BAGNOLES DE L'ORNE, July-August.
It is lovely looking out of my window this morning, so green and cool
and quiet. I had my petit déjeuner on my balcony, a big tree in the
garden making perfect shade and a wealth of green wood and meadow in
every direction, so resting to the eyes after the Paris asphalt. It
seems a very quiet little place. Scarcely anything passing--a big
omnibus going, I suppose, to the baths, and a butcher's cart. For the
last ten minutes I have been watching a nice-looking sunburned girl with
a big straw hat tied down over her ears, who is vainly endeavouring to
get her small donkey-cart, piled high with fruit and vegetables, up a
slight incline to the gate of a villa just opposite. She has been
struggling for some time, pulling, talking, and red with the exertion.
One or two workmen have come to her assistance, but they can't do
anything either. The donkey's mind is made up. There is an animated
conversation--I am too high up to hear what they say. Finally she leaves
her cart, ties up her fruit in her apron, balances a basket of eggs with
one hand on her head, and disappears into the garden behind the gate. No
one comes along and the cart is quite unmolested. I think I should have
gone down myself if I had seen anyone making off with any of the fruit.
It is a delightful change from the hot stuffy August Paris I left
yesterday. My street is absolutely deserted, every house closed except
mine, the sun shining down hard on the white pavement, and perfect
stillness all day. The evenings from seven till ten are indescribable--a
horror of musical concierges with accordions, a favorite French
instrument. They all sit outside their doors with their families and
friends, playing and singing all the popular songs, and at intervals all
joining in a loud chorus of "Viens Poupoule." Grooms are teaching lady
friends to ride bicycles, a lot of barking, yapping fox-terriers running
alongside. There is a lively cross-conversation going on from one side
of the street to the other, my own concierge and chauffeur contributing
largely. Of course my balcony is untenable, and I am obliged to sit
inside, until happily sleep descends upon them. They all vanish, and the
street relapses into perfect silence. I am delighted to find myself in
this quiet little Norman bathing-place, just getting known to the
French and foreign public.
It is hardly a village; the collection of villas, small houses, shops,
and two enormous hotels surrounding the établissement seems to have
sprung up quite suddenly and casually in the midst of the green fields
and woods, shut in on all sides almost by the Forest of Ardennes, which
makes a beautiful curtain of verdure. There are villas dotted about
everywhere, of every possible style; Norman chalets, white and gray,
with the black crossbeams that one is so familiar with all over this
part of the country; English cottages with verandas and bow-windows;
three or four rather pretentious looking buildings with high perrons and
one or two terraces; gardens with no very pretty flowers, principally
red geraniums, some standing back in a nice little green wood, some
directly on the road with benches along the fence so that the
inhabitants can see the passers-by (and get all the dust of the roads).
But there isn't much passing even in these days of automobiles. There
are two trains from Paris, arriving at two in the afternoon and at
eleven at night. The run down from Paris, especially after Dreux, is
charming, almost like driving through a park. The meadows are
beautifully green and the trees very fine--the whole country very like
England in appearance, recalling it all the time, particularly when we
saw pretty gray old farmhouses in the distance--and every now and then a
fine Norman steeple.
There are two rival hotels and various small pensions and family houses.
We are staying at the Grand, which is very comfortable. There is a
splendid terrace overlooking the lake; rather an ambitious name for the
big pond, which does, however, add to the picturesqueness of the place,
particularly at night, when all the lights are reflected in the water.
The whole hotel adjourns there after dinner, and people walk up and down
and listen to the music until ten o'clock. After that there is a decided
falling off of the beau monde. Many people take their bath at half past
five in the morning and are quite ready to go to bed early. The walk
down in the early morning is charming, through a broad, shaded
alley--Allée de Dante. I wonder why it is called that. I don't suppose
the poet ever took warm baths or douches in any description of
établissement. I remember the tale we were always told when we were
children, and rebelled against the perpetual cleansing and washing that
went on in the nursery, of the Italian countess who said she would be
ashamed, if she couldn't do all her washing in a glass of water. It is
rather amusing to see all the types. I don't think there are many
foreigners. I hear very little English spoken, though they tell me
there are some English here. We certainly don't look our best in the
early morning, but the women stand the test better than the men. With
big hats, veils, and the long cloaks they wear now, they pass muster
very well and don't really look any worse than when they are attired for
a spin in an open auto; but the men, with no waistcoats, a foulard
around their throats, and a very dejected air, don't have at all the
conquering-hero appearance that one likes to see in the stronger sex.
The établissement is large and fairly good, but nothing like what one
finds in all the Austrian and German baths. When I first go in, coming
out of the fresh morning air, I am rather oppressed with the smell of
hot air, damp clothing, and many people crowded into little hot
bath-rooms. There are terrible little dark closets called cabinets de
repos. Many doctors in white waistcoats and red ribbons are walking
about; plenty of baigneuses, with their sleeves rolled up, showing a red
arm that evidently has been constantly in the water; people who have had
their baths and are resting, wrapped up in blankets, stretched out on
long chairs near the windows; bells going all the time, cries of
"Marie-Louise," "Jeanne," "Anne-Marie." It is rather a pandemonium. Our
baigneuse, who is called Marie-Louise, is upstairs. At the top of the
stairs there is a grand picture of the horse who discovered the
Bagnoles waters, a beautiful white beast standing in a spring, all water
lilies and sparkling water. A lovely young lady in a transparent green
garment with roses over each ear, like the head-dress one sees on
Japanese women, is holding his bridle. The legend says that a certain
gallant and amorous knight of yore, having become old and crippled with
rheumatism, and unable any longer to make a brave show in tournaments
under fair ladies' eyes, determined to retire from the world, and to
leave his horse--faithful companion of many jousts--in a certain green
meadow traversed by a babbling brook, where he could end his days in
peace. What was his surprise, some months later, to find his horse
quietly standing again in his old stable, his legs firm and straight,
his skin glossy, quite renovated. The master took himself off to the
meadow, investigated the quality of the water, bathed himself, and began
life anew with straightened limbs and quickened pulses. The waters
certainly do wonders. We see every day people who had arrived on
crutches or walking with canes quite discarding them after a course of
baths.
[Illustration: L'Etablissement, Bagnoles de l'Orme.]
The hotel is full, mostly French, but there are of course some
exceptions. We have a tall and stately royal princess with two daughters
and a niece. The girls are charming--simple, pretty, and evidently much
pleased to be away for a little while from court life and etiquette.
They make their curé quite regularly, like any one else, walking and
sitting in the Allée Dante. The people don't stare at them too much.
There are one or two well-known men--deputies, membres de
l'Institut--but, of course, women are in the majority. There is a
band--not very good, as the performers, some of them good enough alone,
had never played together until they came here. However, it isn't of
much consequence, as no one listens. I make friends with them, as usual;
something always draws me to artists. The boy at the piano looks so
thin--really as if he did not get enough to eat. He plays very well,
told me he was a premier prix of the Conservatoire de Madrid. When one
thinks of the hours of work and fatigue that means, it is rather
pathetic to see him, contented to earn a few francs a night, pounding
away at a piano and generally ending with a "cake walk," danced by some
enterprising young people with all sorts of remarkable steps and
gestures, which would certainly astonish the original negro performers
on a plantation.
The view from the terrace at night is pretty--quantities of lights
twinkling about among the trees, and beyond, always on each side and in
front, the thick green walls of the forest quite shutting in the quiet
little place. We are usually the last outside. It grows cooler as the
evening gets on, and I fancy it is not wise to sit out too late after
the hot bath and fatigue of the day.
It is a splendid automobiling country, and every afternoon there is a
goodly show of motors of all sizes and makes waiting to take their
owners on some of the many interesting excursions which abound in this
neighbourhood. We have an English friend who has brought over his
automobile, a capital one--English make--and we have been out several
times with him. The other day we went to Domfront--a lovely road, almost
all the way through woods, the forest of Audaine with its fine old trees
making splendid shade. We passed through the Étoile--well known to all
the hunting men, as it is a favourite rendezvous de chasse. It is a
lovely part of the forest, a great green space with alleys running off
into the woods in all directions. Some of them, where the ground was a
little hilly, looked like beautiful green paths going straight up to the
clouds.
We kept in the forest almost all the way--as we got near Domfront the
road rising all the time, quite steep at the end, which, however, made
no perceptible difference in our speed. The big auto galloped up all the
hills quite smoothly and with no effort. It was a divine view as we
finally emerged from the woods--miles of beautiful green meadows and
hedges stretching away on each side and a blue line of hills in the
distance. We had been told that we could see Mont St. Michel and the sea
with our glasses, but we didn't, though the day was very clear. Domfront
is a very old walled town, with round towers and a great square donjon,
perched on the top of a mountain. A long stretch of solid wall is still
there, and some of the old towers are converted into modern dwellings.
It looked out of place to see ordinary lace curtains tied back with a
ribbon and pots of red geraniums in the high narrow windows, when one
thought of the rough grim soldiers armed to the teeth who have stood for
hours in those same windows watching anxiously for the first glimpse of
an armed band appearing at the edge of the meadows. The château must
have been a fine feudal fortress in its time and has sheltered many
great personages. William the Conqueror, of course--he has apparently
lived in every château and sailed from every harbour in this part of
Normandy--Charles IX, Catherine de Medicis, and the Montgomery who
killed Henri II in tournament.
[Illustration: In Domfront some of the old towers are converted into
modern dwellings.]
It was too early to go home, so we went on to the Château de Lassay. We
raced through pretty little clean gray villages, looking peaceful and
sleepy and deserted and evidently quite accustomed to automobiles. No
one took much notice of us. There were only a few old people and
children in the streets; all the men were working in the fields
gathering in their harvest. Lassay is quite a place, with hotels, shops,
churches, and an old Benedictine convent. We left the auto in the
square, as it couldn't get up the narrow, steep little road to the
hotel. There were swarms of beggars of all ages--old women, girls,
children--lining the road before we got to the château. Monsieur B.
(deputy), who was with us, remonstrated vigorously, particularly with
stout, sturdy young women who were pursuing us, but they didn't care a
bit, and we only got rid of them once we had crossed the moat and
drawbridge and got into the court-yard, where a wrinkled and red-cheeked
old woman locked the door after us. The château is almost entirely in
ruins, but must have been splendid. There is a sort of modern
dwelling-house in the inner court, but I fancy the proprietor rarely
lives there. It is enormous. There are eight massive round towers
connected by a courtine (little green path) that runs along the top of
the ramparts. The big door that opens on the park is modern, and makes
decidedly poor effect after the fine old pointed doorway that gives
access to the great court-yard. The park, with a little care and a
little money spent on it, would be beautiful, but it is quite wild and
uncared for. There are splendid old trees, some of them covered entirely
with ivy growing straight up into the branches and giving a most
peculiar effect to the trees; ragged green paths leading to woods;
running waters with little bridges thrown over them; a splendid
vegetation everywhere, almost a jungle in some places--all utterly
neglected. The old woman took us through the "casemates"--dark stone
galleries with little narrow slits for windows or to fire through; they
used to run all around the house, connected by a subterranean passage,
but they are now, like all the rest, half in ruins. It was most
interesting. We had not the energy, any of us, to go up into the tower
and see the view--we had seen it all the way, culminating at Domfront
on the top of the mountain, and though very beautiful, it is always the
same--great stretches of green fields, hedges, and fine trees. It is a
little too peaceful and monotonous for my taste. I like something bolder
and wilder. A high granite cliff standing out in the sea, with the great
Atlantic rollers breaking perpetually against it, appeals to me much
more than green fields and cows standing placidly in little clear
brooks, and clean, comfortable farmhouses, with pretty gray Norman
steeples rising out of the woods, but my companions were certainly not
of my opinion and were enchanted with the Norman landscape. We had a
long ride back in the soft evening light. I am afraid to say how many
kilomètres we went in the three hours we were away.
It has been warm these last days. There is a bit of road absolutely
without shade of any kind we have to pass every time we go to the
établissement, which is very trying. I love the early morning walk,
everything is so fresh and the air singularly light and pure. It seems
wicked to go into that atmosphere of hot air and suffering humanity,
which greets one on the threshold of the bathhouse. To-day I have been
driving with the princess. She does not like the automobile when she is
making a cure--says it shakes her too much.
We had a pretty drive, past the château of Couterne, which is most
picturesque. A beautiful beech avenue leads up to the house, which is
built of brick, with round towers and a large pond or lake which comes
right up to the walls. It is of the sixteenth century, and has been
inhabited ever since by the same family. One of the ancestors was
"chevalier et poète" of Queen Marguerite of Navarre. I had a nice talk
with the princess about everything and everybody. I asked her if she had
ever read "The Lightning Conductor." As her own auto is a Napier, I
thought it would interest her. I told her all the potins (little gossip)
of the hotel--that people said her youngest daughter was going to marry
the King of Spain, and the general verdict was that the princess would
make "a beautiful queen." Every one is horror-struck at the murder of
the Russian Minister of the Interior, and I suppose it is only a
beginning.
This afternoon I have been walking in the lovely woods at the back of
the établissement. It is rather a steep climb to get to the point de vue
and troublesome walking, as the paths are dry and slippery and the roots
of the pine-trees that spread out over the paths catch one's heels
sometimes. Some people spend all their day high up in the pines--take up
books, seats, work, and goûter, and only come down after six, when the
air gets cooler. We saw parties seated about in all directions and had
glimpses of the white dresses, which are a uniform this year, flitting
through the trees. It was very pretty, but not like the walls of
Marienbad, with the splendid black pine forest all around and every now
and then a glimpse of a green Alm (high field on the top of a mountain),
with the peasant girl in her high Tyrolean hat and clean white
chemisette standing on the edge, with her cows all behind her and the
bells tinkling in the distance.
[Illustration: Château de Lassay.]
It was so warm this evening that we sat out until ten o'clock. We had a
visit from Comte de G., son-in-law of our friend Mrs. L.S. He lives at
Deauville, and had announced himself for Monday morning for breakfast at
twelve. He _did_ come for breakfast, but on Tuesday morning, having been
en route since Monday morning at seven o'clock. He was in an automobile
and everything happened to him that can happen to an automobile except
an absolute smash. He punctured his tires, had a big hole in his
reservoir, his steering gear bent, his bougies always doing something
they oughtn't to. He dined and slept at Falaise; rather a sketchy
repast, but as he told us he could always get along with poached eggs,
could eat six in an ordinary way and twelve in an emergency, we were
reassured; for one can always get eggs and milk in Normandy. He arrived
in a perfectly good humour and made himself very pleasant. He is an old
soldier--a cavalry officer--and doesn't mind roughing it.
The journey from Deauville to Bagnoles is usually accomplished in three
or four hours. Falaise, the birthplace of William the Conqueror, is an
interesting old town, but looks as if it had been asleep ever since that
great event. The old castle is very fine, stands high, close to the edge
of the cliff, so that the rock seems to form part of the great walls.
There is one fine round tower, and always the grass walk around the
ramparts.
The views are beautiful. Looking down from one of the narrow, pointed
windows, still fairly preserved, we had the classic Norman landscape at
our feet--beautiful green fields, enormous trees making spots of black
shade in the bright grass, the river, sparkling in the sunshine, winding
through the meadows, a group of washerwomen, busy and chattering,
beating their clothes on the flat stones where the river narrows a
little under the castle walls, and a bright blue sky overhead.
We walked through the Grande Place--picturesque enough. On one side the
Church of La Trinité, and in the middle of the Place the bronze
equestrian statue of William the Conqueror. It is very spirited. He is
in full armor, lance in hand, his horse plunging forward toward
imaginary enemies. They say the figure was copied from Queen Mathilde's
famous tapestries at Bayeux, but it looked more modern to me. I remember
all the men and beasts and ships of those tapestries looked most
extraordinary as to shape. Monsieur R. took over the young princesses
the other day in his auto. They were very keen to see the cradle of
their race. It was curious to see the descendants of the great rough
soldier starting in an auto, fresh, pretty English girls, dressed in the
trotteuses (little short skirts) that we all wear in the country,
carrying their Kodaks and sketching materials.
All this part of the country teems with legends of the great warrior.
Years ago, when we were at Deauville, we drove over to Dives to
breakfast--one gets a very good breakfast at the little hotel. We
wandered about afterward down to the sea (William the Conqueror is said
to have sailed from Dives), and into the little church where the names
of all the barons who accompanied him to England are written on tablets
on the walls. We saw various relics and places associated with him and
talked naturally a great deal about the Conqueror. On the way home (we
were a large party in a brake) one of our compatriots, a nice young
fellow whose early education had evidently not been very comprehensive,
turned to me, saying; "Do tell me, what did that fellow conquer?" I
could hardly believe my own ears, but unfortunately for him, just at
that moment we were walking up a steep hill and everybody in the
carriage overheard his remark. It was received with such shouts of
laughter that any explanation was difficult, and one may imagine the
jokes, and the numerous and fabulous conquests that were instantly put
down to the great duke's account. The poor fellow was quite bewildered.
However, I don't know if an American is bound to know any history but
that of his own country. I am quite sure that many people in the
carriage didn't know whom Pocahontas married, nor what part she played
in the early days of America. But it was funny all the same.
We have been out again this afternoon in Monsieur R.'s auto--a charming
turn. We started out by the Étoile, as Monsieur R. wanted to show it to
some gentlemen who were with us. The drive, if anything, was more lovely
than the first time, the slanting rays of the sun were so beautiful
shining through the rich green foliage, making patterns upon the hard,
white road. We raced all over the country, through countless little
villages, all exactly alike, sometimes flying past a stately old brick
château just seen at the end of a long, beech avenue, sometimes past an
old church standing high, its gray stone steeple showing well against
the bright, cloudless sky, and a little graveyard stretching along the
hillside, the roads bordered on each side with high green banks and
hedges, the orchards full of apple-trees, and the whole active
population of the village in the fields. It is a beautiful month to be
in Normandy, for one must have sun in these parts. As soon as it rains
everything is gray and cold and melancholy, the forest looks like a
great high black wall, the meadows are shrouded in mist, and the damp
strikes through one. Now it is smiling, sunny, peaceful.
We have frightened various horses to-day; a quiet old gray steed, driven
by two old ladies in black bonnets. They were too old to get out, and
were driving their horse timidly and nervously into the ditch in their
anxiety to give us all the road. However, we slowed up and the horse
didn't look as if he could run away. Two big carthorses, too, at the end
of a long line, dragging a heavy wagon, turned short round and almost
ran into us; also a very small donkey, driven by a little brown girl,
showed symptoms of flight. I don't know the names of half the villages
we passed through. Near Bagnoles we came to La Ferté-Macé, which looks
quite imposing as one comes down upon it from the top of a long hill.
The church makes a great effect--looks almost like a cathedral. Bagnoles
looked very animated as we came back. People were loitering about
shopping--quite a number of carriages and autos before the door of the
Grand Hotel, and people sitting out under the trees in the gardens of
the different villas. It was decidedly cool at the end of our outing; I
was glad to have my coat.
This morning after breakfast, in the big hall, where every one
congregates for coffee, we had a little political talk--not very
satisfactory. Everybody is discontented and everybody protests, but no
one seems able to stop the radical current. The rupture with the Vatican
has come at last, and I think might have been avoided if they had been a
little more patient in Rome. There will be all sorts of complications
and bitter feeling, and I don't quite see what benefit the country at
large will get from the present state of things. A general feeling of
irritation and uncertainty, higher taxes--for they must build
school-houses and pay lay-teachers and country curés. A whole generation
of children cannot be allowed to grow up without religious instruction
of any kind. I can understand how the association of certain religious
orders (men) could be mischievous--harmful even--but I am quite sure
that no one in his heart believes any harm of the women--soeurs de
charité and teachers--who occupy themselves with the old people, the
sick, and the children. In our little town they have sent away an old
sister who had taught and generally looked after three generations of
children. When she was expelled she had been fifty years in the town and
was teaching the grandchildren of her first scholars. Everybody knew
her, everybody loved her; when any one was ill or in trouble she was
always the first person sent for. Now there is at the school an
intelligent, well-educated young laïque with all the necessary brevets.
I dare say she will teach the children very well, but her task ends with
the close of her class. She doesn't go to church, doesn't know the
people, doesn't interest herself in all their little affairs, and will
never have the position and the influence the old religieuse had.
I am sorry to go away from this quiet little green corner of Normandy,
but we have taken the requisite number of baths. Every one rushes off as
soon as the last bath (twenty-first generally) is taken. Countess F.
took her twenty-first at six o'clock this morning, and left at ten.