THE LUXURY OF NIMES
When the Romans captured a place and established themselves in it they
generally built, first an Arch of Triumph in celebration of their
victory; then an arena and a theater for pleasure; finally a temple for
worship. Sometimes, when they really favored the place and made it a
resort, they constructed baths. I do not find that they built an Arch of
Triumph at Nimes, but they built an arena, baths, and a temple, for they
still stand. The temple is the smallest. It is called the "Maison
Carree," and it is much like the temple we saw at Vienne that day in the
rain, but in a finer state of preservation. Indeed, it is said to be one
of the best preserved Roman temples in existence. It is graceful and
exquisite, and must have suited Henry James, who did not care for Roman
arenas because they are not graceful and exquisite, as if anything built
for arena purposes would be likely to be anything less than solid and
everlasting. We did not go into the Maison Carree. It is a museum now,
and the fact that it has also been used as a warehouse and stable
somehow discouraged us. It would be too much done over. But the outside
was fascinating.
We thought the garden of the Roman baths and fountain would be well to
see in the evening. We drove along the quay by the side of the walled
river which flows down the middle of the street, and came to the gates
of the garden and, leaving the car, entered.
At first it seemed quite impossible to believe that a modern city of no
great size or importance should have anything so beautiful as this
garden, or, having it, should preserve it in such serene beauty and
harmony. But then one remembered that this was France, and of France it
was the Provence and not really a part of the sordid, scrambling world
at all.
It is a garden of terraces and of waterways and of dim, lucent pools to
which stairways descend, and of cypresses, graying statuary, and marble
bridges and fluted balustrades; and the water is green and mysterious,
and there is a background of dark, wooded hills, with deep recesses and
lost paths. We climbed part way up the hillside and found a place where
we could look out on the scene below. In the fading light it seemed a
place of enchantment.
It is not easy to tell what part of this garden the Romans built and
what was added from time to time during the centuries. It seems to have
been liberally reconstructed a hundred or so years ago, and the statuary
is none of it of the Roman period. But if there was ever any incongruity
the blurring hand of time has left it invisible to our unpracticed eyes.
We lingered in this magic garden, and spoke softly of the generations
that for nineteen centuries have found their recreation there, and we
turned often for a last look, reluctant to leave something that seemed
likely to vanish the moment one turned away.
Our hotel was on the square in which stands the arena, so that it was
but a step away at any time. We paid it one thorough visit, and sat in
the seats, and scaled the upper heights, and looked down on the spot
where tragedy and horror had been employed as means of pleasure for a
good portion of the world's history. I am sorry the Provence is still
rather cruel minded, though I believe they do not always kill the bull
now in the Sunday-afternoon fights. It is only a few times in each
season that they have a fight to the death. They had one the Sunday
before our arrival, according to the bills still posted at the entrance.
In the regular Sunday games anyone has the privilege of snatching a bow
of red ribbon from the bull's forehead. I had a fever to try it, but,
this being only Tuesday, it did not seem worth while to wait.
On the whole I think we did not find the arena at Nimes as interesting
as the one at Arles, perhaps because we had seen Arles first. It is
somewhat smaller than the Arles circus, and possibly not so well
preserved, but it is of majestic proportions, and the huge layers of
stone, laid without cement in the Roman fashion, have never moved except
where Vandal and Saracen and the building bishops have laid despoiling
hands.
Not all the interest of Nimes is ancient; Alphonse Daudet was born in
Nimes, and the city has set up a statue and named a street in his honor.
Daudet's birthplace is not on the street that bears his name, but on the
Boulevard Gambetta, one of the wide thoroughfares. Daudet's house is a
part of the Bourse du Commerce now, and I do not think it was ever the
"_habitation commode, tout ombragee de plantanes_" of which he writes so
fondly in Le Petit Chose--the book which we have been told is, in part,
at least, his own history. There is nothing now to indicate that it was
ever the birthplace of anyone, except the plaque at the door, and as we
sat reading this we realized that by a coincidence we had come at a
fortunate time. The plaque said, "Born May 13, 1840." Now, seventy-four
years later, the date was the same. It was the poet's birthday!