that space and opportunity fail me; and yet a brief and hurried account
of that extraordinary spot would after all be in best agreement with my
visit. We snatched a fearful joy, my companion and I, the 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 hopelessly
foul after lunch. At last we determined that if we could not make this
excursion in the sunshine we would make it with the aid of our
umbrellas. We grasped them firmly and started for the station, where we
were detained an unconscionable time by the evolutions, outside, of
certain trains laden with liberated (and exhilarated) conscripts, who,
their term of service ended, were about to be restored to civil life.
The trains in Touraine are provoking; they
[Illustration: LOCHES]
serve as little as possible for excursions. If they convey you one way
at the right hour, it is on the condition of bringing you back at the
wrong; they either allow you far too little time to examine the castle
or the ruin, or they leave you planted in front of it for periods that
outlast curiosity. They are perverse, capricious, exasperating. It was a
question of our having but an hour or two at Loches, and we could ill
afford to sacrifice to accidents. One of the accidents, however, was
that the rain stopped before we got there, leaving behind it a moist
mildness of temperature and a cool and lowering sky which were in
perfect agreement with the grey 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 Indre, the 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 hill,
which it covers to the base, a confusion of terraces, ramparts, towers,
and spires. Having but little time, as I say, we scaled the hill amain
and wandered briskly through this labyrinth of antiquities. The rain had
decidedly stopped and, 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 acquainted and for which,
at any rate, he has a formula in his rough-and-ready language. We
"experienced," as they say (most irregular of verbs), an "agreeable
disappointment." We were surprised and delighted; we had for some reason
suspected that Loches was scarce good.
I hardly know what is best there: the strange and impressive little
collegial church, with its romanesque atrium or narthex, its doorways
covered with primitive sculpture of the richest kind, its treasure of a
so-called pagan altar embossed with fighting warriors, its three
pyramidal domes, so unexpected, so sinister, which I have not met
elsewhere in church architecture; or the huge square keep of the
eleventh century--the most cliff-like tower I remember, whose
immeasurable thickness 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 introduced us, with the
aid of downward ladders, ropes, torches, warnings, extended hands, and
many fearful anecdotes--all in impervious darkness. These horrible
prisons of Loches, at an incredible distance below daylight, enlivened
the consciousness of Louis XI. and were for the most part, I believe,
constructed 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 Balue, who survived so much longer than might have been
expected this extraordinary mixture of seclusion and exposure. All these
things form part of the castle of Loches, whose enormous _enceinte_
covers the whole of the top of the hill and abounds in dismantled
gateways, in crooked passages, in winding lanes that lead to postern
doors, in long façades that look upon terraces interdicted to the
visitor, who perceives with irritation that they command magnificent
views. These views are the property of the sub-prefect of the
department, who resides at the Château de Loches and who has also the
enjoyment 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 size,
[Illustration: LOCHES--THE CHURCH]
a tree of a circumference so vast and so perfect that the whole
population of Loches might sit in concentric rows beneath its boughs.
The gem of the place, however, is neither the big _marronier_, nor the
collegial church, nor the mighty dungeon, nor 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 buried in 1450, in
the collegial church, whence, in the beginning of the present century,
her remains, with the monument that marks them, were transferred to one
of the towers of the castle. She has always, I know not with what
justice, enjoyed 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 demureness,
her hands folded with the best modesty, a little kneeling angel at
either side of her head, and her feet, hidden in the folds of her decent
robe, resting upon a pair of couchant lambs, innocent reminders of her
name. Agnes, however, was not lamb-like, inasmuch as, according to
popular tradition at least, she exerted herself sharply in favour of the
expulsion 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 mortal, to stand up as he does before posterity
between the noble Joan and the _gentille Agnes_; deriving, however, much
more honour 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 Brittany, among the apartments of the castle the only
chamber worthy of note. This small room, hardly 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 richness in spite of the modern
whitewash with which, if I remember rightly, they have been endued. The
little streets of Loches wander crookedly down the hill and are full of
charming pictorial "bits:" an old town-gate, passing under a medieval
tower, which is ornamented by Gothic windows and the empty niches of
statues; a meagre but delicate _hotel de ville_ of the Renaissance
nestling close beside it; a curious _chancellerie_ of the middle of the
sixteenth century, with mythological figures and a Latin inscription on
the front--both of these latter buildings being rather unexpected
features of the huddled and precipitous little town. Loches has a suburb
on the other side of the Indre, which we had contented ourselves with
looking down at from the heights while we wondered whether, even if it
had not been getting late and our train were more accommodating, we
should care to take our way across the bridge and look up that bust in
terra-cotta of Francis I. which is the principal ornament of the Château
de Sansac and the faubourg of Beaulieu. I think we decided that we
should not, that we had already often measured the longest nose in
history.
[Illustration]
Chapter xi
[Bourges]
I know not whether the exact limits of an excursion as distinguished
from a journey have ever been fixed; at any rate, it seemed none of my
business at Tours to settle the question. Therefore, though the making
of excursions had been the purpose of my stay, I thought it vain, while
I started for Bourges, to determine to which category that little
expedition might belong. It was not till the third day that I returned
to Tours; and the distance, traversed for the most part after dark, was
even greater than I had supposed. That, however, was partly the fault of
a tiresome wait at Vierzon, where I had more than enough time to dine,
very badly, at the _buffet_ and to observe the proceedings of a family
who had entered my railway carriage at Tours and had conversed
unreservedly, for my benefit, all 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-room (it happened to be a Friday), as if it
had been possible to do anything else. They ate two or three omelets
apiece and ever so many little cakes, while the positive, talkative
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 while I
took my place in the empty train that was in waiting to convey us to
Bourges the same vigilant woman pushed them all on top of me into my
compartment, though the carriages on either side contained no travellers
at all. It was better, I found, to have dined (even on omelets and
little cakes) at the station at Vierzon than at the hotel at Bourges,
which, when I reached it at nine o'clock at night, did not strike me as
the prince of hotels. The inns in the smaller provincial towns in France
are all, as the term is, commercial, and 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
provinces, and it was my daily fate to sit opposite to him at tables
d'hôte and in railway trains. He may be known by two infallible
signs--his hands are fat and he tucks his napkin into his shirt-collar.
In spite of these idiosyncrasies, he seemed to me a reserved and
inoffensive person, with singularly little of the demonstrative
good-humour that he has been described as possessing. I saw no one who
reminded me of Balzac's "illustre Gaudissart;" and indeed in the course
of a month's journey through a large part of France I heard so little
desultory conversation 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 exchanging remarks in railway trains and at tables d'hôte than the
colloquial and cursory English; a fact perhaps not worth mentioning were
it not at variance with that reputation which the French have long
enjoyed of being a pre-eminently sociable nation. The common report of
the character of a people is, however, an indefinable product, and is
apt to strike the traveller who observes for himself as very wide of the
mark. The English, who have for ages been described (mainly by the
French) as the dumb stiff, unapproachable race, present to-day a
remarkable appearance of good-humour and garrulity and are distinguished
by their facility of intercourse. On the other hand, any 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 true, doubtless, before the Revolution; but
there have been great changes since then. The question of which is the
better taste, to talk to strangers or to hold your tongue, is a matter
apart; I incline to believe that the French reserve is the result of a
more definite conception of social behaviour. I allude to it only
because it is at variance with the national fame and at the same time
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; boasting as it did of a hall of reception in which, amid
old boots that had been brought to be cleaned, old linen that was being
sorted for the wash, and lamps of evil odour that were awaiting
replenishment, a strange, familiar, promiscuous household life went
forward. Small scullions in white caps and aprons slept upon greasy
benches; the Boots sat staring at you while you fumbled, helpless, in a
row of pigeon-holes, for your candlestick or your key; and, amid the
coming and going of the _commis-voyageurs_, a little sempstress bent
over the under-garments of the hostess--the latter being a heavy, stern,
silent woman, who looked at people very hard.
[Bourges: the Cathedral]
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 darkness to form somehow and somewhere a happier relation.
However late in the evening I may arrive at a place, I never go to bed
without my impression. The natural place at Bourges to look for it
seemed to be the cathedral; which, moreover, was the only thing that
could account for my presence _dans cette galère_. I turned out of a
small square in front of the hotel and walked up a narrow, sloping
street paved with big, rough stones and guiltless of a footway. 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 right, at the top of the street, where presently a short, vague
lane brought me into sight of the cathedral. I approached it obliquely,
from behind; it loomed up in the darkness above me enormous 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 go, for
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 exposed, though
the precinct is shabby; in front, it is rather too much shut in. These
defects, however, it makes up for on the north side and behind, where it
presents itself in the most admirable manner to the garden of the
Archevêché, which has been arranged as a public walk, with the usual
formal alleys of the _jardin français_. I must add that I appreciated
these points only on the following day. As I stood there in the light of
the stars, many of which had an autumnal sharpness, while others were
shooting over the heavens, the huge, rugged 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 colossal, stupendous, a
dark leviathan.
The next morning, which was lovely, I lost no time in going back to it,
and found with 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 handbook of M. Joanne that it was
projected "_dès_ 1172," but commenced only in the first years of the
thirteenth century. "The nave," the writer adds, "was finished _tant
bien que mal, faute de ressources_; the façade is of the thirteenth and
fourteenth centuries in its lower part, and 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 buttressed, so that its outline slopes forward
like that of a pyramid. This is the taller of the two. If they had
spires these towers would be prodigious; as it is, given the rest of the
church, they are wanting in elevation. There are five deeply recessed
portals, all in a row, each surmounted with a gable, the gable over the
central door being exceptionally high. Above the porches, which give the
measure of its width, the front rears itself,
piles itself, on a great scale, carried up by galleries, arches,
windows, sculptures, and supported by the extraordinarily thick
buttresses of which I have spoken and which, though they embellish it
with deep shadows thrown sidewise, do not improve its style. The
portals, especially the middle one, are extremely interesting; they are
covered with curious early sculptures. The middle one, however, I must
describe alone. It has no less than six rows of figures--the others have
four--some of which, notably the upper one, are 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 judgment, of great size,
stiff and terrible, with outstretched arms. On either side of him are
ranged three or four angels, with the instruments of the Passion.
Beneath him in the second frieze stands the angel of justice with the
scales; and on either side of him is the vision of the last judgment.
The good prepare, with infinite titillation and complacency, to ascend
to the skies; while the bad are dragged, pushed, hurled, stuffed,
crammed, into pits and caldrons of fire. There is a charming detail in
this section. Beside the angel, on the right, where the wicked are the
prey of demons, stands a little female figure, that of a child, who,
with hands meekly folded and head gently raised, waits for the stern
angel to decide upon her fate. In this fate, however, a dreadful big
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 resurrection,
with 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 gaiety, an alacrity tempered by respect; one of them
kneels to pray as soon as he has disinterred himself. You may know the
wicked, on the other hand, by their extreme shyness; they crawl out
slowly and fearfully; they hang back, and seem to say "Oh, dear!" These
elaborate sculptures, full of ingenuous intention and of the reality of
early faith, are in a remarkable state of preservation; they bear no
superficial signs of restoration and appear scarcely to have suffered
from the centuries. They are delightfully expressive; the artist had the
advantage of knowing exactly the effect be wished to produce.
The interior of the cathedral has a great simplicity and majesty and,
above all, a tremendous height. The nave is extraordinary in this
respect; it dwarfs everything else I know. I should add, however, that I
am in architecture always of the opinion of the last speaker. Any great
building seems to me while I look at it the ultimate expression. At any
rate, during the hour that I sat gazing along the high vista of Bourges
the interior of the great vessel corresponded to my vision of the
evening before. There is a tranquil largeness, a kind of infinitude,
about such an edifice; it soothes and purifies the spirit, it
illuminates the mind. There are two aisles, on either side, in addition
to the nave--five in all--and, as I have said, there are no transepts;
an omission which lengthens the vista, so that from my place near the
door the central jewelled window in the depths of the perpendicular
choir seemed a mile or two away. The second or outward of each pair of
aisles is too low and 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 choir, the 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 cathedral, on the north, is a curious structure of the
fourteenth or fifteenth century, which looks like an enormous flying
buttress, with its support, sustaining the north tower. It makes a
massive arch, high in the air, and produces a romantic effect as people
pass under it to the open gardens of the Archevêché, which extend to a
considerable distance in the rear of the church. The structure
supporting the arch has the girth of a largeish house, and contains
chambers with whose uses I am unacquainted, but to which the deep
pulsations of the cathedral, the vibration of its mighty bells and the
roll of its organ-tones must be transmitted even through the great arm
of stone.
The archiepiscopal palace, not walled in as at Tours, is visible as a
stately habitation of the last century, at the time of my visit under
repair after a fire. From this side and from the gardens of the palace
the nave of the cathedral is visible in all its great length and height,
with its extraordinary multitude of supports. The gardens aforesaid,
accessible through tall iron gates, are the promenade--the Tuileries--of
the town, and, very pretty in themselves, are immensely set off by the
overhanging church. It was warm and sunny; the benches were empty; I sat
there a long time in that pleasant state of mind which visits the
traveller in foreign towns, when he is not too hurried, while he
wonders where he had better go next. The straight, unbroken 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 sight, might 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 level on which they open, and where
several detachments of soldiers (Bourges is full of soldiers) had just
been drawn up. The civil population was also collecting, and I saw that
something was going to happen. I learned that a private of the Chasseurs
was to be "broken" for stealing, and every one was eager to behold the
ceremony. Sundry other detachments arrived on the ground, besides many
of the military who had come as a matter of taste. One of them described
to me the process of degradation from the ranks, and I felt for a moment
a hideous curiosity to see it, under the influence of which I lingered a
little. But only a little; the hateful nature of the spectacle hurried
me away at the same that others were hurrying forward. As I turned my
back upon it I reflected that human beings are cruel brutes, though I
could not flatter myself that the ferocity of the thing was exclusively
French. In another country the concourse would have been equally great,
and the moral of it all seemed to be that military penalties are as
terrible as military honours are gratifying.
[Illustration]
Chapter xii
[Bourges: Jacques Coeur]
The cathedral is not the only lion of Bourges; the house of Jacques
Coeur awaits you in posture scarcely less leonine. This remarkable man
had a very strange history, and he too was "broken" like the wretched
soldier whom I did not stay to see. He has been rehabilitated, however,
by an age which does not fear the imputation of paradox, and 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
turban, with 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 period, but his
spirit was very modern; he was a Vanderbilt or a Rothschild of the
fifteenth century. He supplied the ungrateful Charles VII. with money to
pay the troops who, under the heroic Maid,
[Illustration: Bourges--THE HOUSE OF JACQUES COEUR]