphwhich stands a little
way out of the townis rather a pretty than an im-
posing vestige of the Romans. If it had greater purity
of styleone might say of it that it belonged to the
same family of monuments as the Maison Carree at
Nimes. It has three passages- the middle much
higher than the others- and a very elevated attic.
The vaults of the passages are richly sculpturedand
the whole monument is covered with friezes and
military trophies. This sculpture is rather mixed;
much of it is broken and defacedand the rest seemed
to me uglythough its workmanship is praised. The
arch is at once well preserved and much injured. Its
general mass is thereand as Roman monuments go
it is remarkably perfect; but it has sufferedin patches
from the extremity of restoration. It is noton the
wholeof absorbing interest. It has a charmnever-
thelesswhich comes partly from its softbright yellow
colorpartly from a certain elegance of shapeof ex-
pression; and on that well-washed Sunday morning
with its brilliant tonesurrounded by its circle of thin
poplarswith the green country lying beyond it and a
low blue horizon showing through its empty portals
it madevery sufficientlya picture that hangs itself
to one of the lateral hooks of the memory. I can
take down the modest compositionand place it before
me as I write. I see the shallowshining puddles in
the hardfair French road; the pale blue skydiluted
by days of rain; the disgarnished autumnal fields; the
mild sparkle of the low horizon; the solitary figure in
sabotswith a bundle under its armadvancing along
the _chaussee_; and in the middle I see the little ochre-
colored monumentwhichin spite of its antiquity
looks bright and gayas everything must look in
France of a fresh Sunday morning.
It is true that this was not exactly the appearance
of the Roman theatrewhich lies on the other side of
the town; a fact that did not prevent me from making
my way to it in less than five minutesthrough a suc-
cession of little streets concerning which I have no
observations to record. None of the Roman remains
in the south of France are more impressive than this
stupendous fragment. An enormous mound rises above
the placewhich was formerly occupied - I quote from
Murray - first by a citadel of the Romansthen by a
castle of the princes of Nassaurazed by Louis XIV.
Facing this hill a mighty wall erects itselfthirty-six
metres highand composed of massive blocks of dark
brown stonesimply laid one on the other; the whole
nakedrugged surface of which suggests a natural cliff
(say of the Vaucluse order) rather than an effort of
humanor even of Roman labor. It is the biggest
thing at Orange- it is bigger than all Orange put to-
gether- and its permanent massiveness makes light
of the shrunken city. The face it presents to the town
- the top of it garnished with two rows of brackets
perforated with holes to receive the staves of the _vela-
rium_ - bears the traces of more than one tier of orna-
mental arches; though how these flat arches were
appliedor incrustedupon the wallI do not profess
to explain. You pass through a diminutive postern -
which seems in proportion about as high as the en-
trance of a rabbit-hutch - into the lodge of the custo-
dianwho introduces you to the interior of the theatre.
Here the mass of the hill affronts youwhich the in-
genious Romans treated simply as the material of their
auditorium. They inserted their stone seatsin a
semicirclein the slope of the lulland planted their
colossal wall opposite to it. This wallfrom the inside
isif possibleeven more imposing. It formed the
back of the stagethe permanent sceneand its
enormous face was coated with marble. It contains
three doorsthe middle one being the highestand
having above itfar alofta deep nicheapparently
intended for an imperial statue. A few of the benches
remain on the hillside whichhoweveris mainly a
confusion of fragments. There is part of a corridor
built into the hillhigh upand on the crest are the
remnants of the demolished castle. The whole place
is a kind of wilderness of ruin; there are scarcely any
details; the great feature is the overtopping wall. This
wall being the back of the scenethe space left be-
tween it and the chord of the semicircle (of the audi-
torium) which formed the proscenium is rather less
than one would have supposed. In other wordsthe
stage was very shallowand appears to have been ar-
ranged for a number of performers standing in a line
like a company of soldiers. There stands the silent
skeletonhoweveras impressive by what it leaves you
to guess and wonder about as by what it tells you.
It has not the sweetnessthe softness of melancholy
of the theatre at Arles; but it is more extraordinary
and one can imagine only tremendous tragedies being
enacted there-
"Presenting Thebes' or Pelops' line."
At either end of the stagecoming forwardis an
immense wing- immense in heightI meanas it
reaches to the top of the scenic wall; the other dimen-
sions are not remarkable. The division to the right
as you face the stageis pointed out as the green-
room; its portentous attitude and the open arches at
the top give it the air of a well. The compartment
on the left is exactly similarsave that it opens into
the traces of other chamberssaid to be those of a
hippodrome adjacent to the theatre. Various fragments
are visible which refer themselves plausibly to such an
establishment; the greater axis of the hippodrome would
appear to have been on a line with the triumphal
arch. This is all I sawand all there was to seeof
Orangewhich had a very rusticbucolic aspectand
where I was not even called upon to demand break-
fast at the hotel. The entrance of this resort might
have been that of a stable of the Roman days.
XXXVII.
I have been trying to remember whether I fasted
all the way to Maconwhich I reached at an advanced
hour of the eveningand think I must have done so
except for the purchase of a box of nougat at Monte-
limart (the place is famous for the manufacture of
this confectionwhichat the stationis hawked at the
windows of the train) and for a bouillonvery much
laterat Lyons. The journey beside the Rhone -
past Valencepast Tournonpast Vienne - would
have been charmingon that luminous Sundaybut
for two disagreeable accidents. The express from
Marseilleswhich I took at Orangewas full to over-
flowing; and the only refuge I could find was an
inside angle in a carriage laden with Germanswho
had command of the windowswhich they occupied
as strongly as they have been known to occupy other
strategical positions. I scarcely knowhoweverwhy
I linger on this particular discomfortfor it was but
a single item in a considerable list of grievances-
grievances dispersed through six weeks of constant
railway travel in France. I have not touched upon
them at an earlier stage of this chroniclebut my re-
serve is not owing to any sweetness of association.
This form of locomotionin the country of the ameni-
tiesis attended with a dozen discomforts; almost all
the conditions of the business are detestable. They
force the sentimental tourist again and again to ask
himself whetherin consideration of such mortal an-
noyancesthe game is worth the candle. Fortunately
a railway journey is a good deal like a sea voyage;
its miseries fade from the mind as soon as you arrive.
That is why I completedto my great satisfaction
my little tour in France. Let this small effusion of
ill-nature be my first and last tribute to the whole
despotic _gare_: the deadly _salle d'attente_the insuffer-
able delays over one's luggagethe porterless platform
the overcrowded and illiberal train. How many a
time did I permit myself the secret reflection that it
is in perfidious Albion that they order this matter
best! How many a time did the eager British mer-
cenaryclad in velveteen and clinging to the door of
the carriage as it glides into the stationrevisit my
invidious dreams! The paternal porter and the re-
sponsive hansom are among the best gifts of the Eng-
lish genius to the world. I hasten to addfaithful
to my habit (so insufferable to some of my friends) of
ever and again readjusting the balance after I have
given it an honest tipthat the bouillon at Lyons
which I spoke of abovewasthough by no means an
ideal bouillonmuch better than any I could have
obtained at an English railway station. After I had
imbibed itI sat in the train (which waited a long
time at Lyons) andby the light of one of the big
lamps on the platformread all sorts of disagreeable
things in certain radical newspapers which I had
bought at the book-stall. I gathered from these sheets
that Lyons was in extreme commotion. The Rhone
and the Saonewhich form a girdle for the splendid
townwere almost in the streetsas I could easily be-
lieve from what I had seen of the country after leav-
ing Orange. The Rhoneall the way to Lyonshad
been in all sorts of places where it had no business
to beand matters were naturally not improved by
its confluence with the charming and copious stream
whichat Maconis said once to have given such a
happy opportunity to the egotism of the capital. A
visitor from Paris (the anecdote is very old)being
asked on the quay of that city whether he didn't ad-
mire the Saonereplied good-naturedly that it was
very prettybut that in Paris they spelled it with
the _ei_. This moment of general alarm at Lyons had
been chosen by certain ingenious persons (I credit
themperhapswith too sure a prevision of the rise
of the rivers) for practising further upon the appre-
hensions of the public. A bombshell filled with
dynamite had been thrown into a cafeand various
votaries of the comparatively innocuous _petit verre_
had been wounded (I am not sure whether any one
had been killed) by the irruption. Of course there had
been arrests and incarcerationsand the "Intransi-
geant" and the "Rappel" were filled with the echoes
of the explosion. The tone of these organs is rarely
edifyingand it had never been less so than on this
occasion. I wonderedas I looked through them
whether I was losing all my radicalism; and then I
wondered whetherafter allI had any to lose. Even
in so long await as that tiresome delay at Lyons I
failed to settle the questionany more than I made
up my mind as to the probable future of the militant
democracyor the ultimate form of a civilization which
should have blown up everything else. A few days
laterthe waters went down it Lyons; but the de-
mocracy has not gone down.
I remember vividly the remainder of that evening
which I spent at Macon- remember it with a chatter-
ing of the teeth. I know not what had got into the
place; the temperaturefor the last day of October
was eccentric and incredible. These epithets may
also be applied to the hotel itself- an extraordinary
structureall facadewhich exposes an uncovered rear
to the gaze of nature. There is a demonstrative
voluble landladywho is of course part of the facade;
but everything behind her is a trap for the winds
with chamberscorridorsstaircasesall exhibited to
the skyas if the outer wall of the house had been
lifted off. It would have been delightful for Florida
but it didn't do for Burgundyeven on the eve of
November 1stso that I suffered absurdly from the
rigor of a season that had not yet begun. There was
something in the air; I felt it the next dayeven on
the sunny quay of the Saonewhere in spite of a fine
southerly exposure I extracted little warmth from the
reflection that Alphonse de Lamartine had often trod-
den the flags. Macon struck mesomehowas suffer-
ing from a chronic numbnessand there was nothing
exceptionally cheerful in the remarkable extension of
the river. It was no longer a river- it had become
a lake; and from my windowin the painted face of
the innI saw that the opposite bank had been moved
backas it wereindefinitely. Unfortunatelythe various
objects with which it was furnished had not been
moved as wellthe consequence of which was an
extraordinary confusion in the relations of thing.
There were always poplars to be seenbut the poplar
had become an aquatic plant. Such phenomena
howeverat Macon attract but little attentionas the
Saoneat certain seasons of the yearis nothing if not
expansive. The people are as used to it as they ap-
peared to be to the bronze statue of Lamartinewhich
is the principal monument of the _place_and whichre-
presenting the poet in a frogged overcoat and top-
bootsimprovising in a high windstruck me as even
less casual in its attitude than monumental sculpture
usually succeeds in being. It is true that in its pre-
sent position I thought better of this work of artwhich
is from the hand of M. Falquierethan when I had
seen it through the factitious medium of the Salon of
1876. I walked up the hill where the older part of
Macon liesin search of the natal house of the _amant
d'Elvire_the Petrarch whose Vaucluse was the bosom
of the public. The Guide-Joanne quotes from "Les
Confidences" a description of the birthplace of the
poetwhose treatment of the locality is indeed poetical.
It tallies strangely little with the realityeither as re-
gards position or other features; and it may be said
to benot an aidbut a direct obstacleto a discovery
of the house. A very humble edificein a small back
streetis designated by a municipal tabletset into its
faceas the scene of Lamartine's advent into the world.
He himself speaks of a vast and lofty structureat the
angle of a _place_adorned with iron clampswith a
_porte haute et large_ and many other peculiarities. The
house with the tablet has two meagre stories above
the basementand (at presentat least) an air of ex-
treme shabbiness; the _place_moreovernever can have
been vast. Lamartine was accused of writing history
incorrectlyand apparently he started wrong at first:
it had never become clear to him where he was born.
Or is the tablet wrong? If the house is smallthe
tablet is very big.
XXXVIII.
The foregoing reflections occurin a cruder form
as it werein my note-bookwhere I find this remark
appended to them: "Don't take leave of Lamartine on
that contemptuous note; it will be easy to think of
something more sympathetic!" Those friends of mine
mentioned a little while sincewho accuse me of always
tipping back the balancecould not desire a paragraph
more characteristic; but I wish to give no further evi-
dence of such infirmitiesand will therefore hurry away
from the subject- hurry away in the train whichvery
early on a crispbright morningconveyed. meby way
of an excursionto the ancient city of Bourg-en-Bresse.
Shining in early lightthe Saone was spreadlike a
smoothwhite tableclothover a considerable part of
the flat country that I traversed. There is no provision
made in this image for the longtransparent screens
of thin-twigged trees which rose at intervals out of
the watery plain; but asunder the circumstances
there seemed to be no provision for them in factI
will let my metaphor go for what it is worth. My
journey was (as I remember it) of about an hour and
a half; but I passed no object of interestas the phrase
iswhatever. The phrase hardly applies even to Bourg
itselfwhich is simply a town _quelconque_as M. Zola
would say. Smallpeacefulrusticit stands in the
midst of the great dairy-feeding plains of Bresseof
which fat countysometime property of the house of
Savoyit was the modest capital. The blue masses
of the Jura give it a creditable horizonbut the only
nearer feature it can point to is its famous sepulchral
church. This edifice lies at a fortunate distance from
the townwhichthough inoffensiveis of too common
a stamp to consort with such a treasure. All I ever
knew of the church of Brou I had gatheredyears
agofrom Matthew Arnold's beautiful poemwhich
bears its name. I remember thinkingin those years
that it was impossible verses could be more touching
than these; and as I stood before the object of my
pilgrimagein the gay French light (though the place
was so dull)I recalled the spot where I had first read
themand where I read them again and yet again
wondering whether it would ever be my fortune to
visit the church of Brou. The spot in question was
an armchair in a window which looked out on some
cows in a field; and whenever I glanced at the cows
it came over me - I scarcely know why - that I should
probably never behold the structure reared by the
Duchess Margaret. Some of our visions never come
to pass; but we must be just- others do. "So sleep
forever sleepO princely pair!" I remembered that
line of Matthew Arnold'sand the stanza about the
Duchess Margaret coming to watch the builders on
her palfry white. Then there came to me something
in regard to the moon shining on winter nights through
the cold clere-story. The tone of the place at that
hour was not at all lunar; it was cold and brightbut
with the chill of an autumn morning; yet thiseven
with the fact of the unexpected remoteness of the
church from the Jura added to itdid not prevent me
from feeling that I looked at a monument in the pro-
duction of which - or at least in the effect of which
on the tourist mind of to-day - Matthew Arnold had
been much concerned. By a pardonable license he
has placed it a few miles nearer to the forests of the
Jura than it stands at present. It is very true that
though the mountains in the sixteenth century can
hardly have been in a different positionthe plain
which separates the church from them may have been
bedecked with woods. The visitor to-day cannot help
wondering why the beautiful buildingwith its splendid
works of artis dropped down in that particular spot
which looks so accidental and arbitrary. But there
are reasons for most thingsand there were reasons
why the church of Brou should be at Brouwhich is
a vague little suburb of a vague little town.
The responsibility restsat any rateupon the
Duchess Margaret- Margaret of Austriadaughter of
the Emperor Maximilian and his wife Mary of Bur-
gundydaughter of Charles the Bold. This lady has
a high name in historyhaving been regent of the
Netherlands in behalf of her nephewthe Emperor
Charles V.of whose early education she had had the
care. She married in 1501 Philibert the Handsome
Duke of Savoyto whom the province of Bresse be-
longedand who died two years later. She had been
betrothedis a childto Charles VIII. of Franceand
was kept for some time at the French court- that of
her prospective father-in-lawLouis XI.; but she was
eventually repudiatedin order that her _fiance_ might
marry Anne of Brittany- an alliance so magnificently
political that we almost condone the offence to a
sensitive princess. Margaret did not want for hus-
bandshoweverinasmuch as before her marriage to
Philibert she had been united to John of Castileson
of Ferdinand V.King of Aragon- an episode ter-
minatedby the death of the Spanish princewithin a
year. She was twenty-two years regent of the Nether-
landsand died at fifty-onein 1530. She might have
beenhad she chosenthe wifeof Henry VII. of Eng-
land. She was one of the signers of the League of
Cambrayagainst the Venetian republicand was a
most politicaccomplishedand judicious princess.
She undertook to build the church of Brou as a mau-
soleumfor her second husband and herselfin fulfil-
ment of a vow made by Margaret of Bourbonmother
of Philibertwho died before she could redeem her
pledgeand who bequeathed the duty to her son. He
died shortly afterwardsand his widow assumed the
pious task. According to Murrayshe intrusted the
erection of the church to "Maistre Loys von Berghem"
and the sculpture to "Maistre Conrad." The author
of a superstitious but carefully prepared little Notice
which I bought at Bourgcalls the architect and
sculptor (at once) Jehan de Parisauthor (sic) of the
tomb of Francis II. of Brittanyto which we gave some
attention at Nantesand which the writer of my
pamphlet ascribes only subordinately to Michel Colomb.
The churchwhich is not of great sizeis in the last
and most flamboyant phase of Gothicand in admirable
preservation; the west frontbefore which a quaint old
sun-dial is laid out on the ground- a circle of num-
bers marked in stonelike those on a clock facelet
into the earth- is covered with delicate ornament.
The great featurehowever (the nave is perfectly bare
and wonderfully new-lookingthough the wardena
stolid yet sharp old peasantin a blousewho looked
more as if his line were chaffering over turnips than
showing off works of arttold me that it has never
been touchedand that its freshness is simply the
quality of the stone)- the great feature is the ad-
mirable choirin the midst of which the three monu-
ments have bloomed under the chisellike exotic
plants in a conservatory. I saw the place to small
advantagefor the stained glass of the windowswhich
are finewas under repairand much of it was masked
with planks.
In the centre lies Philibert-le-Bela figure of white
marble on a great slab of blackin his robes and his
armorwith two boy-angels holding a tablet at his
headand two more at his feet. On either side of
him is another cherub: one guarding his helmetthe
other his stiff gauntlets. The attitudes of these charm-
ing childrenwhose faces are all bent upon him in
pityhave the prettiest tenderness and respect. The
table on which he lies is supported by elaborate
columnsadorned with niches containing little images
and with every other imaginable elegance; and be-
neath it he is represented in that other formso com-
mon in the tombs of the Renaissance- a man naked
and dyingwith none of the state and splendor of the
image above. One of these figures embodies the duke
the other simply the mortal; and there is something
very strange and striking in the effect of the latter
seen dimly and with difficulty through the intervals
of the rich supports of the upper slab. The monu-
ment of Margaret herself is on the leftall in white
merbletormented into a multitude of exquisite pat-
ternsthe last extravagance of a Gothic which had
gone so far that nothing was left it but to return upon
itself. Unlike her husbandwho has only the high
roof of the church above himshe lies under a canopy
supported and covered by a wilderness of embroidery
- flowersdevicesinitialsarabesquesstatuettes.
Watched over by cherubsshe is also in her robes
and erminewith a greyhound sleeping at her feet
(her husbandat hishas a waking lion); and the
artist has notit is to be presumedrepresented her
as more beautiful than she was. She looksindeed
like the regent of a turbulent realm. Beneath her
couch is stretched another figure- a less brilliant
Margaretwrapped in her shroudwith her long hair
over her shoulders. Round the tomb is the battered
iron railing placed there originallywith the myste-
rious motto of the duchess worked into the top-
_fortune infortune fort une_. The other two monuments
are protected by barriers of the same pattern. That
of Margaret of BourbonPhilibert's motherstands on
the right of the choir; and I suppose its greatest dis-
tinction is that it should have been erected to a
mother-in-law. It is but little less florid and sump-
tuous than the others; it hashoweverno second re-
cumbent figure. On the other handthe statuettes
that surround the base of the tomb are of even more
exquisite workmanship: they represent weeping wo-
menin long mantles and hoodswhich latter hang
forward over the small face of the figuregiving the
artist a chance to carve the features within this hollow
of drapery- an extraordinary play of skill. There is
a highwhite marble shrine of the Virginas extra-
ordinary as all the rest (a series of compartmentsre-
presenting the various scenes of her lifewith the
Assumption in the middle); and there is a magnifi-
cent series of stallswhich are simply the intricate
embroidery of the tombs translated into polished oak.
All these things are splendidingeniouselaborate
precious; it is goldsmith's work on a monumental
scaleand the general effect is none the less beautiful
and solemn because it is so rich. But the monuments
of the church of Brou are not the noblest that one
may see; the great tombs of Verona are finerand
various other early Italian work. These things are
not insincereas Ruskin would say; but they are pre-
tentiousand they are not positively _naifs_. I should
mention that the walls of the choir are embroidered
in places with Margaret's tantalizing devicewhich -
partlyperhapsbecause it is tantalizing - is so very
decorativeas they say in London. I know not whether
she was acquainted with this epithet; but she had
anticipated one of the fashions most characteristic of
our age.
One asks one's self how all this decorationthis
luxury of fair and chiselled marblesurvived the
French Revolution. An hour of liberty in the choir
of Brou would have been a carnival for the image-
breakers. The well-fed Bressois are surely a good-
natured people. I call them well-fed both on general
and on particular grounds. Their province has the
most savory aromaand I found an opportunity to
test its reputation. I walked back into the town from
the church (there was really nothing to be seen by
the way)and as the hour of the midday breakfast
had struckdirected my steps to the inn. The table
d'hote was going onand a graciousbustlingtalkative
landlady welcomed me. I had an excellent repast -
the best repast possible - which consisted simply of
boiled eggs and bread and butter. It was the quality
of these simple ingredients that made the occasion
memorable. The eggs were so good that I am ashamed
to say how many of them I consumed. "La plus
belle fille du monde" as the French proverb says
"ne peut donner que ce qu'elle a;" and it might
seem that an egg which has succeeded in being fresh
has done all that can reasonably be expected of it.
But there was a bloom of punctualityso to speak
about these eggs of Bourgas if it had been the in-
tention of the very hens themselves that they should
be promptly served. "Nous sommes en Bresseet le
beurre n'est pas mauvais" the landlady saidwith a
sort of dry coquetryas she placed this article before
me. It was the poetry of butterand I ate a pound
or two of it; after which I came away with a strange
mixture of impressions of late Gothic sculpture and
thick _tartines_. I came away through the townwhere
on a little green promenadefacing the hotelis a
bronze statue of Bichatthe physiologistwho was a
Bressois. I mention itnot on account of its merit
(thoughas statues goI don't remember that it is
bad)but because I learned from it - my ignorance
doubtlessdid me little honor - that Bichat had died
at thirty years of ageand this revelation was almost
agitating. To have done so much in so short a life
was to be truly great. This reflectionwhich looks
deplorably trite as I write it herehad the effect of
eloquence as I uttered itfor my own benefiton the
bare little mall at Bourg.
XXXIX.
On my return to Macon I found myself fairly face
to face with the fact that my little tour was near its
end. Dijon had been marked by fate as its farthest
limitand Dijon was close at hand. After that I was
to drop the touristand re-enter Paris as much as pos-
sible like a Parisian. Out of Paris the Parisian never
loitersand therefore it would be impossible for me to
stop between Dijon and the capital. But I might be
a tourist a few hours longer by stopping somewhere
between Macon and Dijon. The question was where
I should spend these hours. Where betterI asked
myself (for reasons not now entirely clear to me) than
at Beaune? On my way to this town I passed the
stretch of the Cote d'Orwhichcovered with a mel-
low autumn hazewith the sunshine shimmering
throughlooked indeed like a golden slope. One
regards with a kind of awe the region in which the
famous _crus_ of Burgundy (YougeotChambertinNuits
Beaune) areI was going to saymanufactured. Adieu
paniers; vendanges sont faites! The vintage was
over; the shrunken russet fibres alone clung to their
ugly stick. The horizon on the left of the road had
a charmhoweverthere is something picturesque
in the bigcomfortable shoulders of the Cote. That
delicate criticM. Emile Montegutin a charming
record of travel through this regionpublished some
years agopraises Shakspeare for having talked (in
"Lear") of "waterish Burgundy." Vinous Burgundy
would surely be more to the point. I stopped at
Beaune in pursuit of the picturesquebut I might
almost have seen the little I discovered without stop-
ping. It is a drowsy little Burgundian townvery
old and ripewith crooked streetsvistas always ob-
liqueand steepmoss-covered roofs. The principal
lion is the Hopital-Saint-Espritor the Hotel-Dieu
simplyas they call it therefounded in 1443 by
Nicholas RollinChancellor of Burgundy. It is ad-
ministered by the sisterhood of the Holy Ghostand
is one of the most venerable and stately of hospitals.
The face it presents to the street is simplebut strik-
ing- a plainwindowless wallsurmounted by a vast
slate roofof almost mountainous steepness. Astride
this roof sits a tallslate-covered spirefrom which
as I arrivedthe prettiest chimes I ever heard (worse
luck to themas I will presently explain) were ring-
ing. Over the door is a highquaint canopywithout
supportswith its vault painted blue and covered
with gilded stars. (Thisand indeed the whole build-
inghave lately been restoredand its antiquity is
quite of the spick-and-span order. But it is very
delightful.) The treasure of the place is a precious
picture- a Last Judgmentattributed equally to John
van Eyck and Roger van der Weyden- given to the
hospital in the fifteenth century by Nicholas Rollin
aforesaid.
I learnedhoweverto my dismayfrom a sympa-
thizing but inexorable conciergethat what remained
to me of the time I had to spend at Beaunebetween
trains- I had rashly wasted half an hour of it in
breakfasting at the station- was the one hour of the
day (that of the dinner of the nuns; the picture is in
their refectory) during which the treasure could not
be shown. The purpose of the musical chimes to
which I had so artlessly listened was to usher in this
fruitless interval. The regulation was absoluteand
my disappointment relativeas I have been happy to
reflect since I "looked up" the picture. Crowe and
Cavalcaselle assign it without hesitation to Roger van
der Weydenand give a weak little drawing of it in
their "Flemish Painters." I learn from them also -
what I was ignorant of - that Nicholas RoninChan-
cellor of Burgundy and founder of the establishment
at Beaunewas the original of the worthy kneeling
before the Virginin the magnificent John van Eyck
of the Salon Carre. All I could see was the court of
the hospital and two or three rooms. The courtwith
its tall roofsits pointed gables and spiresits wooden
galleriesits ancient wellwith an elaborate superstruc-
ture of wrought ironis one of those places into which
a sketcher ought to be let loose. It looked Flemish
or English rather than Frenchand a splendid tidiness
pervaded it. The porter took me into two rooms on
the ground-floorinto which the sketcher should also
be allowed to penetrate; for they made irresistible
pictures. One of themof great proportionspainted
in elaborate "subjects" like a ball-room of the seven-
teenth centurywas filled with the beds of patients
all draped in curtains of dark red cloththe tradi-
tional uniform of theseeleemosynary couches. Among
them the sisters moved aboutin their robes of white
flannelwith big white linen hoods. The other room
was a strangeimmense apartmentlately restored
with much splendor. It was of great length and
heighthad a painted and gilded barrel-roofand one
end of it - the one I was introduced to - appeared
to serve as a chapelas two white-robed sisters were
on their knees before an altar. This was divided by
red curtains from the larger part; but the porter lifted
one of the curtainsand showed me that the rest
of ita longimposing vistaserved as a wardlined
with little red-draped beds. "C'est l'heure de la
lecture" remarked my guide; and a group of conva-
lescents - all the patients I saw were women - were
gathered in the centre around a nunthe points of
whose white hood nodded a little above themand
whose gentle voice came to us faintlywith a little
echodown the high perspective. I know not what
the good sister was reading- a dull bookI am afraid
- but there was so much colorand such a finerich
air of tradition about the whole placethat it seemed
to me I would have risked listening to her. I turned
awayhoweverwith that sense of defeat which is
always irritating to the appreciative touristand pot-
tered about Beaune rather vaguely for the rest of my
hour: looked at the statue of Gaspard Mongethe
mathematicianin the little _place_ (there is no _place_ in
France too little to contain an effigy to a glorious son);
at the fine old porch - completely despoiled at the
Revolution - of the principal church; and even at the
meagre treasures of a courageous but melancholy little
museumwhich has been arranged - part of it being
the gift of a local collector - in a small hotel de ville.
I carried away from Beaune the impression of some-
thing mildly autumnal- something rusty yet kindly
like the taste of a sweet russet pear.
XL.
It was very well that my little tour was to termi-
nate at Dijon; for I foundrather to my chagrinthat
there was not a great dealfrom the pictorial point of
viewto be done with Dijon. It was no great matter
for I held my proposition to have been by this time
abundantly demonstrated- the proposition with which
I started: that if Paris is FranceFrance is by no
means Paris. If Dijon was a good deal of a disap-
pointmentI feltthereforethat I could afford it. It
was time for me to reflectalsothat for my disap-
pointmentsas a general thingI had only myself to
thank. They had too often been the consequence of
arbitrary preconceptionsproduced by influences of
which I had lost the trace. At any rateI will say
plumply that the ancient capital of Burgundy is want-
ing in character; it is not up to the mark. It is old
and narrow and crookedand it has been left pretty
well to itself: but it is not high and overhanging; it is
notto the eyewhat the Burgundian capital should
be. It has some tortuous vistassome mossy roofs
some bulging frontssome gray-faced hotelswhich
look as if in former centuries - in the lastfor instance
during the time of that delightful President de Brosses
whose Letters from Italy throw an interesting side-light
on Dijon - they had witnessed a considerable amount
of good living. But there is nothing else. I speak as
a man who for some reason which he doesn't remem-
ber nowdid not pay a visit to the celebrated Puits
de Moisean ancient cisternembellished with a sculp-
tured figure of the Hebrew lawgiver.
The ancient palace of the Dukes of Burgundylong
since converted into an hotel de villepresents to a
wideclean courtpaved with washed-looking stones
and to a small semicircular _place_oppositewhich
looks as if it had tried to be symmetrical and had
faileda facade and two wingscharacterized by the
stiffnessbut not by the grand airof the early part of
the eighteenth century. It containshowevera large
and rich museum- a museum really worthy of a capi-
tal. The gem of this exhibition is the great banquet-
ing-hall of the old palaceone of the few features of
the place that has not been essentially altered. Of
great heightroofed with the old beams and cornices
it containsfilling one enda colossal Gothic chimney-
piecewith a fireplace large enough to roastnot an ox
but a herd of oxen. In the middle of this striking
hallthe walls of which. are covered with objects more
or less precioushave been placed the tombs of Philippe-
le-Hardi and Jean-sans-Peur. These monumentsvery
splendid in their general effecthave a limited interest.
The limitation comes from the fact that we see them
to-day in a transplanted and mutilated condition.
Placed originally in a church which has disappeared
from the face of the earthdemolished and dispersed
at the Revolutionthey have been reconstructed and
restored out of fragments recovered and pieced to-
gether. The piecing his been beautifully done; it is
covered with gilt and with brilliant paint; the whole
result is most artistic. But the spell of the old mor-
tuary figures is brokenand it will never work again.
Meanwhile the monuments are immensely decorative.
I think the thing that pleased me best at Dijon
was the little old Parca charming public garden
about a mile from the townto which I walked by a
longstraight autumnal avenue. It is a _jardin fran-
cais_ of the last century- a dear old placewith little
blue-green perspectives and alleys and _rondpoints_in
which everything balances. I went there late in the
afternoonwithout meeting a creaturethough I had
hoped I should meet the President de Brosses. At the
end of it was a little river that looked like a canal
and on the further bank was an old-fashioned villa
close to the waterwith a little French garden of its
own. On the hither side was a benchon which I
seated myselflingering a good while; for this was just
the sort of place I like. It was the furthermost point
of my little tour. I thought that overas I sat there
on the eve of taking the express to Paris; and as the
light faded in the Parc the vision of some of the things
I had seen became more distinct.