THE GOOD WATERS OF THE ARQUEBUSADE.
_"Tant que l'on est aux baings, il fault vivre comme ung enfant,
sans nul soucy."_--MARGUERITE OF ANGOULÊME.
The road toward Eaux Bonnes retraces its steps from Eaux Chaudes almost
to Laruns, before it swings off into the other southward gorge. The ride
in all is about four miles,--two on each branch of the V. Between the
resorts is also a foot-path over the Gourzy, recommended in fine
weather; it is steep and said to be toilsome, but the view is reputed a
full compensation.
This whole valley, comprising the main depression running north from
Laruns and the narrower fissures split through to Eaux Chaudes and Eaux
Bonnes, was in Miocene times the bed of a huge glacier. It is known as
the Val d'Ossau,--"the vale where the bears come down." Bears are still
met with, it is said, in the vast forests about the foot of the Midi,
but they are shy and scarce. The _izard,_--the chamois of the
Pyrenees,--is more frequently seen and often hunted. This valley is
individual in Béarn, as Béarn is in France. In past time it was a
distinct principality, small but defiant, and it had its own line of
hereditary viscounts entirely independent of the larger province
enfolding it. The people still cherish some of the old local customs and
costumes, their native dances, and a few other past differentia of the
valley; but railroads and time are great levelers, and the Ossalois is
broadening into the Béarnais, as the Béarnais is broadening into the
Frenchman.
We speed on in the persistent rain, down between the steep sides of the
Eaux Chaudes ravine and out to the Laruns foot of the great Gourzy
ridge; and having doubled this, turn into the gorge which leads
southerly again to Eaux Bonnes. The incline is now upward once more, and
progress is slower. An entirely new torrent is rushing to greet us. From
what we gain of the scenery, between the showers, the valley, though
narrow, is wider than the one we have left, but its mountains are as
high or higher. There is a fine prospect behind us of the Laruns
amphitheatre. But the drops still patter upon our umbrellas, and we are
glad when our conveyance, after a half hour more, climbs the last hill
and rolls down into the Grande Rue along the little park in Eaux Bonnes,
to stop at the handsome Hotel des Princes.
II.
At the first, we are not sure that we are glad we came. We miss the
cosiness of good Madame Baudot's. But we soon see that Eaux Bonnes has
attractions of its own, though they be very different from the charms of
Eaux Chaudes. It is larger, busier, incomparably more fashionable. The
great entrance-hall of the hotel is hung with wide squares of tapestry,
has columns of marble and a marble flooring, and is invested with an air
of ceremonial which is rather pleasing. The rooms aid to reconcile us;
they are on the first floor, large and finely furnished, and are
directly over the entrance, their balconies overlooking the park. It is
a transition from dimity and sweet pine, but travel, like life, should
be prized sometimes for its transitions.
On the ground floor we find the parlor opening from the great hall; it
is a long, frescoed apartment, with full Continental array of gilded
mirrors and polished flooring, round, inlaid reading-tables and glossy
mahogany furniture. Our readjusted ideas of Pyrenean hotels are
sustained at their high level. The season has already reached Eaux
Bonnes, and the parlor has a refreshingly animated look with its groups
or units of talkers and readers. Across the main ball is the
dining-hall, equally long and frescoed, and beyond it a satellite
breakfast-room; and when the afternoon has worn away and the hour
announces the gastronomic event of the day, it is a goodly
representation of guests that gathers itself together at the formal
table-d'hôte.
III.
There is no mistaking the character of the next day. It is "settled
fair." Probably Nature feels that she carried affairs a trifle too far
yesterday. Everything is radiant, this morning; the leaves on the trees
glow and are tremulous in this warm southern air. Eaux Bonnes appears to
better advantage than at our rainy arrival. I cross the street to the
diminutive park, which is triangular, its apex northward. It has paths
and seats and leafy Gothic arches, fountains and a music kiosque; while
in and about are promenaders, nurses and children, guides and idlers,
already out of doors for sunbaths or business. The town mainly centres
about this triangle, the houses facing it from across the streets in a
similar triangle proportionately larger. The buildings are tall and
uniformly handsome; other hotels resembling the Princes line the western
side and the base, and opposite are diversified shops and _pensions_
and still more hotels. Livery-stables are omnipresent, the sign,
_"chevaux et voitures à louer,"_ greeting one at every turn. Along the
sides of the streets flow lively rivulets of water, led in from the
mountain slopes and fresh and clear from their clean, rocky ways. The
spring-house and Casino, a decorated structure, built against the
mountain, stands on a low eminence west of the head of the park, and
from this to our hotel extends a broad foot-way, lined with stalls and
booths, "where bright-colored Spanish wools, trinkets and toys are sold,
where bagatelle and _tir au pistolet,_ roundabouts and peepshows,--all
the 'fun of the fair,' in fact,--is set out for the amusement of idle
Eaux Bonnes." These are sure indications of fashionable prosperity.
Wherever these evanescent summer stalls appear, at Saratoga or St.
Moritz or Eaux Bonnes, they tell of patronage to call them into
being,--an idle, prosperous patronage that spends for gimcracks what the
native would economize from necessaries.
Behind all, walling the square closely in on almost every side, are the
cliffs; at the east is a lower curtain of rock shutting off the outer
valley; and on the south, almost overhanging us, shoots up the Pic de
Ger. The view of its rocky escarpments and silver peak may fairly be
called stupendous, it is so sharply at variance with the smooth
carpetings of the lower mountains about it.
I pass down through the park. At its base is a congress of single-seated
donkey-carriages like those at Biarritz. They are officered by
importunate though good-natured boys and women, but I persevere in
unruffled declinations. The street slants up a short hill here and comes
out upon another open place much smaller than the park and likewise
bordered with stores and _pensions_.
This is Eaux Bonnes, as it is, as it was, as it will be. The place
cannot grow, except into the air. Its area is little over half an acre.
It stands wedged into the Gourzy, on a species of platform in a huge
niche in the mountain, partitioned off from the main valley by the low
ridge of rock behind the houses on the farther side of the park. Save
this attractive little grove in its centre, every inch of ground is
utilized. The torrent, tearing past along the lower bottom of the main
ravine without, has cut away the level on that side; beyond it, the
mountains rise sheerly upward again. And the Gourzy, as just said, hems
us in on the sides remaining. From the rear windows of the Hotel des
Princes you can put out your hand and touch the naked rock. A few
additional houses are perched here and there on convenient projections
or lodged in narrow crannies against the hill; and blasting and cutting
have created space where it was not before; but the limit seems reached,
and what is must be Eaux Bonnes cannot afford to increase in popularity.
Popularity has seriously incommoded her already. Like a full-bodied but
tight-bodiced dowager, she devoutly hopes she will not have to grow any
fatter.
As I saunter back through the park, I meet a striking individual. It is
one of the local guides arrayed in full regimentals. His startling
colors are designed to attract the wary but inquisitive tourist,--much
as the waving of the hunter's colored scarf is said to attract the wary
but inquisitive gnu. Still it is the true Ossalois dress, and as such
claims inspection. I open a conversation, and find the man to be one of
the four Eaux Bonnes guides having the honor of mention in Murray;
Caillou Martin is his name. A broad, good-humored face, swarthy and
strong, with the eyes dark and small and far apart, and shaded by the
inevitable berret. Caillou's is scarlet, and so is his jacket, thrown
open in flapping lappels and showing a white flannel waistcoat beneath.
He wears knee-breeches of brown corduroy, and thick creamy-white
leggings, coarsely knit and climbing up over ankle and calf nearly to
the knee. He has hemp sandals, and around the waist circles a scarlet
sash, equally inevitable with the berret.
Caillou grins as I tell him of Murray's encomiums, and wants us to go up
the Pic de Ger. The day is _"magnifique"_, the ascent _"très facile"_
the view _"ravissante_." And each adjective is set off with a rattling
fusillade of crackings from his great whip. This weapon is a specialty
of all Pyrenean guides and drivers. The handle, short and stout, is of
wood, with a red plush tuft around the centre, and the lash is made of
braided leather thongs, four or five feet in length, finishing in a long
whipcord and a vicious little knot. This instrument will make a crack
like a pistol shot, and under artistic manipulation will signal as far
as Roland could wind his famous horn. It is worn slung over the shoulder
and under the opposite arm, the handle in front linking by a loop with
the lash; and it fitly completes a highly picturesque costume. We
bargain for the whip on the spot, a five-franc piece changes hands, and
Caillou Martin graciously writes his honored autograph on the handle.
[Illustration]
IV.
Some of us have planned a return to Eaux Chaudes for the day. One of its
characteristic excursions we have not yet taken; the strange village of
Goust is unvisited. This hamlet, situated on a mountain-side near Eaux
Chaudes, is described by M. Moreau as "a species of principality, tiny
but self-governing, similar to certain duchies of the confederation
without their budget and civil list," a box within a box, it would
appear,--a spot independent of its Valley of Ossau, as Ossau was of
Béarn, and Béarn of France. It has lived always in the most utter
aloofness from the world's affairs; it still so lives to-day. It is
noteworthy too for its old people; Henry IV granted to one of them, born
in 1442, a life pension which, it is credibly recorded, was not
extinguished until 1605.
We have a strong curiosity to visit this unique settlement, solitary,
indifferent to time and its new ways, Nature's "children lost in the
clouds." So I gladden one of the anxious liverymen with an order, and
soon a comfortable carriage is taking us back down the hills toward
Laruns. We can dwell this morning on the view of that village and its
green basin, as we glide down along the side of the valley with the
distant specks of houses always in front. We dwell too with more
comprehension on the heights and depths of the Eaux Chaudes ravine, as
we turn the foot of the V and pull steadily upward and inward again.
There is Madame Baudot at the doorway, hearing the distant wheels, ready
to welcome us with all her heart; there appear her daughter, Madame
Julie, and the rubicund serving-woman; and even the square, white cap of
the chef bobs up and down behind them, within the hall.
The carriage is moored, the horses are unshipped, wraps and overcoats
speedily unladen and left in bond. The good women promise us the best of
lunches on our return, and we are fairly afoot down the road toward the
Bridge of Hell,--hearts and highway equally paved with good intentions.
The sun is full but not oppressive, a breeze is stirring, and there is a
flood of vitality, a buoyancy and light-heartedness, about these bright
mountain mornings, as one strides on, "breathing the free air of
unpunctuality," which animates to high deeds and heroic resolve.
* * * * *
The deed now in prospect is high, but not superlatively heroic. The
hamlet we seek is stowed away upon the mountain-side across the ravine
from Eaux Chaudes, 3000 feet above the sea, and will require a climb of
perhaps three-quarters of an hour. We cross the diabolic
Bridge,--_"facilis_ ascensus,"
"The gates of Hell are open night and day,
Smooth the _ascent_ and easy is the way,"--
and shortly strike off from the road and up among the bushes. There is a
well-worn pathway, and it toils easily skyward, doubling back on itself
to rest and unrolling wider and wider vistas of the valley. The Gourzy
across the chasm enlarges its proportions as we rise. Here comes a
peasant or two posting valley-ward, going to his world-centre, the
metropolis of Eaux Chaudes, or perchance even on to the
universe-hub,--Laruns. Birches and beeches mingle everywhere with the
darker, green of the fir-trees; alders and oaks and hazels are abundant;
among all run the heavy growths of box. Tree life is profuse and rich on
these warm lower flanks of the range, while wild flowers and butterflies
tempt one to constant digressions. The path grows steeper. After all,
"to ascend, to view the cheerful skies
In this the task and mighty labor lies."
Virgil must have had this very occasion prophetically in mind:
"To few great Jupiter imparts this grace,--And
those of shining worth and heavenly race!
Betwixt those regions and our upper light,
Deep forests and impenetrable night
Possess the middle space; the infernal bounds
Cocytus with his sable waves surrounds,"--
Cocytus being an evident euphemism for the Gave.
We meet another peasant, this time a woman, who stares and replies that
Goust is very near. Another incline is mounted, we come out upon an
uneven break of pasture-land, and our destination is at hand.
We are not positive as to this at first. Eight hoary, grey-stone hovels
are before us, a few rods away, and the path passing along the side of a
high stone wall goes on to their doors. We follow it, finding the way
grown muddy and stony, and finally stop inquiringly before the
cellar-like opening of the most prominent "hutch." So this is the
principality of Goust! A woman has been peering at us from over the wall
we have passed by, and now our arrival brings other women to their
respective doors, to stare in the unison of uncertainty. Approaching, I
doff my hat, and politely explain that we are visitors, that we have
come from America to see this settlement, and that any courtesies they
may extend will be considered as official by the nation we represent.
The dumb neutrality of the beldames, at this, is soon dispelled by our
friendly interest, and they gradually come out and group around us in
the mud of the path, with interest no less friendly and even greater.
Their faces are intelligent and shrewd and practical; there is abundance
of wise if narrow lore lined out in those strong, crude features. Their
frames are brawny; they are used to work. They are those who fill, and
fill faithfully, their single niches, living moveless, as the trees;
change, new surroundings, the world, they have not known. Their life has
cut its one deep dent and there it is hidden,--as boulders sink their
way into the glacier-fields.
But evidently it is we who are the chief curiosity,--not they. The
dresses of the ladies are unobstrusively but openly admired,--gloves and
hat-pins discussed in detail, in an unintelligible patois. I inquire how
many people there are in the village; what they find to do; whether they
are not lonely, so far from the world. They answer my queries in
unconfused French, speaking both this and their patois, and even ask
respectful questions in turn. There are about seventy people who live
here, they say, but most of them are away in the fields during the day;
the women at home weave silk, to be taken to the valley for sale. They
are nearly all related by marriage (alliés) or by blood to each other;
they are governed by a little council of old men; there is no chief, nor
anyone superior to the authority of the council; it regulates the duties
of each. They know of no taxes of any kind to pay; they always marry
within the village, except where the patriarchs may grant a dispensation
with an outsider; yes, they have many old people here, one or two very
old indeed, though none so old as a hundred and sixty-three,--the age of
King Henry's ancient pensioner.
But the other questions we put are too large or too novel to grasp. They
do not apparently know what I mean by being lonely. The conception has
never occurred to them. Nor do they think they are far from the world.
They go down to the valley beneath, at times, they tell us; and on
feast-days and for the rustic August dances they have even been to
Laruns; the men cross the Gourzy to Eaux Bonnes, and they have all often
heard long descriptions of Cauterets and Pan.
The interest of our hostesses in their unwonted visitors is manifestly
as great as ours in them, and there is a curious zest in gratifying it.
Yes, we are traveling in France; we have come from America to travel; we
have been to Pau and Eaux Bonnes, and are going on to Cauterets and
through other parts of the Pyrenees,--it was a bold undertaking! They do
not find a reason for it at all. One of them is familiar with America,
she says, for she once knew of some one who went there--to Buenos Ayres.
They are well-intentioned and free and happy, and never think of envy as
they query these cometary strangers.
The camera focuses their wonder. We show them the reflections on the
ground-glass,--the houses, the waving leaves, each other's faces. It is
incredible! We open the box and explain the structure of the monster.
Finally we boldly ask for a sitting, and after some urging and bashful
demurring, these belles and dames of Goust coyly group themselves by a
felicitous doorway, and--veritable "flies in amber"--are perpetuated for
posterity.
"Will messieurs and mesdames come within?" A matron speaks. It is what
we have been hoping, and we follow eagerly, escorted by the troupe.
Inside the door it is blackness. We tread an earth-floor, and by sounds
and scents infer that this is the stable. We pass up some dark,
uncertain stairs, and stand in the living-room of the family. It is
long, dark and low-ceiled. The rafters are discolored with smoke, the
board-floor with wear, the walls with strings and festoons of onions and
native herbs. Ears of maize and great sides of beef and pork hang drying
from above. In the dim rear are two pine bed-frames, with spreads of
sackcloth and plaid canopies; nearer are sets of shelves lined with
trenchers and earthen crockery in formal array, while a wood-fire
smoulders on the wide hearth in front between the window-openings,
fortified with a primitive crane and kettle of strange designs and
unrecorded antiquity, and with various pots and pans. Everything seems
clean. Our hostess, pleased at entertaining distinguished and
appreciative visitors, draws out a wooden bench for us, and attempts to
rouse the sleepy flames.
It is a significant, a typical scene. These peasants of France, with
their honest, unspiritualized faces, are showing their life,--frugal and
voiceless; bounded, but rarely pinched; in dusk, but seldom in dark; and
with all, contentful, industrious, religious, and wishing no ill to any
of mankind. This hamlet and home is an over-accented instance; the
lowland French peasants have more interchange, wider thoughts and
interests, and many of them more prosperous abodes. Yet the scene before
us stands for thousands of meek cabins in solitary places scattered
through France. This exile-life of Goust tells its patient lesson,
touching, and at the same time reassuring; and I am very certain that in
all its limitations it is higher, as it is happier, than that of a
poverty-soured mécontent of the Quartier Belleville in Paris.
[Illustration: THE BELLES AND DAMES OF GOUST]
A younger woman of the family is now commissioned to produce their
treasured adornments for inspection. From an obscure adjoining room a
small chest is brought out and placed upon the floor before us, and the
eager girl, kneeling by it, proceeds to display the contents. Carefully
she takes out and unfolds a headdress of bright striped silk, to be
passed admiringly around; and two or three other head-dresses follow,
also of silk or of sharp-colored wools. We ask when these are worn, and
learn that they are chiefly hoarded for gala-days and saints'-days. The
large scarlet capulet comes next, and one of the women dons it to show
the effect. Then appear a scarf and two light shoulder-mufflers, made of
the true Barèges wool, a specialty of the Pyrenees, soft and
fascinatingly downy. These are followed by a few neatly-rolled ribbons,
brought over at different times from Spain, which are duly unstreamed;
some silver pins and a chain, and a rosary; worsted mittens, and a pair
of men's white knee-stockings, similar to Caillou's. But the gem of the
collection, reserved for the climax, is a brocaded silk shawl, a really
handsome article and handled with great reverence. The proud owner
assures us that it is valued at seventy francs and has been handed down
in the household for many years; and her listening neighbors, standing
respectfully behind us, murmur their assent and admiration.
We not only show but feel a warm interest in every detail, and praise
each article as it is produced. Our new friends are clearly as much
pleased as we; they seldom see strangers, and more seldom any who
sympathize thus with their privations and prides, and this will be a
long-remembered event in their small community. Our hostess is much
gratified when we give her little boy a silver piece,--we can see that
she had no thought of favors; and before we take leave we present her
with a crimson handkerchief of India silk, owned by one of the party,
at which she is fairly overjoyed. That, we tell her, is to go into the
treasure-chest, as a little reminder of her foreign visitors. They press
on us offers of milk and other refreshment, but we are mindful of the
lunch preparing for us in the valley, and inform them why we must
decline. We promise to send our hostess a print of the photograph, and
bid a cordial adieu; and as we descend the stairs and move off down the
path, we are given a half-wistful and most earnest farewell from them
all.
* * * * *
Madame Baudot is true to her word. On her table is the most appetizing
of tiffins; and after it we have another talk through the office window.
As she knits, she asks us about our plans, makes suggestions for the
coming ride over the great Route Thermale, and wishes us not only a
prosperous journey but a return in later years to Eaux Chaudes and the
Pic du Midi. For herself and her household, they are here the winter
through, as there may be always a few comers; but it is dull and
bitterly cold; they are often shut away for days from the lower valley,
and she is glad with the coming of summer.
And so we drive away again from genial Eaux Chaudes, waving, as we turn
the corner, to the warm faces at the doorway, the bouquets they have
given us at parting.
V.
We find Eaux Bonnes at its best as we return. The early afternoon siesta
is over, and every one is out of doors. The sunshine pours over the
little park, filled with fashionable loungers. Uniforms and afternoon
toilettes add their tart hues to the sombrer garb of the male civilian.
The little donkey-carriages or vinaigrettes are in great demand, and one
by one are coming or going with their single occupants, the attendant
Amazon, if desired, running by the side. Saddle-horses are also in
requisition; the sidewalks have an animated air; booths and
gaming-stalls are in-good swing; the springs are being dutifully
patronized; motion, Heraclitus' flux and flow, is the mark of the hour.
The transition seems even greater than yesterday's, from Eaux Chaudes;
and, glad in the charms of the latter, we are glad too to return again
to the world and its harmless vanities.
After the evening dinner, we explore the street on the other side of the
triangle. We find a narrow cut in the rocks behind the houses, and,
passing through, a few steps bring us out upon the view of the main
ravine, from which this narrow curtain of rock shuts off the town. The
contrast is instantaneous. From the hemmed-in nest of streets we have
suddenly emerged upon the long sweep of the valley below us, finely
commanded by the ledge where we stand. The level plunges off abruptly
down to the Gave, which speeds toward Laruns, "leaping through a wild
vegetation and 'shepherding her bright fountains' down a hundred falls."
A few houses cluster on the hill as it goes down and at its base, but
the torrent is again banked in by the mountain opposite, which climbs
high above our own level. There is a long view up and down the valley,
still and quiet in the gloaming. The night falls almost while we linger,
and at length we turn back through the cut and saunter again across the
park.
Passing the line of booths, we keep on toward the Casino, which is
elevated some feet above the street in front. Its windows are lighted
up; people are entering the building; a concert is about to commence.
Before following them we pause for a while upon the terrace to turn and
face the Pic de Ger. Erect and regal, its height throws it, alone among
the surrounding mountains, into the full evening after-light; its
precipices and white summit are all aflame still with the red sun,
already lost to the valley. The great peak glows like the sacred pillar
of fire by night, and we cannot but gaze at it long and reverently.
VI.
Sunday is more quietly kept by Eaux Bonnes than might be expected. The
little French chapel has its service, and there is a certain staidness
about the morning which is unlooked-for and refreshing. The shops,
however, are open as always; the vinaigrette-dragowomen as energetic as
commonly; and in the afternoon the band plays in the kiosque as it does
on week-days. In fact, except for this certain staider air, the place
like other Continental resorts does on Sunday very much the things which
it does on other days of the week.
The springs of course are as regularly sought. Their routine cannot
yield to religious institutes. These waters are chiefly useful in throat
and lung diseases, though the baths are healing for abrasions and
wounds. Both hot and cold waters are here; at one spot, oddly enough,
the two temperatures well up close together. The springs have long been
known, and anciently, as now, they were more popular than those of the
sister valley. One of the kings of Navarre sent hither disabled soldiers
from his wars in Italy; many had been wounded by the arquebus, then a
new weapon, and from the cures effected, the waters were called after
its name. They are seven in number, ardently sulphureous and officiously
odorous. They are not to be dealt with in the spirit of levity of Eaux
Chaudes' "sober young German": fifty glasses are not lightly to be
tossed off. "Caution is necessary," warns Murray, "in using these
waters; bad consequences have arisen from a stranger taking even a
glassful to taste. It is usual to begin with a table-spoonful and a
half!"
Habit, however, makes even the lion-tamer fearless: these invalids buy
their course tickets, entitling to cure, concert and écarté; and they
bathe and gamble and engulf their deadly draughts with the immunity of
long familiarity.
A distinctive attraction of Eaux Bonnes is its abundance of promenades.
There are walks of all grades of difficulty. One can mount to a
summer-house or to the summit of the Pic de Ger. If he does not want to
mount at all, he can walk for half a league along a perfect level,--the
Promenade Horizontale. This walk is unique among walks. It was
artificially laid out for precisely such people,--those who do not want
to ascend and descend. It runs back around the bend of the Gourzy
overlooking the Laruns hollow, the carriage-road grooving its way down
far below it. In this region of angles and slants, this marvelous path
moves leisurely forward, plane as a spirit-level, broad and well kept,
shaded with trees, relieved with benches, and affording inspiring views
throughout. Each of the promenades has its view and its cascade and
almost its hour. With so many idlers, it is easily believed that each is
duly popular. And when one tires of promenades or of liveliness or even
of fine weather,--can he not easily drive to Gabas?
"We are all kept in good order here," observes Blackburn, in his
account of the Pyrenees resorts; "everything is _en règle_ and _au
règle,_ and if we stay a whole season we need not be at a loss how to
get through the days. It is all arranged for us; there is the particular
promenade for the early morning, facing the east; the exact spot to
which you are to walk (and no farther) between the time of taking each
glass of water; the after-breakfast cascade, the noon siesta, the ride
at three, another cascade and more water or a bath at four, promenade at
five, dinner at six, Promenade Horizontale until eight, then the Casino,
balls, 'société,' écarté, or more moonlight walks,--and then decidedly
early to bed."
Caillou and the liverymen predict a fine to-morrow for the long
carriage-journey we have planned. The breeze is resolutely east, they
say. This fact seems anything but convincing to us, accustomed to the
weather signs of the west Atlantic seaboard. But here, as is quickly
explained, the reversed signs prevail, and it is the _west_ wind that
dampens feathers and the spirits of rheumatics.
The band on Sunday plays at night as well as in the afternoon, and as
the music, though secular, cannot be excluded, we throw open the windows
and frankly welcome it as we sit in our balconies overlooking the
lighted park in the mild evening air. The band plays well, and people
throng the paths and listen appreciatively. Two overtures, a waltz
movement, the _Melody in F_, a march, and a cornet obligate which is
vigorously applauded, may serve as index of the unpartisan scope of
selection. Music is enjoyed to the full in Europe; many a well-to-do
city fosters its orchestra and has its public music-stand in the square
or in the Volksgarten. In Bordeaux, workmen and mechanics, small
urchins and sailors from the quays, fringed the more aristocratic circle
of chairs, and listened as intently and as seriously as a Thomas
audience at home. It cannot but have a humanizing effect. These
listeners below us,--and so with the rough populace of Bordeaux,--have
become tranquilized, soothed, softened; the buzz of harsh or random talk
dies down; all faces are turned for the time to the common centre, all
thoughts mingle in a common stillness of enjoyment.