nearly two thousand years. It has been gnawed at by snow and bitten by
frost. It has been slashed by lightning and shaken by earthquake. It has
been shattered by hammers and picks, has been torn asunder by crowbars,
cracked with fire and rent by gun-powder, but still it stands and still
it will stand to the end of time.
That this ruinous old tower should have become, in early days, a thing
of myths and mysteries can be no matter of surprise. That its colonnade
was haunted, that its black hollows were the abode of a god and that its
statues spoke in the local tongue was the belief of generations. That it
was a place to fear and to be avoided at night was a maxim impressed
upon every boy and girl as soon as they had ears to hear and feet that
could flee.
The most remarkable quality of the trophy was the intimate knowledge of
a certain kind that it was reputed to possess. Owing to this attribute
it became an oracle. One of the statues—that of a god—could speak and
was prepared (under conditions) to reply to appropriate questions. It
must not be supposed that the tower of the Emperor Augustus became a
mere inquiry office. It specialised in knowledge and the deity who
presided would deal only with matters that came within the province of
this particular phase of wisdom.
One might hazard the guess that the fullest information that the
monument had acquired during its many years of life would relate to
assault and battery, and, in a less exhaustive degree, to battle, murder
and sudden death. On all questions relating to violence as displayed by
man it could claim to speak as an expert. It is curious, however, that
on this subject the speaking statue was silent. It professed to have a
knowledge of one thing and one thing only and that was not violence but
human love. But even in this branch of learning it specialised for it
dealt exclusively with but a phase of the subject—the constancy and
sincerity of women.
The broken colonnade was no doubt a favourite resort for lovers and a
listening statue could learn much as to the value of vows and would
gain, during a life of centuries, experience on the topic of women’s
fidelity. It was upon this occult, most difficult and complex subject
that the oracle had the courage to speak.
It thus came to pass that doubting husbands were in the habit of
repairing to La Turbie in order to ask personal and searching questions
about their wives. How the oracle was “worked” is not known. That it was
susceptible to influences which still have a place in human affairs is
very probable. Light is thrown upon the methods of the oracle by the
writings of one Raymond Feraud, a troubadour, who in the thirteenth
century composed a poem on this very subject.[43] The morality revealed
by the writer—it may be said—belongs to that century, not to this.
It appears from the troubadour’s account that Count Aymes, a prince of
Narbonne, was a jealous man and probably, as a husband, very tiresome.
He had some doubts as to the fidelity of his wife Tiburge and one day
alarmed this cheerful lady by announcing that he proposed to drag her to
La Turbie and to ask the stone deity certain pertinent questions as to
her recent behaviour. Tiburge was a lady of resource and before the
inquiry at La Turbie took place she started for the Lerin Islands and
sought an interview with no less a personage than St. Honorat. What
exactly took place between the saint and the light-hearted lady, during
the meeting, the troubadour does not say. Anyhow Tiburge made such
confessions to St. Honorat as she thought fit, with the result that the
saint absolved her, cheered her up, called her “chère fille” and assured
her that all would be well. To make matters more certain St. Honorat
gave her the lappet of his hood and told her to wear it on her head
during the anxious inquiry at La Turbie. He assured her that with this
piece of cloth on her pretty hair the “idole” would not dare to make any
offensive observations. Furnished with this unfashionable head-dress the
countess, cheerful to the extent of giggling, joined her morose husband
and toiled up to La Turbie.
The Count Aymes asked the “idole” a number of most unpleasant questions
which might have been very trying to the lady had she not been comforted
by the brown rag on her head. The answers of the oracle—awaited with
anxiety by the husband and with a smile by the lady—were very
reassuring. Indeed the “idole” gave the lady a kind of testimonial and a
certificate of character that was, under the circumstances, almost too
florid. He said she was a _dame de grand mérite_ and treated the count’s
innuendoes as unworthy of a consort and as reprehensible when applied to
a woman of blameless life. He added that a lady whose head was covered
by a vestment belonging to so sainted a man as St. Honorat must be above
reproach. His manner of dealing with this delicate affair suggests to
the vulgar mind that there must have been some collusion between the
recluse on the island and the “idole” in this dilapidated old tower.
Anyhow the count and the countess returned home in the best of spirits
and one may assume that on the way she said more than once “I told you
so.” When he asked “Why don’t you throw that beastly bit of old cloth
away?” she would reply “Oh! I think I will keep it. I may want to use it
again.”
-----
[41] “Chorographie du Comté de Nice,” by Louis Durante, 1847.
[42] A further account of the trophy is given in the chapter which
follows.
[43] “Mon Pays, etc.,” by D. Durandy.
XXX
LA TURBIE OF TO-DAY
LA TURBIE is a little compact town of the Middle Ages. Its narrow
streets are disposed as they have been for centuries. It is entered by
five gates. It has no straggling suburbs. It is complete in its tiny way
and captain of itself. It lies enveloped by its walls, a warm, living
thing whose heart has beaten within these encircling arms for over 2,000
years. It is quiet, for the world has left it alone. It stands by the
side of the Great Corniche Road, but those who pass by in an eddy of
dust heed it not. One might walk through it many times, from gate to
gate, without meeting a living creature.
Yet at the foot of the hill on which La Turbie stands is Monte Carlo,
the most modern of modern abodes of men. A town without walls, lying
scattered in all directions like a great drop of bright paint that has
fallen on a rock and spattered it. Here are the hubbub of Vanity Fair,
the frou-frou of silks, the flash of bold pigments, the scent-tainted
air.
[Illustration: LA TURBIE: THE OLD BAKEHOUSE.]
Let such as are tired of this Vanity Fair and of its make-believe
palaces, climb up to the hill town. As they pass through the old gateway
they enter into a world that was, into a town where the streets are
silent and the houses homely and venerable. The blaze of clashing
colours is forgotten, for all here is grey. The bold, imperious purple
of the sea is changed for the tender forget-me-not blue of a strip of
sky above the roofs. The dazzle of the sun is beyond the gate, but
within are shadows as comforting as “the shadow of a rock in a weary
land.” Such light as enters falls upon an old lichen-covered wall, upon
the arch of a Gothic window and upon simple things on balconies—a
garment hanging to dry, a bird-cage, a pot of lavender. To those who are
surfeited with riot and unreality La Turbie is a cloister, a place of
peace.
Outside the town, on the east, is the Cours St. Bernard, so named after
an ancient chapel to St. Bernard which stood here. The town is entered
by the gate called the Roman Gate, for it was by this way that the Roman
road passed into La Turbie. The gate, which dates from the Middle Ages,
has a plain, pointed arch and over it the remains of a tower. The old
road passed through the town from east to west along the line of the
present Rue Droite and left it by the Nice Gate which has also a pointed
arch and a tower and which belongs to the same period as the Portail
Romain. There are some fine old houses, strangely mutilated, in the Rue
Droite and one elegant window of three arches supported by dainty
columns. This pertains to a house at the corner of the Rue du Four.
The Rue du Four, or Bakehouse Street, enters the town from the Corniche
Road by a modern gate passing under the houses. In this street is the
ancient public bakehouse, a queer, little building, low and square, with
a tiled roof and on the roof a very solid cross cut out of a block of
stone. Within the building the ovens are still to be seen. M. Philippe
Casimir, the learned mayor of La Turbie, in his very interesting
monograph[44] states that in old days the inhabitants paid to the Lord
of La Turbie _un droit de fournage_ for the privilege of using the
bakehouse. The impost took the form of one loaf out of every eighty.
This mediæval _four_ became in time the property of the town, but its
use has now been long abandoned.
The Rue du Four leads to the Place Saint-Jean, the centre of the town.
It is a very tiny _place_—little more than a courtyard—which derives
its name from the chapel of St. Jean which stands here. The chapel has
been recently rebuilt (1844) and is of no interest. In the _place_ is a
large and still imposing house which was the old Hôtel de Ville. Passing
beneath it is a vaulted passage of some solemnity which leads to the
gate known as the Portail du Recinto. The arch at the entrance of this
vaulted way has a curious history. It was composed of blocks of marble
taken from the monument and from that frieze of the trophy which bore
the inscription. The great bulk of the inscribed stones had been removed
to the museum at St.-Germain-en-Laye, but it was found that the wording
was incomplete. Some letters from the list of the conquered tribes were
missing. An archæologist chancing to visit La Turbie in 1867 noticed on
the _voussoirs_ of this arch the very letters that were wanting.
The pieces of marble were therefore removed to complete the inscription
in the museum and their place was taken by common stones. To compensate
La Turbie for this loss the Emperor, Napoleon III, presented to the
church of St. Michael a copy of Raphael’s “St. Michael” from the Louvre
in Paris. This picture now hangs on the left wall of the church near to
the entrance.
[Illustration: LA TURBIE: LA PORTETTE.]
[Illustration: LA TURBIE: THE FORTRESS WALL, SHOWING THE ROMAN
STONES.]
The vaulted passage under the old Hôtel de Ville leads to a square
called the Place Mitto. This piazza is, I imagine, the smallest public
square in existence, for it is no larger than the kitchen area of a
London house. In it is the most beautiful gate of La Turbie. It has a
pointed arch and above it a low tower with three machicolations. The
gate is called the Portail du Recinto—a mixture of French and
Italian—which signifies the gate in the _enceinte_ or main wall. It
opens directly upon the Roman monument.
In order to appreciate the significance of this gate it is necessary to
refer once more to the history of the great trophy. Some time in the
thirteenth or fourteenth century the site of the monument was converted
into a fort. The trophy itself was stripped of all its original features
and was built up in the form of a round and lofty watch tower. It was
ornamented at its summit by two rows of arcading. These are still to be
seen and on the parapet will be observed three upright pieces of stone
which are the remains of the crenellations or battlements with which the
tower was surmounted. These details, which belong to the centuries
named, are shown in ancient prints. The ruin, therefore, now existing is
the ruin rather of the mediæval tower than of the original Roman
monument. The persistent attempts to destroy the tower of La Turbie were
due, in the first place, to the fact that it represented oppression and
an arrogant claim to victory, and, in later years, to the fact that it
was part of a fortress.
About the base of the great watch tower was a square and solid keep, of
which no trace remains and, beyond that, a great semicircular wall with
its back to the town. This wall shut in the stronghold on the north and
was terminated at the cliff’s edge by a pair of towers. Now the Portail
du Recinto was the gateway that pierced this encircling wall or
_enceinte_ and through it, and through it alone, could access to the
fort be attained.
To the right of the gate is a narrow street, the Rue Capouanne. It is
curved because it follows the line of the _enceinte_ and is, indeed, a
passage between the actual fortress wall on one side and houses on the
other. This mighty thirteenth century wall is one of the most
interesting relics in La Turbie. It has been cut into, here and there,
to make stables, but it is still a great wall presenting many huge
blocks of stone which show that it was constructed from the fabric of
the monument. The Rue Capouanne ends in a modest little gate with a
pointed arch green with ferns. This gate, called La Portette, gave
access to the old church which stood near the west corner of the present
cemetery and, therefore, above the level of the existing church. La
Portette is shown in the old prints of La Turbie. Beyond La Portette and
a modern house which joins it the great _enceinte_ or fortress wall is
continued for a little way as a curved but isolated line of masonry.
Between this isolated fragment and the main wall there is a wide gap.
This was cut about 1764 in order to obtain direct access to the monument
for the purpose of the building of the church, which was constructed out
of stones derived from the monument.
[Illustration: LA TURBIE: THE NICE GATE.]
M. Casimir gives an interesting explanation of the curious name, Rue
Capouanne. It was originally Gapeani and it is easy to understand how
the G has changed to a C. In 1332 La Turbie obtained local independence,
was allowed to manage its own urban affairs and to appoint a _bayle_,
governor or mayor. The first _bayle_ was one Jacques Gapeani and it is
in his honour that the street was named. Humble as the lane may be it
can at least claim an ancestry of nearly six hundred years.
Between the Place St. Jean and the Portail du Recinto is a narrow and
gloomy way called the Rue du Ghetto. The name serves to recall the fact
that during the troublous times of the Middle Ages Jews sought refuge in
this hill town and security in the shadow of its fortress. The street is
of interest on another account. During the Terror the monks of the
monastery of Laghet were in fear for the safety of their much revered
image of the Madonna. So in the dead of night they carried it up to La
Turbie and hid it in a house in the Rue du Ghetto. The house was
occupied by a pious man named Denis Lazare.[45] It is the first house in
the street on the left hand side and high up between the first and
second floors is an empty niche by means of which the house can be
identified. At the moment the house is unoccupied. It is very small. A
narrow stone stair leads up to the living room which takes up the whole
of the first story. It is a room that has probably been altered little
since 1793. There are the ancient fireplace, the massive beams in the
ceiling and, by the hearth, a curious trough or basin fashioned out of a
block of stone. So cramped is the house that it is hard to imagine where
the Madonna was hidden, unless in the stable which opens on the street
and constitutes the ground floor of the humble little dwelling.
The church of La Turbie is very simple and modest, subdued in its
decoration and in keeping with its place. It has a steeple whose summit
is shaped like a bishop’s mitre and is covered with brilliant tiles
which are very glorious in the sun. An inscription in the nave shows
that the building was commenced in 1764 and completed in 1777, that it
was constructed out of material from the monument and was erected by the
hands of the people themselves.
There are in the town the remains of fine houses solidly built of stone
but now turned into humble dwellings. One such house is conspicuous in
the Rue de l’Eglise. The type of house that is most characteristic of La
Turbie has the following features. It is narrow. Its ground floor is
occupied by a deep recess in the shadow of a wide rounded arch upon
which the front wall of the building is founded. Within the recess on
one side is a door leading to a stable and on the other a stone stair
which mounts up to the entry into the house.
There is one street with a name that always excites curiosity—the Rue
Incalat. M. Casimir states that the term “incalat” indicates a paved way
that is steep and it is to be noted that the Rue Incalat is the only
street in La Turbie that can make any claim to be steep.
-----
[44] “La Turbie et son Trophée Romain,” Nice, 1914.
[45] “La Turbie,” by Philippe Casimir, Nice, 1914.
XXXI
THE CONVENT OF LAGHET
FROM the old Roman town of La Turbie a road dips down into a lonely
valley and is soon lost to view. It is an unfriendly highway that
appears to turn its face from the world as if to hide among the ascetic
hills. There are few signs of human life to make the road companionable,
while a row of cypresses on either side seem to impose upon it a
reverential silence.
At the end of the valley a great monastic building appears, with the
figure of the Virgin raised aloft on its summit. It is an unexpected
thing to come upon in this solitude; it is so immense, so aggressive
looking, so modern, so like a great barrack. Its walls are of
fawn-coloured plaster, its roof of rounded tiles of every gracious tint
of brown. Its windows would appear to have been inserted as occasion
required, without regard to any definite design. Some are in arched
recesses; many are no more than the simple square windows of a cottage,
while a few are like the lattice of a prison cell. It has a fine bell
tower, with a clock, surmounted by a dome on the crest of which is the
figure of Our Lady of Laghet. The building stands on a projecting rock
and is approached by a bridge over a puny torrent.
Wedged uncomfortably in the gorge above the bridge is a dun hamlet that
seems to be trying to efface itself. It is an apologetic little place,
standing in apparent awe of the great monastery which it scarcely dares
to approach. The huddled houses, hiding one behind the other, are like a
cluster of shy children before a schoolmaster’s door.
Various bolder and immodest objects, however, have thrust themselves
between the timid village and the monastery. These are certain
self-confident restaurants, a stable of almost offensive size, together
with many booths and stalls, all deserted it is true, but still very
assertive and unseemly. In the little square before the convent door are
a bazaar where postcards and souvenirs are sold, a café, and an old
fountain in a niche of the wall. Looking down upon the water in the
basin of stone is a graceful figure of the Virgin. The fountain,
recently restored, is said to have been erected in 1706. Mr. Hare[46]
gives the following translation of an inscription it bears:—
“Pilgrim, you find here two streams; one descends from heaven, the other
from the top of the mountains. The first is a treasure which the Virgin
distributes to the piety of the faithful, the second has been brought
here by the people of Nice; drink of both, if you thirst for both.”
[Illustration: LAGHET.]
No living creatures are in sight, except two children who are playing on
the bridge. In answer to a question they state that the booths and other
unclerical objects are for the pilgrims of whom they speak with pride.
The pilgrims, it appears, do not come regularly. They do not come in
ones and twos in the guise of weary men limping on staffs. They come on
occasions and in thousands, arriving in char-à-bancs, in motors, in
omnibuses, in gigs, in farm carts, on horses, on donkeys, on bicycles
and on foot, a crowd of cheerful men and women dressed in their best. A
photograph of one such pilgrimage day—exhibited as a postcard—shows
the single highway of Laghet as packed with people as any part of the
race-course at Epsom, with people too somewhat of the type that is found
at such a gathering. Incongruous as the crowd may be it is moved by a
fine and estimable spirit much to be respected. People journey to Laghet
from far and near to return thanks to Our Lady for preservation from
accident, for recovery from disease, for escape from trouble; while yet
a greater number come to place themselves under the protection of the
revered image which has made this quiet glen so famous.
It is said that the church of the monastery stands upon the site of a
little ancient chapel; that the new church was inaugurated in 1656 and
that the barefooted Carmelites were established here in 1674. Miracles
in the matter of recovery from sickness or of escape from dire mishap
commenced in 1652, when the little old ruined chapel was still standing.
From that moment the sanctuary in this remote and desolate valley was
much sought after. Eminent personages made their way to Laghet and among
those who came to offer homage were Charles Emmanuel II, Victor Amédée
and his wife, Anne of Orleans. Since then the crowd of pilgrims has
increased year by year so that on the great _festa_ of Laghet, on
Trinity Sunday, the little place is submerged by an overwhelming throng.
The monastery is entered through a portal of three arches which leads at
once into a cloister whose walls are covered by ex-voto pictures. These
pictures are small, being, as a rule, from one to two feet square. They
date from various periods; one of the oldest being ascribed to the year
1793. The majority belong, however, to the nineteenth century. Not a few
are so faded as to be scarcely discernible. Beneath each picture is a
brief account of the incident portrayed, a large proportion of the
descriptions being in Italian. Two or three out of the vast
collection—which includes many hundreds—possess some artistic merit;
but the mass are crude productions as simple as the drawings of a child
and as regardless of perspective and as lavish in colour as the
signboard of a village inn, while a few show but a little advance upon
the more earnest sketches in a prehistoric cave.
They deal with accidents and misfortunes from which the subject of the
picture has escaped through the intervention of the sweet-faced Madonna
of Laghet. The impression left by the gallery is that the dwellers in
this corner of Europe are peculiarly liable to fall from the roofs or
windows of houses, to slip over precipices, to drop into wells, to catch
on fire or to find themselves under the wheels of carriages and wagons.
Indeed it is a matter for marvel that they have not become extinct. It
is a gallery that might suitably deck the walls of a coroner’s court,
the corridors of a hospital or the offices of an accident insurance
company.
[Illustration: LAGHET: THE ENTRANCE.]
Here is depicted a man lying under a cart laden with immense blocks of
stone. A wheel of the cart rests poised upon his leg which would
normally be reduced to pulp. For his escape he has undoubted reasons to
be grateful and for the recording of the fact no little justification.
Here is a man under a train: the station clock shows with precision the
exact moment of the accident, while, as a writing on the wall, is the
sinister and suggestive word “sortie.” Here is a youth hurled from a
bicycle over a bridge and in process of falling down a terrific height.
In this, as, indeed, in all the pictures, the details of the victim’s
dress and the colour of his hair and even of his necktie are rendered
with great care. In a picture of 1903, showing a girl being knocked down
by a motor the details of the archaic machine of that period are so
exactly portrayed as to be of historical interest.