THE CENTER OF FRANCE
It is grand driving from Le Puy northward toward Clermont-Ferrand and
Vichy. It is about the geographical center of France, an unspoiled,
prosperous-looking land. Many varieties of country are there--plain,
fertile field, rich upland slopes. All the way it is picture
country--such country as we have seen in the pictures and seldom
believed in before. Cultivated areas in great squares and strips, fields
of flowers--red, blue, white--the French colors; low solid-looking
hills, with little cities halfway to the summit, and always, or nearly
always, a castle or two in their midst; winding, shining rivers with
gray-stone bridges over them, the bright water appearing and reappearing
at every high turn.
Our road made no special attempt to reach the towns. We viewed them from
a distance, and there were narrower roads that turned in their
direction, but our great national highway--it was No. 9 now--was not
intended for their special accommodation. When it did reach a town it
was likely to be a military center, with enormous barracks--new, many of
them--like those at Issoire, a queer old place where we spent the night
and where I had a real adventure.
It was my custom to carry under the back seat a bottle of Scotch whisky
in event of severe illness, or in case of acute motor trouble. For
reasons I do not at the moment recall--perhaps the cork had leaked--our
supply seemed low at Issoire, and I decided to see what I could find. I
had little hope, for in France even the word "whisky" is seldom
recognized. Still, I would make diligent inquiry, our case being pretty
desperate. There was not enough in the bottle to last till morning-- I
mean, of course, in case anything serious should happen.
I had the usual experience at the cafes. The attendants repeated the
word "whisky" vaguely, and in various ways, and offered me all sorts of
gayly tinted liquids which I did not think would cure anything I was
likely to have. I tried a drug store, where a gentle pharmacist listened
awhile to my French, then dug out from the back of a lower drawer a
circular on Esperanto. Imagine!
I was about ready to give it up when I happened to notice a low, dim
shop the shelves of which seemed filled with fancy bottles. The place
had an ancient, mellow look, but I could see at a glance that its
liquids were too richly colored for my taste--needs, I mean. I could
try, however.
The little gray man who waited on me pronounced the word in several ways
and scratched his head.
"_Wisky_," he said, "_visky-viskee!_"
Then he seemed to explode. A second later he was digging a dusty book
out of a dusty pile, and in a moment was running his fingers down a
yellow page. I dare say it was an old stock list, for suddenly he
started up, ran to a dark, remote shelf, pulled away some bottles, and
from the deeper back recesses dragged a bottle and held it up in
triumph.
"_Voila!_" he said, "_veeskee! Veeskee Eereesh!_"
Shades of St. Patrick! It was old Irish whisky--old, how old--perhaps
laid in by his grandfather, for a possible tourist, a hundred years
before. I tried to seem calm--indifferent.
"_Encore?_" I said.
But no, there was no _encore_--just this one. The price, oh yes, it was
four francs.
Imagine!
Issoire is a quaint place and interesting. I shall always remember it.
To motorists Clermont-Ferrand is about the most important city in
France. It is the home of tire manufacturers, and among them the great
benevolent one that supplies the red road book, and any desired special
information, free. We felt properly grateful to this factory and drove
out to visit it. They were very good to us; they gave us a brand-new
red-book and a green-book for Germany and Switzerland. The factory is a
large one, and needs to be. About four-fifths of the cars of Europe go
rolling along on its products, while their owners, without exception,
use its wonderfully authentic guides. Each year the road books
distributed free by this firm, piled one upon the other, would reach to
a height of more than five miles. They cover about all the countries,
and are simply priceless to the motorist. They are amusing, too. The
funny fat motor man made of tires, shown in little marginal drawings and
tailpieces in all the picturesque dilemmas of the road, becomes a
wonderfully real personality on short acquaintance. We learned to love
the merry Michelin man, and never grew tired of sharing his joys and
misfortunes.
Clermont-Ferrand is also the home of a man with two wooden legs that
need oiling. I know, for he conducted us to the cathedral, and his
joints squeaked dismally at every step. I said I would go back to the
car and get the oil can, but he paid no attention to the suggestion. He
also objected to the tip I gave him, though I could not see why an
incomplete guide like that, especially one not in good repair, should
expect double rates. Besides, his cathedral was not the best. It was not
built of real stone, but of blocks of lava from the _puys_ of the
neighborhood.
We came near getting into trouble descending a hill to Vichy. The scene
there was very beautiful. Vichy and the river and valley below present a
wonderful picture. Absorbed in it, I was only dimly conscious of an old
woman trudging along at our left, and did not at all notice a single
chicken quite on the opposite side. In any case I could not well know
that it was her chicken, or that it was so valuable that she would risk
her life to save it. She was a very old person--in the neighborhood of
several hundred, I should think, wearing an improperly short skirt, her
legs the size and shape of a tightly folded umbrella, terminating below
in the largest pair of wooden shoes in the world. Familiar with the
habits of chickens, she probably thought her property would wait till we
were opposite and then start to race across in front of the car. To
prevent this she decided to do it herself! Yet I suppose if I had
damaged that prehistoric old lady, instead of missing her by the breadth
of half a hair, her relatives would have made us pay for her at fancy
rates.
We did not tarry at Vichy. It is a gay place--stylish and costly, and
worth seeing a little, when one can drive leisurely through its clean,
handsome streets. Perhaps if we could have invented any maladies that
would have made a "cure" necessary we might have lingered with those
other sallow, sad-eyed, stylish-looking people who collect in the
pavilions where the warm healing waters come bubbling up and are
dispensed free for the asking. But we are a healthy lot, and not
stylish. We drove about for a pleasant hour, then followed along evening
roads to St. Germain des Fosses, where the Hotel du Porc was a wayside
inn of our kind, with clean, quiet rooms, good food--and prices, oh,
very moderate indeed! But I do wonder why garages are always put in such
inconvenient places. I have driven in and backed out of a good many in
my time, and I cannot now recall more than one or two that were not
tucked away in an alley or around some impossible corner, making it
necessary to scrape and writhe and cringe to get in and out without
damaging something. I nearly knocked a corner from an out-house in St.
Germain, backing out of its free and otherwise satisfactory garage.