Palisse, where there was a steep hill to be coasted, that we began to
meet a great crowd of people;--men in blue and purple blouses,
wide-brimmed hats, and sabots; and women in sabots and frilled white
caps, with fresh ribbons at their necks. A few trudged on by
themselves, but the greater number led cows, or sheep, or calves.
Sometimes one man followed half-a-dozen cows, sometimes one cow was
followed by half-a-dozen men.--In donkey-carts women rode alone, the
men, whip in hand, walking by their side; and in waggons drawn by oxen
were young pigs, or else an old woman and a refractory calf sitting
together on the straw.--On footpaths across the fields, or on distant
roads, more peasants were walking away, cattle at their heels.--The
nearer we came to the town, the greater was the crowd. The worst of it
was, the people were surly; not one would get out of our way until the
last minute, and many pretended not to see us coming, though the
machine, held in by the brake, squeaked a pitiful warning.
Finally, in the street of La Palisse, we could hardly get on for the
cows and oxen, and donkeys and people.
“‘Twas no great thing,” said an old man in blouse and sabots of whom we
asked what was going on.
“‘Twas no great thing!” repeated a stout manufacturer in frock-coat and
Derby hat, adding that it was merely the yearly fair. A tricycle that
stood in his front-yard served as introduction.
[Illustration]
“Tricycling is no way to get fat,” he remarked, looking critically at
J----, and as he was very stout, we fancied this was his reason for
riding. And what time did we make? It takes a peasant to understand
riding for pleasure. He had a friend who rode two hundred kilometres in
a day, going backwards and forwards between La Palisse and Moulins.
--Now, as we never made any time worth bragging about, and as we had a
climb of nineteen kilometres to St. Martin still before us, we waited to
hear no more of the feats of French champions.
We left La Palisse, and rode up a narrow pass, hills, now bare and
rocky, now soft and purple with heather, on every side, in company with
peasants going home from the fair.----
“Is there a third seat?” asked one.
“It walks!” cried another.
--The ascent was so gradual and the gradient so easy that only once was
I forced to get down and walk.--But what’s wrong now? The lamp of
course. Three times did it fall on the road just as we were going at
good pace. Once J---- picked it up quietly; next he kicked it and beat
it in place with a stone; the third time, “Let it lie there!” said he. A
peasant stopped to get it, examined it, and--put it in his pocket.--The
road wound slowly up to St. Martin.--La Pacaudière, the next village,
was seven kilometres farther on, and there was but one short hill to
climb on the way, a boy told us. And so to La Pacaudière we went.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
In a few minutes we were at the top, and far below, a broad valley, well
wooded and now bathed in soft evening light, stretched to hills we knew
were the Cevennes we must cross on the morrow, no longer blue and
indistinct, as in the morning, but green and near.--We let the machine
carry us, flying by pretty sloping orchards and meadows when the descent
was steep, creeping between them when it was but slight.--The sun was
low in the west, and the evening air deliciously cool. We had left the
peasants many kilometres behind, and we had no company, save once when a
girl in a scarlet cloak walked along a footpath on the hillside, singing
as she went.
[Illustration]
WITH THE WIND.
“Name of God! it is six hours!” and a loud hammering at the window below
wakened us with a start, and then we heard shutters banging and the wind
blowing a blast over the hills. For the first time in our journey we
were out of bed before seven, and the next minute J----’s head was out
of the window. The trees on the hilltops were all bent towards the
Cevennes, and as he pulled in his head the shutters came crashing after
him.----
“If the road’s right,” cried he, “we’ll have the wind behind us all the
way,” and we dressed with a will.
We were off, flying with the hurricane down the hillside towards the
valley.--A storm had burst over the hills, only to be driven onwards by
the wind. As we rode we saw it relinquish one post after another. On the
nearest hilltop a little white village shone in clear sunlight, a bright
rainbow above it; over the second the clouds were breaking, while the
third was still shrouded in showers.--Before us was greyness, the
Cevennes lost in blue mist; behind, a country glowing and golden. The
early morning air was cold, but sweet and pure, and almost all the way
our feet were on the rests, and we had but to enjoy ourselves. For
another such ride I would willingly spend ten days fighting the wind.
By nine we were in Roanne, a town remarkable for nothing but dust and
delicious peaches and grapes.
The road crossed the Loire, and went straight through the valley to the
Cevennes.--The peasants we met were blown about by the wind, turning
their backs to each strong gust, that almost blinded them, but drove us
on the faster.--At the very foot of Mt. Tarare, closed in with high
hills, was an old posting village, with four or five large hotels
falling to ruin. It was hereabouts a shoe came loose from the fore-foot
of Mr. Sterne’s thill-horse. But we met with no accident, nor, for the
sake of sentiment, could we invent one.--The road began to go over the
mountain; and we wound with it,
[Illustration]
between high cliffs on one side and an ever-deepening precipice on the
other. We left the river and the railroad further and further below,
until the latter disappeared into a tunnel and the former was just
indicated by its trees.
At St. Symphorien we stopped for lunch. At the _café-restaurant_ we were
refused admittance. This turned out to be in a measure fortunate, for at
the hotel we were taken in; and there, as it was an old posting-house,
the court-yard, with its stables and old well, and the enormous kitchen
hung with shining coppers, were worth looking at. Bicycles were always
passing that way, the landlady assured us. Therefore, it seemed, it was
our looks, and not the tricycle, that shut the door of the _café_ in our
faces, and I began to wonder how we should fare in Lyons.--The landlady,
with an eye to profit, thought we ate too little, but her daughter
understood: it was not good to eat too much in the middle of the day
when you were taking exercise. A gentleman on a walking tour once came
to their hotel for his midday meal, but would have only bread and
cheese. And yet she knew he was a gentleman by the diamond on his finger
and the _louis_ in his purse.--We thought of Mr. Stevenson--it would
have been pleasant to have him, as well as Mr. Sterne and Mr. Evelyn,
for fellow-traveller over Mt. Tarare--but at once we remembered he wore
a silver ring like a pedler; and, besides, if you will look on our map
you will see that, though we were in the Cevennes, we were not in the
Cevennes made famous by Modestine and Camisards.--The landlady, who
liked the sound of her own voice, went on to say that we had twelve
kilometres to climb before we should come to the top of the pass, and
that a good horse leaving St. Symphorien early in the morning might get
into Lyons by evening. There was small chance, she thought, of our
reaching that city until the next day.
But we hurried away to make the best of the wind while it lasted.--With
every mile the view back upon the mountains widened. When we looked
behind, it was to see a vast mass of hills, some green or red, with a
touch of autumn, others deep purple or grey; over them the clouds,
hunted by the wind, cast long trailing shadows, and in and out and up
and up wound the white highway.--One or two tumbled-down posting hotels
and forlorn farm-houses, sheltered under friendly hills, were scattered
by the way. Probably in one of these Mr. Sterne sat at his feast of
love; in front of it, watched the dance in which he beheld Religion
mixing. But they were desolate and deserted. I fear, had sentiment sent
us walking into them, we should have found no honest welcomes, no sweet
morsels, no delicious draughts.--At this height children and
stone-breakers were the only beings to be seen on Mt. Tarare.
Not far from a lonely, wind-bent black cross, that stood on a high point
in the moorland, we reached the summit, and looked down and not up to
the winding road.--When you have gained the top of Mt. Tarare you do not
come presently into Lyons; with all due reverence for our Master’s
words, you have still a long ride before you.--However, the wind now
fairly swept the tricycle in front of it, as if in haste to bring us
into Tarare.--The road kept turning and turning in a narrow pass. A
river made its way, no longer to the Loire, but to the Rhône. But we
rode so fast, we only knew we were flying through this beautiful green
world. The clear air and cold wind gave us new life. We must keep going
on and on. Rest seemed an evil to be shunned. For that afternoon at
least we agreed with Mr. Tristram Shandy, that so much of motion was so
much of life and so much of joy;--and that to stand still or go on but
slowly is death and the devil. We said little, and I, for my part,
thought less.
But at last J---- could no longer contain himself.----
[Illustration]
“Hang blue china and the eighteenth century, Theocritus and Giotto and
Villon, and all the whole lot! A ride like this beats them all hollow!”
he broke out, and I plainly saw that his thoughts had been more definite
than mine.
Tarare was an ugly town, and in its long narrow street stupid people did
their best to be run over. As we coasted down into it, we had one of
those bad minutes that will come occasionally to the most careful
cycler. J---- had the brake on, and was back-pedalling, but after a many
miles’ coast a tricycle, heavily loaded like ours, will have it a little
its own way.--Some women were watching a child in front of a house on
the farther side of the street. They turned to stare at us. The child, a
little thing, four years old perhaps, ran out directly in front of the
machine. We were going slowly enough, but there was no stopping abruptly
at such short notice. J---- steered suddenly and swiftly to the left;
the large wheel grazed the child’s dress in passing. It was just saved,
and that was all.--The women, who alone were to blame, ran as if they
would fall upon us.----
“Name of names! Dog! Pig! Name of God!” cried they in chorus.
“_Accidente! Maladetta! Bruta!_” answered J----. And this showed how
great the strain had been. In a foreign land, in moments of intense
excitement, he always bursts out in the wrong language. But the child
was not hurt, and that was the great matter. We did not wait to hear
their curses to the end.
We had another bad quarter of a minute later in the afternoon, when we
were climbing a hill outside L’Abresle. Two boys had carried a
bone-shaker up among the poplars. As they saw us one jumped on, and with
legs outstretched, sailed down upon us. He had absolutely no control
over his machine, which, left to its own devices, made straight for
ours. And all the time he and his companion yelled like young
demons.--There was no time to get out of his way, and I do not care to
think what might have been if, when within a few feet of the tandem, the
machine had not darted off sideways and suddenly collapsed, after the
wonderful manner of bone-shakers, and brought him to the ground.
----------------------------
-------------- (I leave this void space that the reader may swear into
it any oath he is most unaccustomed to. If ever J---- swore a _whole_
oath into a vacancy in his life I think it was into that.)--He was for
getting down and thrashing the boy for his folly. But I was all for
peace, and fortunately winning the day, we climbed on, while the cause
of the trouble still sat in the road mixed up with his bone-shaker,
muttering between his teeth something about, “Oh, if it were only not
for _Madame_!”
All afternoon we rode up and down, through valleys, by running streams,
over an intricate hill country, with here and there a glimpse of distant
mountains, to fill us with hope of the Alps, meeting, to our surprise,
the railroad at the highest point; and in and out of little villages,
which, with their white houses and red-tiled roofs, were more Italian
than French in appearance.
I do not think we rested once during that long afternoon. But after a
hundred kilometres I must confess we began to lose our first freshness.
There were so many long up-grades, the roads were not so good, the
peasants were disagreeable, trying to run us down, or else stupid,
refusing to answer our questions; and the sign-posts and
kilometre-stones were all wrong. We were so near, it seemed foolish not
to push on to Lyons. For once we would make a record, and beat the good
horse from St. Symphorien. But it was hard work the last part of the
ride.--And when we came to the suburbs of the city the people laughed
and stared, and
[Illustration]
screamed after us, as if they had been Londoners. We had their laughter,
_pavé_, carts, and street cars the rest of the way; and when we crossed
the river, “I had better get down,” said I; and so I walked into Lyons,
J---- on the tricycle moving slowly before me over the _pavé_ and
between the carts.--No one could or would direct us to the hotel;
policemen were helpless when we appealed to them; but just as J---- was
opening his mouth to give them to the devil--’tis Mr. Sterne’s
expression, not mine or J----’s--a small boy stepped nimbly across the
street and pointed around the corner to the Hôtel des Négociants.
That evening in the _café_ we read in the paper that the wind had been
blowing sixty-six kilometres an hour.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
LYONS.
To those who call vexations _vexations_, as knowing what they are, there
could not be a greater than to be the best part of a day at Lyons, the
most opulent and flourishing city in France. It has an old cathedral, a
castle on a hillside, ruins if I be not mistaken, two rivers, and I know
not what besides. Baedeker devotes pages to it. Moreover, there is
associated with it a story, that, to quote Mr. Tristram Shandy, who
tells it, affords more _pabulum_ to the brain than all the _Frusts_ and
_Crusts_ and _Rusts_ of antiquity, which travellers can cook up for it.
You remember the tale? It is that of fond lovers, cruelly
separated.----
Amandus--He,
Amanda--She,
each ignorant of the other’s course;
He--east,
She--west;
and finally, to cut it short, after long years of wandering for the one,
imprisonment for the other, both coming unexpectedly at the same moment
of the night, though by different ways, to the gate of Lyons, their
native city, and each in well-known accents calling out aloud----
Is Amandus} still alive?
Is my Amanda}
then, flying into each other’s arms, and both falling down dead for joy,
to be buried in the tomb upon which Mr. Shandy had a tear ready to drop.
But, alas! when he came--there was no tomb to drop it upon!
We expected letters, and began the day by a visit to the Post Office,
where the clerk, after the manner of his kind in all countries, received
and dismissed us with contemptuous incivility.--To be rid of all
business, we next went to the Crédit Lyonnais to have some Bank of
England notes changed for French gold. But the cashier looked at them
and us with distrust, and would have nothing to do with our money.----
Where was our reference? he asked.
This was more than enough to put us in ill-humour. But J----, having
looked up in his _C. T. C. Handbook_ the address of the agent for cycle
repairs in Lyons, and his place being found with difficulty, we walked
in, under a pretext of asking about the road to Vienne, but really, I
think, in search of sympathy.
We introduced ourselves as fellow-cyclers who had ridden all the way
from Calais. But the agent was calmly indifferent, and scarcely
civil.--Where should we find the national road to Vienne?--We had but to
follow the Rhône, on the opposite bank, and he bowed us towards the
door. But just as we were going, he stopped us to ask what time we could
make. J---- told him that yesterday we had come from La Pacaudière, a
ride of one hundred and twenty odd kilometres, which was perfectly true.
But that, it appeared, was nothing. The agent could not bear to be
outdone, and so, of course, had a friend who could ride four hundred
kilometres in twenty-eight hours.--Then J----, to my surprise, proceeded
to tell him of the wonderful records we had never made. But the agent
always had a friend who could beat us by at least a minute or a
kilometre. In their excitement each was bent on breaking the other’s
record, not of cycling, but of lying.
At the end J---- had worked himself up to quite a frenzy. When we were
alone, and I took him to task, he was not at all repentant, but swore he
was tired of such nonsense, and would outlie the fellows every time.
It was now noon, and we had already seen more than we wanted of Lyons.
We went back to the hotel, strapped the bag on the tricycle, and without
giving another thought to the cathedral and the curiosities we had not
visited, we sallied forth to follow the Rhône, determined never to set
foot in this flourishing city again.
THE AUTUMN MANŒUVRES.
After Lyons, adieu to all rapid movement! ’Tis a journey of caution; and
it fares better with sentiments not to be in a hurry with them.
Before we were out of the city limits we lost our way, and went
wandering through lanes, hunting for a road by the river. One led us to
a blank wall, another to a stone pile; and when we consulted passers-by
they sent us back towards the town, and into a broad street running
through endless ugly suburbs, and far out of sight of the Rhône.--So
much for a fellow-cycler’s directions.
In the open country the national road was bad and full of stones. It is
only fair to add that the agent in Lyons had said we should find little
good riding between Lyons and Vienne. The wind, tired with its efforts
of yesterday, had died away, and it was warm and close on level and
hill.--And we were as changed as the country and weather! Gone with the
wind and good roads and fair
[Illustration]
landscape was the joy of motion! Our force was spent, our spirit
exhausted with the shortest climb.--In the first village we stopped for
_groseille_ and to rest. We sat at a little table in front of the
_café_, silent and melancholy; and when the landlady came out and asked
if my seat was on the luggage carrier, and if, perhaps, we could reach
Vienne by evening (the distance from Lyons being twenty-seven
kilometres), we were too weary to be amused. In parting she told us we
had still four hills to cross; she ought rather to have said a
dozen.--The whole afternoon we toiled up long ascents.
In near hills and valleys the French army was out manœuvring. We could
hear the cannon and guns, and see clouds of smoke before we came in
sight of the battle.--We had glimpses, too, of reserves entrenched
behind hillocks and wooded spaces, and once we almost routed a
detachment of cavalry stationed by the roadside. Scouts and officers on
horseback tore by; soldiers hurried through the streets of a narrow
hilly village.--What with the noise and the troops, the road was lively
enough. And presently, from a high hilltop, we overlooked the field of
action. A fort was being stormed; as we stopped, a new detachment of the
enemy charged it. They marched in good order over a ploughed field, and
then across green pastures. Both sides kept up a heavy firing.----
“The French army amuses itself down there,” said a grinning peasant, who
watched with us.
--Indeed all the peasants seemed but little edified by the fighting.
Many ignored it. Others laughed, as if it had been a farce played for
their amusement.----
“It is good there are no balls,” remarked an old cynic when we drew up
to have a second look; “if there were, then would it be _Sauve qui
peut!_”
At last guns and smoke were out of sight and hearing. But the road still
ran between dry fields and over many hills, and the peasants were
disagreeable. It seemed in keeping with the day’s experiences that the
long hill leading down into Vienne should be so steep that I had to get
off the machine and walk. We were both in a fine temper, J----,
moreover, complaining of feeling ill, by the time we were fairly in the
city.--Here, a priest and his friend, for fear we might not understand
their directions, politely came with us from the river, through twisting
streets, to the hotel. I do not believe we thanked them with half enough
warmth. ’Twas the first, and I wish it had been the last, civility shown
us that day.
[Illustration]
VIENNE.
So now we were at the ancient city of Vienne as early as three o’clock,
and J---- too exhausted to ride farther that afternoon. We never yet
went on a long trip, as everybody must or ought to know by this time,
that J---- did not break down at least once on the way. The matter
threatened to be serious; but after half-an-hour or more of despair--for
we thought now surely we are done with sentiment--we went out in search
of food, the first and most natural medicine that suggested itself, as
in our haste to be out of Lyons we had taken but a meagre lunch.--It is
a peculiarity of Vienne, a town of _cafés_, that all its restaurants are
on the same street. When we were about giving up the search, we, by
chance, turned in the right direction, and found more than a dozen in a
row. We chose one that looked quiet, and there J---- ate a bowl of soup
and drank a glass of _gomme_, and at once was himself again.--I have
mentioned this affair, slight as it was, because I think the merits of
_gomme_ but little known, and therefore hope the knowledge may be of use
to other sentimental travellers in similar straits. Besides, it is the
rule with cyclers to recommend the most disagreeable drinks that can be
imagined, and I believe there is nothing viler than _gomme_. The truth
is, we ordered it by mistake for another syrup the name of which we did
not know. And now let there be an end of it.
It was fortunate J---- recovered: there are few pleasanter cities for an
afternoon ramble than Vienne. The hills look down from round about the
town, here and there a grey castle or white farm-house on their
vine-clad slopes, and from the new broad boulevard or old narrow streets
you have near and distant views of the rapid Rhône. Now you come out on
the brown crumbling cathedral, raised aloft and towering above the
houses, grass growing on the high flight of stone steps leading to its
richly sculptured portals, bricks in places keeping together its ruinous
walls, time’s traces on its statues and gargoyles. Now, you wander into
a clean, quiet _Place_, from the centre of which a Roman temple, in
almost perfect preservation, frowns a disdainful reproach upon the
frivolous _cafés_ and confectioners, the plebeian stores and lodgings,
that surround it. And again, you follow a dark winding alley under a
fine Roman gateway, and find yourself in an old amphitheatre, houses
built into its walls and arches, and windows full of flowers and clothes
drying in the sun.
[Illustration]
On the whole, I believe the pleasantest place in all Vienne to be the
_quai_.--The sun had set behind the opposite hills when we returned to
it after our walk. A bell jingled close to our ears, and behold, a
tricycler, in spotless linen on a shining nickel-plated machine, came
that way. But J---- stopped him, and consulted him about the road to
Rives; and he, as polite as his machine was elegant, gave us minute
directions.--Beware of the road to the left, it is bad and mountainous;
keep to the right in leaving the town, then you will have it good and
level;--this was the gist of his advice. And then he too must know what
time we made, and “Ah, no great thing!” was his verdict upon the bravest
feats J---- could invent, and then he rode on into the twilight.
THE FEAST OF APPLES.