BAYONNE, THE INVINCIBLE.
"I am here on purpose to visit the sixteenth century; one makes a
journey for the sake of changing not place but ideas."
In the morning, a dashing equipage rolls up to the doorway of the Grand
Hotel. A "breack" is its Gallicized English name. It has four white
horses, with bells on the harness, and the driver is richly bedight in a
scarlet-faced coat, blazing with buttons and silver lace; a black glazed
hat, and very white duck trousers. We ascend, the ladder is removed, the
porter bows, his thanks, the whip signals, and we roll out of the
court-yard for a six-mile drive northward to Bayonne.
We take the sea-road in going, following the bluff as it trends
northward, and having dazzling views of blue sky and blue water. There
is a fresh, sweet, morning breeze, which exhilarates. Truly here is the
joy of travel! Kilometre-stones pass, one after another, to the rear.
Still the road presses on, winding over the downs, or between long rows
of pines and poplars standing even and equidistant for mile after mile.
The light-house at the end of the crescent beach comes nearer. Few teams
are met, and fewer travelers; for the main highway to Bayonne, which
lies inland and by which we are to return, is shorter than this, and
draws to itself the most of the traffic.
At length, the light-house is neared, and to the right Bayonne is seen,
not far off. The breack turns to the right along the river Adour, which
here runs to the sea, and, skirting the long stone jetties, we roll
toward town by the _Allées Marines_, a wide promenade along the river,
cross the bridge, rattle through the streets, and draw up before the
hotel in the open square with a jingle and whip-cracking and general
hullaballoo which fills the street urchins with awe and gives unmixed
joy to our jolly driver.
II.
Bayonne has been a centre.
A few cities are suns, the rest planets. This, with regard to their
importance, not their size.
If Bordeaux is the sun of southwestern French commerce, Bayonne has at
least been the most important planet, with the towns and villages of a
wide district for its satellites.
Here we catch the first breath of the bracing mediæval air we shall
breathe in the Pyrenees. Bayonne has still a trace of the free,
out-of-door spirit of its lawless prime. Miniature epics, more than one,
have clustered around it. The rallying-cry, "Men of Bayonne!" has always
appealed to the intensest local pride to be found perhaps in France, and
the boast of the city still is that it has never been conquered. Looking
back to the sharp times when every near warfare centred about
Bayonne,--when feudal enmities were constantly outcropping on quick
pretexts,--when the issue always gathered itself into hand-to-hand
encounter, and was determined by personal prowess,--the boast is not
meaningless.
The Basques, who are close neighbors to Bayonne, make the same boast.
As Basques and Bayonnais were always fighting, their respective boasts
seem to be continuing the conflict. But these old feuds, desperately
bitter, were after all local and guerilla-like, and the advantages
ephemeral. At few times did either people clash arms with the other in a
general war. Thus neither conquered the other, and in peace their boasts
joined hands against all comers.
III.
Bestriding both the river Nive and the swift Adour, Bayonne seems a
healthy and healthful city, viewed in this June sunshine. But there is
little of the new about it. The horses are taken from the breack, we
leave at the hotel a requisition for lunch, and move forth for a survey.
The chief streets are wide and airy, but a turn places one instantly in
an older France. We ramble with curiosity in and out among the streets
and shops, finding no one preeminent attraction, but an infinite number
of minor ones which maintain the equation. In fact there is little for
the guide-book sight-seer in Bayonne. The cathedral leaves only a dim
impression of being in no wise remarkable. The citadel affords, it is
said, a wide-ranging view, but we prefer the arcades and the people to
the heat of the climb. The shops along the square are small but
characteristic; they are evidently for the Bayonnais themselves rather
than for strangers; this gives them their only charm for strangers. But
taken in its entirety and not in single effects, the town is wholly
pleasing. These dark, ancient arcades, its old houses, its rough-cobbled
pavements, its general appearance of fustiness, give it a charmingly
individual air.
They contrast it, however, completely with Biarritz. Bayonne is a staid
and serious city, Biarritz a youthful-hearted resort. Bayonne is
reminiscent of the past; Biarritz is alive with its present. The genie
of modern improvement has not yet come, to rebuild Bayonne. Neither
fashion nor commerce has sufficiently rubbed the lamp. It holds
unlessened its long-time population of about thirty thousand souls; it
still drives its comfortable, trade as the second port of southwestern
France; it is known as enjoying a mild commercial specialty or two, as
in the line of textiles, particularly wools and woolen fabrics; and it
displays an artless pride in its reputation for excellent chocolate. It
even pets, a little suburb of winter visitors, and it has caught some
quickening rays from the summer prosperity of its neighbor. But it will
never feel the bounding impulse of rejuvenescence that has come to
Biarritz. Bayonne has no potentialities. It will continue in its
afternoon of peace, of easy, quiet thrift, contentedly aside from the
main current of events, recounting its traditions, prodigiously and
harmlessly proud of its local prestige; like a tribal chieftain of the
homage of his clan.
[Illustration]
Basques abound in the streets, and the varied costumes to be seen show
the influence of that strange race. There are Spaniards here, too, and
Jews in plenty, mingling with the native French element. The men wear
the _berret_, a wool cap, like that of the Scotch lowlander, but
smaller. It is of dark blue or brown, and in universal use from Bordeaux
southward. When capping the Basque, particularly, with his rusty velvet
sack, crimson sash, dark knee-breeches and stockings, and the sandals or
wooden sabots worn on the feet, its effect is vividly picturesque. The
poorer women, as elsewhere on the Continent, become hard-featured and
muscular with age; saving a few beggars, they all seem to be
busy,--carrying burdens, washing linen, watching their huckster-stalls
or the dark little shops under the arcades. Here, however, the men
themselves are not idle. One seldomer sees in southern France a sight
frequent in Italy and many other parts of Europe,--that of a woman
toilsomely dragging a hand-cart or shouldering a burden while her spouse
walks idly by and smokes a thankful pipe.
Diminutive donkeys, hardy and hoarse, are in great use, and we hear in
the streets their plaintive and sonorous denunciations of men and
manners. The donkey here seems to take the place of the dog, which in
Holland and Scandinavia is taught the ways of constant and praiseworthy
usefulness. There, with a voluble old woman for yoke-fellow, he draws
the small market-carts about the streets and grows lusty-limbed in the
service. Here, the donkey does duty for both, dog and old woman, and
must develop both muscle and tongue to offset their respective
specialties.
IV.
An afternoon of peace, such towns as Bayonne have earned and gained.
This one has added few notable pages to universal history, but its own
personal biography would be an exciting one. It is worn with adventure,
and old before its time. The quarrelings of its hot youth, the tension
of strife and insecurity, the life of alarms it has lived, have aged it.
They have aged many another city of Europe, and endeared the blessing of
repose.
They were different days, those of the past of Bayonne. These streets
are narrow, the houses stoutly walled, because they were built for siege
as well as shelter. The doorways are low-browed, the stone-lined rooms
little lighter than caves, because every man's hand might rise against
his neighbor, and every man's hovel become his castle. Humanity was a
hopeless discord; individual security lay only in individual strength.
It is hard to conceive clearly the fierce life of the Darker Ages. The
rough jostling, the discomfort and pitilessness, the utter animality of
it all,--it is hard to conceive it even inadequately. The curtest
historical sweep from then to now, shows how far the world has come. The
savage unrest of slum and faubourg to-day shows too how far the world
has yet to go. Not till civilization becomes more than a veneer, will it
lose its liability to crack.
The picture is not wholly dark. There were many of the humanities. There
was culture and thought and refinement, much of it of a high type. Light
and shade,--both were strongly limned. But in the mass, it was
barbarism. For the lower classes, occupation, brawling; mental
thermometer at zero; cruelty and greed the ethical code. "You should
feel here," declares Taine,[4] "what men felt six hundred years ago,
when they swarmed forth from their hovels, from their unpaved,
six-feet-wide streets, sinks of uncleanness, and reeking with fever and
leprosy; when their unclad bodies, undermined by famine, sent a thin
blood to their brutish brains; when wars, atrocious laws, and legends of
sorcery filled their dreams with vivid and melancholy images." Hear him
tell over one of the trenchant tales from the annals of Bayonne:
[4] _Tour Through the Pyrenees_; translated by J. SAFFORD FISKE, New
York: Henry Holt & Co.
V.
"Pé de Puyane was a brave man and a skillful sailor, who, in his day,
was Mayor of Bayonne and admiral; but he was harsh with his men, like
all who have managed vessels, and would any day rather fell a man than
take off his cap. He had long waged war against the seamen of Normandy,
and on one occasion he hung seventy of them to his yards, cheek by jowl
with some dogs. He hoisted on his galleys red flags, signifying death
and no quarter, and led to the battle of Écluse the great Genoese ship
Christophle, and managed his hands so well that no Frenchman escaped;
for they were all drowned or killed, and the two admirals, Quieret and
Bahuchet, having surrendered themselves, Bahuchet had a cord tightened
around his neck, while Quieret had his throat cut. That was good
management; for the more one kills of his enemies, the less he has of
them. For this reason, the people of Bayonne, on his return, entertained
him with such a noise, such a clatter of horns, of cornets, of drums and
all sorts of instruments, that it would have been impossible on that day
to hear even the thunder of God.
"It happened that the Basques would no longer pay the tax upon cider,
which was brewed at Bayonne for sale in their country, Pé de Puyane
said that the merchants, of the city should carry them no more, and that
if any one carried them any, he should have his hand cut off. Pierre
Cambo, indeed, a poor man, having carted two hogsheads of it by night,
was led out upon the market-place, before Notre Dame de Saint-Léon,
which was then building, and had his hand amputated, and the veins
afterwards stopped with red-hot irons; after that, he was driven in a
tumbrel throughout the city, which was an excellent example; for the
smaller folk should-always do: the bidding of men in high position.
"Afterwards, Pé de Puyane having assembled the hundred peers in the
town-house, showed them that the Basques, being traitors, rebels toward
the seigniory of Bayonne, should no longer keep the franchises which had
been granted them; that the seigniory of Bayonne, possessing the
sovereignty of the sea, might with justice impose a tax in all the
places to which the sea rose, as if they were in its port, and that
accordingly the Basques should henceforth pay for passing to
Villefranche, to the bridge of the Nive, the limit of high tide. All
cried out that that was but just, and Pé de Puyane declared the toll to
the Basques; but they all fell to laughing, saying they were not dogs of
sailors like the mayor's subjects. Then having come in force, they beat
the bridgemen, and left three of them for dead.
"Pé said nothing, for he was no great talker; but he clinched his teeth,
and looked so terribly around him that none dared ask him what he would
do nor urge him on nor indeed breathe a word. From the first Saturday in
April to the middle of August, several men were beaten, as well
Bayonnais as Basques, but still war was not declared, and when they
talked of it to the mayor, he turned his back.
"The twenty-fourth day of August, many noble men among the Basques, and
several young people, good leapers and dancers, came to the castle of
Miot for the festival of Saint Bartholomew. They feasted and showed off,
the whole day, and the young people who jumped the pole, with their red
sashes and white breeches, appeared adroit and handsome. That night came
a man who talked low to the mayor, and he, who ordinarily wore a grave
and judicial air, suddenly had eyes as bright as those of a youth who
sees the coming of his bride. He went down his staircase with four
bounds, led out a band of old sailors who were come one by one,
covertly, into the lower hall, and set out by dark night with several of
the wardens, having closed the gates of the city for fear that some
traitor, such as there are everywhere, should go before them.
"Having arrived at the castle, they found the draw-bridge down and the
postern open, so confident and unsuspecting were the Basques, and
entered, cutlasses drawn and pikes forward, into the great hall. There
were killed seven young men, who had barricaded themselves behind tables
and would there make sport with their dirks, but the good halberds, well
pointed and sharp as they were, soon silenced them. The others, having
closed the gates, from within, thought that they would have power to
defend themselves or time to flee; but the Bayonne marines, with their
great axes, hewed down the planks, and split the first brains which
happened to be near. The mayor, seeing that the Basques were tightly
girt with their red sashes, went about saying, (for he was unusually
facetious on days of battle,) 'Lard these fine gallants for me! Forward
the spit into their flesh justicoats!' And, in fact, the spits went
forward so that all were perforated and opened, some through and
through, so that you might have seen daylight through them, and that the
hall, half an hour after, was full of pale and red bodies, several bent
over benches, others in a pile in the corners, some with their noses
glued to the table like drunkards, so that a Bayonnais, looking at them,
said, 'This is the veal market!' Many, pricked from behind, had leaped
through the windows, and were found next morning, with cleft head or
broken spine, in the ditches.
"There remained only five men alive, noblemen, two named D'Urtubie, two
De Saint-Pé, and one De Lahet, whom the mayor had set aside as a
precious commodity. Then, having sent some one to open the gates of
Bayonne and command the people to come, he ordered them to set fire to
the castle. It was a fine sight, for the castle burned from midnight
until morning. As each turret, wall or floor fell, the people,
delighted, raised a great shout. There were volleys of sparks in the
smoke and flames, that stopped short, then began again suddenly, as at
public rejoicings, so that the warden, an honorable advocate and a great
literary man, uttered this saying: 'Fine festival for Bayonne folk; for
the Basques, great barbecue of hogs!'
"The castle being burned, the mayor said to the five noblemen that he
wished to deal with them with all friendliness, and that they should
themselves be judges if the tide came as far as the bridge. Then he had
them fastened two by two to the arches, until the tide should rise,
assuring them that they were in a good place for seeing. The people were
all on the bridge and along the banks, watching the swelling of the
flood. Little by little it mounted to their breasts, then to their
necks, and they threw back their heads so as to lift their mouths a
little higher. The people laughed aloud, calling out to them that the
time for drinking had come, as with the monks at matins, and that they
would have enough for the rest of their days. Then the water entered the
mouth and nose of the three who were lowest; their throats gurgled as
when bottles are filled, and the people applauded, saying that the
drunkards swallowed too fast and were going to strangle themselves out
of pure greediness.
"There remained only the two men D'Urtubie, bound to the principal arch,
father and son, the son a little lower down. When the father saw his
child choking, he stretched out his arms with such force that a cord
broke; but that was all, and the hemp cut into his flesh without his
being able to get any further. Those above, seeing that the youth's eyes
were rolling, while the veins on his forehead were purple and swollen,
and that the water bubbled around him with his hiccough, called him
baby, and asked why he had sucked so hard, and if nurse was not coming
soon to put him to bed. At this, the father cried out like a wolf, spat
into the air at them, and called them butchers and cowards. That
offended them so, that they began throwing stones at him, with such sure
aim that his white head was soon reddened and his right eye gushed out;
it was small loss to him, for shortly after the mounting wave shut up
the other.
"When the water was gone down, the mayor commanded that the five bodies,
which hung with necks twisted and limp, should be left a testimony to
the Basques that the water of Bayonne did come up to the bridge and that
the toll was justly due from them. He then returned home amidst the
acclamations of his people, who were delighted that they had so good a
mayor, a sensible man, a great lover of justice, quick in wise
enterprises, and who rendered to every man his due."
VI.
One asks where were the preceding ages of civilization. Where was the
influence of Babylonia and Egypt, of Athens and of Rome? Here in
mid-Europe, nearly two thousand years after Socrates, and in the second
millenary of the white light of Christianity, men were like wolves, nay
worse, rending their prey or each other not under the lashing of hunger
but from very ferocity.
By way of contrast, take a fête given in Bayonne in happier years. An
account of it, garnered from old records, I translate from the French of
Lagrèze.[5] Elizabeth, sister of Charles IX and wife of Philip of Spain,
was returning from the Baths of Cauterets and passing through the city;
the fête was in her honor. Charles was there, the King of France, with
the queen-mother, Catherine de Medici; Marguerite of Valois, and her
future husband, the young Henry of Navarre.
[5] LAGRÈZE: _La Société et les Moeurs en Béarn._
"The place for the fête had been well chosen: it was an isle of the
Adour. In the centre, a border of ancient oaks encircling a grassy glade
framed it round into a kind of arboreal parlor. Under the shade of these
great trees, in the multitude of their leafy nooks, were disposed the
tables. That of royalty rose in the midst, elevated above all the rest;
it was reached by four grassy steps.
"Decorated barges transported the guests to the enchanted isle; at their
approach, in honor of the arrival, strains of soft music fell upon the
ear. The musicians represented Neptune, Arion, six tritons, three
sirens, and numberless minor marine deities; the sirens chanted sweet
songs of romance and chivalry, seeking to approve the fabled charm of
siren voices.
"Rivulets of water, skillfully led in along tiny grooves, serpentined
among the parterres, half hidden in rare and brilliant flowers. Dainty
shepherdesses in waiting line stretched hand in hand to the water's
edge, and formed a species of avenue leading to the table of honor.
"In advance of the retinue went Orpheus and Linus, accompanied by three
nymphs, reciting verses to their Majesties,--who had, however, at this
moment, more eyes than ears, and could not cease admiring the bevy of
shepherdesses in their picturesque costumes, brightly colored and so
varied. These shepherdesses, forming afterward into separate groups,
each group the graceful rival of the next, wore the costumes of the
different provinces and danced to music the respective dances there in
usage: those of Poitiers to the music of the bagpipe, those of Provence
to the kettle-drums, the Champenoises to the small hautboys, the violins
and the tambourines, and so for the rest.
"The aged trees which covered with shade the banqueting tables formed a
vast octagonal hall, in the centre of which rose in all its majesty a
gigantic oak-tree. At its base vaulted the jet of a fountain, the limpid
waters springing from a basin of glittering shells.
"The table of honor was taken by the king; his mother, Catherine de
Medici; the Duke of Anjou, who was afterward to become Henry III; the
Queen of Spain; Henry of Navarre, (afterward Henry IV,) and Margot, his
future wife.
"The repast was served with promptness. Six proficient bagpipe-players
went before five shepherds and ten shepherdesses, who advanced three by
three, each bearing a salver. Six stewards guided them by crooks
ornamented by flowers. Following this, eight shepherds and sixteen
shepherdesses made the service at the other tables; one and two advanced
at a time, depositing their salvers and retiring to make way for others.
"At the latter part of the repast, appeared six violin-players,
resplendent in tinseled garb; also nine nymphs of a marvelous beauty; a
swarm of musicians accompanied them, disguised as satyrs.
"Toward nightfall, to the astonishment of all, suddenly shone out a
luminous rock lit up with fantastic glow; out of which came forth as by
magic countless naiads, their soft robes glistening with jewels; they
dart out upon the sward and join in a fair and lissome dance."
But one thing was wanting to crown this princely picnic,--a storm. It
came. Says the queen Margot, who was pleased to relate herself the
details of this fête: "Envious Fortune, unable to suffer the glory of
this fair dance, hurled upon us a strange rain and tempest; and the
confusion of the sudden evening retreat by boat across the river brought
out next day as many mirthful anecdotes as the lavish festival itself
had brought gratifications."
Such was a _fête champêtre_ in the sixteenth century,--filled in with
all the luxuriant pomp and splendor which the French love so dearly.
Yet, only seven years after this scene of flowers and song, France was
in blood, and the age had darkened once more; the evil-minded De
Medicis, queen-mother and king, had given the signal for the Massacre of
St. Bartholomew.
VII.
It was Bayonne, too, whose governor, when ordered in advance by the king
to arrange for massacring the Huguenots in his city on that epoch-making
night, dared to send back a prompt and spirited refusal. "Your Majesty,"
he reported, "I have examined those under my command touching your
mandate; all are good citizens and brave soldiers, but I am unable to
find for you among them a single executioner!"
The Queen of Spain, widow of Charles II, resided here from 1706 until
1738. Many stories are told of her good-heartedness and her lavish
fondness for display. The Bayonnais were children still, and loved her
for it. She, too, gave a festival and banquet,--in honor of some Spanish
successes; "it lasted even till the next day among the people, and on
board the vessels in the river; and the windows of every house were
illuminated.... After the repast was finished," adds the grave record,
"much to the satisfaction of all, a _panperruque_ was danced through the
town. M. de Gibaudière led the dance, holding the hand of the Mayor of
Bayonne; the Marquis de Poyanne bringing up the rear; so that this dance
rejoiced all the people, who on their side gave many demonstrations of
joy."
The world has grown stiffer since, and Mayors and Marquises are no
longer wont to caper about the streets of great cities in the sportive
_abandon_ of a festival dance; in those days it seems not to have abated
a jot of their serious dignity.
Bayonne is the key to all roads south and east. It has a superb citadel.
It has been a valuable military position, has withstood seventeen sieges
in its day, and is still an important strategic point. Here were
exciting times during the Peninsular war, when Wellington on his
northward march from Spain found Bayonne in his way and undertook to
capture it. More a fancy than a fact, however, is probably the tradition
that the bayonet was invented in this locality and took its name from
the city. The story of the Basque regiment running short of ammunition
and being prompted by the exigency to insert their long-handled knives
into the musket-muzzles, has since had grave doubts cast upon its
veraciousness. This is most unfortunate, for it was a story which
travelers delighted to honor.
VIII.
It is mid-afternoon as our breack clatters out again over the paved
roadway of the bridge and we turn westward along the river for the
return to Biarritz. A few vessels stand idly moored to the quays. The
_Allées Marines_ are quiet and still; later they will be thronged. They
are the favorite promenade of Bayonne, which thus holds here a species
of daily "town-meeting" as the dusk comes on. At present we see merely a
few old women bearing panniers toward the city, and rope-makers at work
upon great streamers of hemp which stretch from tree to tree. Soon we
turn off to the southward, and are on the main highway to Biarritz.
This highway sees a considerable traffic. Bayonne furnishes carts,
Biarritz carriages. Omnibuses ply to and fro; market-barrows are drawn
frequently past; burden-bearers and peasants are met or overtaken
trudging contentedly on. The latter cheat both the omnibus and
themselves, for the fare is but a trifle, and the road hot and sandy. It
is abundantly shaded by trees, but we agree that it is far better
enjoyed _en breach_ than on foot.
This is the road once famous for the _cacolet_. It must have been a
pleasing and peculiar sight, in the years ago, to see the jolly Duchess
of Berri and her fashionable companions sociably hobnobbing with their
peasant drivers _en cacolet_ in the pleasant summer afternoons.