LE PUY
One of the finest things about a French city is the view of it from afar
off. Le Puy is especially distinguished in this regard. You approach it
from the altitudes and you see it lying in a basin formed by the hills,
gleaming, picturesque, many spired--in fact, beautiful. The evening sun
was upon it as we approached, which, I think, gave it an added charm.
We were coasting slowly down into this sunset city when we noticed some
old women in front of a cottage, making lace. We had reached the
lacemaking district of the Auvergne. We stopped and examined their work
and eventually bought some of it and photographed them and went on down
into the city. Every little way other old women in front of humble
cottages were weaving lace. How their fingers did make the little
bobbins fly!
I had never heard of a _puy_ (pronounced "pwee") before we went to the
Auvergne and I should never have guessed what it was from its name. A
_puy_ is a natural spire, or cone, of volcanic stone, shooting straight
up into the air for several hundred or several thousand feet, often slim
and with perpendicular sides. Perhaps we should call them "needles." I
seem to remember that we have something of the kind in Arizona known by
that name.
The Auvergne has been a regular _puy_ factory in its time. It was in the
Quaternary era, and they were volcanic chimneys in the day of their
first usefulness. Later--a good deal later--probably several million
years, when those flues from the lower regions had become filled up and
solidified, pious persons began building churches on the tops of them,
which would seem pretty hazardous, for if one of those chimneys ever
took a notion to blow out, it would certainly lift the church sky high.
Here at Le Puy the chimney that gives it its name is a slender cone two
hundred and eighty feet high, with what is said to be a curious
tenth-century church on the very tip of it. We were willing to take it
for granted. There are about five hundred steps to climb, and there is a
good deal of climbing in Le Puy besides that item. We looked up to it,
and across to it, and later--when we were leaving--down to it from
another higher point. I don't know why churches should be put in such
inconvenient places--to test piety, maybe. I am naturally a pious
person, but when I think of the piety that has labored up and down those
steps through rain and shine and cold and heat for a thousand years I
suffer.
We did climb the stair of the cathedral of Notre Dame de Puy, which
sweeps upward in broad majesty, like a ladder to heaven. There are over
a hundred steps, and they were originally designed so the overflow
congregation could occupy them and look into the church and see the
officiating priest. An architectural change has made this impossible
to-day, so perhaps the congregation no longer overflows. In fact, there
was a time when great pilgrimages were made to Notre Dame du Puy, and it
was then that the steps were filled. There are little shops on each rise
of this great flight--ascending with it--shops where religious charms
and the like are sold. At the earlier period the merchants displayed
their wares on small tables, and the street is called _Rue des Tables_
to this day.
The church is built of black and white stone, and has a curiously
Turkish look. It all seems very foreign to France, and indeed the whole
place was not unlike a mosque, though more somber, less inviting. It was
built in the twelfth century, and under its porch are two of the
original cedar doors, with Latin inscriptions.
I am sure Le Puy is a religious place. On every high point there is a
church or a saint, or something inspiring. A statue of Notre Dame de
France is on the highest point of all, four hundred and thirty-five feet
above the town. This statue was cast from the metal of two hundred
Russian cannons taken at Sebastopol. You can ascend to it by some six or
seven hundred steps cut in the solid rock. We did not go up there,
either. Even the statement that we could ascend another flight of steps
inside the statue and stand in its very head did not tempt us. Americans
have been spoiled for these things. The lift has made loafers of us all.
What I think we enjoyed most in Le Puy was its lacemakers. At every
turn, in every little winding street, one saw them--singly and in
groups; they were at the front of every door. They were of all ages,
but mainly, I think, they were old women. Many of them wore the Auvergne
costume--quaint hats or caps, and little shawls, and wooden shoes.
Lacemaking is the industry of the Haute-Loire district, and is said to
employ ninety thousand women. I think that is an underestimate. It
seemed to me we saw as many as that ourselves in front of those mediaeval
doorways of Le Puy.