WE REACH TOURS
Through that golden land which lies between the Loir and the Loire we
drifted through a long summer afternoon and came at evening to a noble
bridge that crossed a wide, tranquil river, beyond which rose the towers
of ancient Tours, capital of Touraine. One can hardly cross the river
Loire for the first time without long reflections. Henry James calls the
Touraine "a gallery of architectural specimens ... the heart of the old
French monarchy," and adds, "as that monarchy was splendid and
picturesque, a reflection of the splendor still glitters in the Loire.
Some of the most striking events of French history have occurred on the
banks of that river, and the soil it waters bloomed for a while with the
flower of the Renaissance."
Touraine was a favorite place for kings, and the early Henrys and
Francises, especially, built their magnificent country palaces in all
directions. There are more than fifty chateaux within easy driving
distance of Tours, and most of the great ones have been owned or
occupied by Francis I, or by Henry II, or by one of their particular
favorites.
We did not intend to visit all of the chateaux by any means, for chateau
visiting, from a diversion may easily degenerate into labor. We
intended especially to visit Chinon, where Joan of Arc went to meet the
king to ask for soldiers, and a few others, but we had no wish to put in
long summer days mousing about old dungeons and dim corridors, or being
led through stiffly set royal suites, garishly furnished and restored.
It was better to glide restfully along the poppied way and see the
landscape presentment of those stately piles crowning the hilltops or
reflected in the bright waters of the Loire. The outward semblance of
the land of romance remains oftenest undisturbed; cross the threshold
and the illusion is in danger.
At the Central Hotel of Tours, an excellent place of modest charges, we
made our headquarters, and next morning, with little delay, set out for
Chinon and incidental chateaux. "Half the charm of the Loire," says
James, "is that you can travel beside it." He was obliged to travel very
leisurely beside it when that was written; the "flying carpet" had not
then been invented, and James, with his deliberate locomotion, was
sometimes unable to return to Tours for the night. I imagine he enjoyed
it none the less for that, lazily watching the smooth water of the wide
shallow stream, with never a craft heavier than a flat-bottomed hay
boat; the wide white road, gay with scarlet poppies, and some tall
purple flower, a kind of foxglove.
I do not remember that James makes mention of the cliff-dwellers along
the Loire. Most of them live in houses that are older, I suspect, than
the oldest chateau of Touraine. In the beginning there must have been in
these cliffs natural caves occupied by our earliest troglodyte
ancestors. In time, as mentality developed and, with it, imagination,
the original shelters were shaped and enlarged by excavation, also new
ones built, until these perpendicular banks facing the Loire became the
dwelling place for hundreds, even thousands.
They are still numerously inhabited. The rooms or houses--some of them
may be flats--range one above the other in stories, all up the face of
the cliff, and there are smoke-places and little chimneys in the fields
at the top. Such houses must have been here before the kings came to
Touraine. Some of them look very ancient; some have crumbled in; some
have been faced with stone or plaster. The cliff is honeycombed with
them. Do their occupants have traditional rights from some vague time
without date? Do they pay rent, and to whom? We might have found the
answers to these questions had we cared to seek for them. It seemed
better to content oneself with speculation. We did not visit the
cliff-dwellers of the Loire.
Neither did we visit the chateau of Luynes or of Langeais. Luynes is a
fine old feudal pile on a hilltop just below Tours, splendid from the
road, but it had no compelling history and we agreed that closer view
could not improve it. Besides, it was hot, sizzling, for a climb; so hot
that one of our aging tubes popped presently, and Narcissa and I had to
make repairs in a place where there was a world of poppies, but no shade
for a mile. That was one of the reasons we did not visit Langeais.
Langeais was exactly on the road, but it had a hard, hot, forbidding
look. Furthermore, our book said that it had been restored and converted
into a museum, and added that its chief claim on history lay in the fact
that Anne of Brittany was here married to Charles VIII in 1491. That
fact was fine to realize from the outside, under the cool shadow of
those gray walls. One could lose it among shiny restorations and stuffy
museum tapestries.
The others presently noticed a pastry shop opposite the chateau and
spoke of getting something extra for luncheon. While they were gone I
discovered a cafe below the chateau and, being pretty dry, I slipped
down there for a little seltzer, or something. The door was open, but
the place was empty. There was the usual display of bottles, but not a
soul was in sight. I knocked, then called, but nobody came. I called and
knocked louder, but nothing happened. Then I noticed some pennies lying
by an empty glass on the bar. The amount was small and I left them
there. A side door was open and I looked out into a narrow passage
opening into a court at the back. I went out there, still signaling my
distress. The sun was blazing and I was getting dryer every minute.
Finally a stout, smiling woman appeared, wiping her hands--from the
washtub, I judge. She went with me into the cafe, gathered up the loose
change on the counter, and set out refreshments. Then she explained that
I could have helped myself and left the money. Langeais is an honest
community.
Following down the Loire we came to a bridge, and, crossing to the other
bank, presently found ourselves in a country where there were no
visible houses at all. But there was shade, and we camped under it and I
did some tire repairing while the others laid out the luncheon and set
the little cooker going. Later we drowsed in the shade for an hour or
more, with desultory talk of Joan, and of Anne of Brittany, and of the
terrible Catherine de Medici, whose son the feeble Francis II had
brought his young wife, Marie Stuart, the doomed Queen of Scots, to
Chenonceaux for their honeymoon. It was strange to think that this was
the environment of those half-romantic figures of history. Some of them,
perhaps all, had passed this very spot. And so many others! the Henrys,
the Charleses, the Louises--the sovereigns and soldiers and court
favorites for four hundred years. What a procession--the pageant of the
Renaissance!