_CAEN._
'Large, strong, full of draperies, and all sorts of merchandise;
rich citizens, noble dames, damsels, and fine churches.'
The ancient city of Caen, which was thus described by Froissart in the
middle of the fourteenth century, when the English sacked the town and
carried away its riches, might be described in the nineteenth, in almost
the same words; when a goodly company of English people have again taken
possession of it--for its cheapness.
The chief town of the department of Calvados with a population numbering
nearly 50,000--the centre of the commerce of lower Normandy, and of the
district for the production of black lace--Caen has a busy and thriving
aspect; the river Orne, on which it is built, is laden with produce;
with corn, wine, oil, and cider; with timber, and with shiploads of the
celebrated Caen stone. On every side we see the signs of productiveness
and plenty, and consequent cheapness of many of the necessaries of life;
Calvados, like the rest of lower Normandy, has earned for itself the
name of the 'food-producing land' of France, from whence both London and
Paris (and all great centres) are supplied. The variety and cheapness of
the goods for sale, manufactured here and in the neighbourhood, testify
to the industry and enterprise of the people of Caen; there is probably
no city in Normandy where purchases of clothing, hardware, &c., can be
more advantageously made.
There is commercial activity at Caen and little sympathy with idlers.
If we take up a position in the _Place Royale_, adorned with a statue of
Louis XIV., or, better, in the _Place St. Pierre_ near the church tower,
we shall see a mixed and industrious population; and we shall probably
hear several different accents of Norman patois. But we shall see a
number of modern-looking shops, and warehouses full of Paris goods, and
even find smooth pavement to walk upon.
We are treading in the 'footsteps of the Conqueror' at Caen, but its
busy inhabitants have little time for historic memories; they will
jostle us in the market-place, and in the principal streets they will be
seen rushing about as if 'on change,' or hurrying to 'catch the train
for Paris,' like the rest of the world. A few only have eyes of love and
admiration for the noble spire of the church of St. Pierre, which rises
above the old houses and the market-place, with even a grander effect
than any that the artist has been able to render in the illustration.
'St. Pierre, St. Pierre,' are the first and last words we heard of Caen;
the first time, when--approaching it one summer's morning from Dives, by
the banks of the Orne--the driver of our calèche pointed to its summit
with the pride of a Savoy peasant, shewing the traveller the highest
peak of Monte Rosa; and the last, when Caen was en fête, and all the
world flocked to hear a great preacher from Paris, and the best singers
in Calvados.
Built in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, in the best period of
Gothic art in Normandy, its beautiful proportions and grace of line
(especially when seen from the north side) have been the admiration of
ages of architects and the occasion of many a special pilgrimage in our
own day. Pugin has sketched its western façade and its 'lancet windows;'
and Prout has given us drawings of the spire, '_percée au
jour_'--perforated with such mathematical accuracy that, as we approach
the tower, there is always one, or more, opening in view--as one star
disappears, another shines out, as in the cathedral at Bourgos in Spain.
[Illustration: TOWER OF ST PIERRE. CAEN.]
In the interior, the nave is chiefly remarkable for its proportions; but
the choir is richly ornamented in the style of the renaissance.[15] It
has been restored at different periods, but, as usual in France, the
whole interior has been coloured or whitewashed, so that it is difficult
to detect the old work from the new. The sculptured pendants and the
decorations of the aisles will attract us by their boldness and
originality, and the curious legends in stone on the capitals of the
pillars, of 'Alexander and his Mistress,' of 'Launcelot crossing the Sea
on his Sword,' and of 'St. Paul being lowered in a Basket,' may take
our attention a little too much from the carving in the chapels; but
when we have examined them all, we shall probably remember St. Pierre
best as Prout and Pugin have shewn it to us, and care for it most (as do
the inhabitants of Caen) for its beautiful exterior.[16]
We should mention a handsome carved oak pulpit in the style of the
fifteenth century, which has lately been erected; it is an ornament to
the church in spite of its new and temporary appearance--taking away
from the cold effect of the interior, and relieving the monotony of its
aisles. The people of Caen are indebted to M. V. Hugot, curé of St.
Pierre, for this pulpit. 'A mon arrivée dans la paroisse,' he says (in a
little pamphlet sold in the church), 'un des premiers objets qui durent
appeler mes soins c'était le rétablissement d'une chaire à precher.' The
pulpit and staircase are elaborately carved and decorated with
statuettes, bas-reliefs, &c., which the pamphlet describes at length,
ending with the information that it is not yet paid for.
The most interesting and characteristic buildings in Caen, its
historical monuments in fact, are the two royal abbeys of William the
Conqueror--_St. Étienne_, called the 'Abbaye aux Hommes,' and _la Ste.
Trinité_, the 'Abbaye aux Dames'--both founded and built in the eleventh
century; the first (containing the tomb of the Conqueror) with two
plain, massive towers, with spires; and an interior remarkable for its
strength and solidity--'a perfect example of Norman Romanesque;'
adorned, it must be added, with twenty-four nineteenth-century
chandeliers with glass lustres suspended by cords from the roof; and
with gas brackets of a Birmingham pattern.
The massive grandeur, and the 'newness,' if we may use the word, of the
interior of _St. Étienne_, are its most remarkable features; the plain
marble slab in the chancel, marking the spot where William the
Conqueror was buried and disinterred (with the three mats placed in
front of it for prayer), is shewn with much ceremony by the custodian of
the place.
The Abbaye aux Dames is built on high ground at the opposite side of the
town, and is surrounded by conventual buildings of modern date. It
resembles the Abbaye aux Hommes in point of style, but the carving is
more elaborate, and the transepts are much grander in design; the
beautiful key-pattern borders, and the grotesque carving on the capitals
of some of the pillars, strike the eye at once; but what is most
remarkable is the extraordinary care with which the building has been
restored, and the whole interior so scraped and chiselled afresh that it
has the appearance of a building of to-day. The eastern end and the
chancel are partitioned off for the use of the nuns attached to the
Hôtel Dieu; the sister who conducts us round this part of the building
raises a curtain, softly stretched across the chancel-screen, and shews
us twenty or thirty of them at prayers.
We can see the hospital wards in the cloisters, and, if we desire it,
ascend the eastern tower, and obtain a view over a vast extent of
country, and of the town of Caen, set in the midst of gardens and green
meadows, and the river, with boats and white sails, winding far away to
the sea.
'These two royal abbeys,' writes Dawson Turner, 'which have fortunately
escaped the storm of the Revolution, are still an ornament to the town,
an honour to the sovereign who caused them to be erected, and to the
artist who produced them. Both edifices rose at the same time and from
the same motive. William the Conqueror, by his union with Matilda, had
contracted a marriage proscribed by the decrees of consanguinity. The
clergy, and especially the Archbishop of Rouen, inveighed against the
union; and the Pope issued an injunction, that the royal pair should
erect two monasteries by way of penance, one for monks, the other for
nuns; as well as that the Duke should found four hospices, each for 100
poor persons. In obedience to this command, William founded the Church
of St. Stephen, and Matilda, the Church of the Holy Trinity.
It is usual on this spot to recount the pitiful, but rather apocryphal
story of the burial of William the Conqueror, by a 'simple knight;' of
its dramatic interruption by one of the bystanders, a 'man of low
degree,' who claimed the site of the grave, and was appeased with 60
sous; and of the subsequent disturbance and destruction of his tomb by
the Huguenots; but the artistic traveller will be more interested in
these buildings as monuments of the architecture of the eleventh
century, and to notice the marks of the chisel and the mason's
hieroglyphics made in days so long gone by, that history itself becomes
indistinct without these landmarks--marks and signs that neither armies
of revolutionists nor eight centuries of time have been able to destroy.
We speak of 'eight centuries' in two words (the custodian of the place
has them glibly on his tongue), but it is difficult to comprehend this
space of time; to realise the fact of the great human tide that has
ebbed and flowed through these aisles for eleven generations--smoothing
the pillars by its constant wave, but leaving no more mark upon them
than the sea on the rocks of Calvados.
The contemplation of these two monuments may suggest a comparison
between two others that are rising up in western London at the present
time,--the 'Albert Memorial' and the 'Hall of Science.' They (the old
and the new) stand, as it were, at the two extremities of a long line of
kings, a line commencing with 'William the Bold,' and ending with
'Albert the Good;' the earlier monuments dedicated to Religion, the
latter to Science and Art--the first to commemorate a warrior, the
latter a man of peace--the first endurable through many ages, the latter
destructible in a few years.[17]
The comparison is surely worth making, for is it not curiously typical
of the state of monumental art in England in the present day, that we
are only doing what our ancestors did better? They erected useful,
appropriate, and endurable monuments which are still crowning ornaments
to the town of Caen. Are either of our 'memorials' likely to fulfil
these conditions?
Not to go further into detail, there is no doubt that, elaborate and
magnificent as the 'Albert Memorial' may be, it is useless,
inappropriate, and out of place in Hyde Park; and that the 'Hall of
Science' at South Kensington (whatever its use may be) is not likely to
attract foreign nations by the external beauty of its design.
At Caen we are in an atmosphere of heroes and kings, we pass from one
historical site to another until the mind becomes half confused; we are
shown (by the same valet-de-place) the tomb of the Conqueror, and the
house where Beau Brummel died. We see the ruins of a castle on the
heights where le 'jeune et beau Dunois' performed historical prodigies
of valour; and the chapel where he 'allait prier Marie, bénir ses
exploits.' But the modern military aspect of things is, we are bound to
confess, prosaic to a degree; we find the Dunois of the period occupied
in more peaceful pursuits, mending shoes, tending little children, and
carrying wood for winter fires.
[Illustration]
There are many other buildings and churches at Caen which we should
examine, especially the exterior carving of '_St. Étienne-le-vieux_;'
which is now used as a warehouse.
The cathedrals and monuments are generally, as we have said, in
wonderful preservation, but they are desecrated without remorse; on
every side of them, and, indeed, upon them, are staring advertisements
of 'magazines,' dedicated '_au bon diable_,' '_au petit diable_,' or to
some other presiding genius; of '_magasins les plus vastes du monde_,'
and of '_loteries impériales de France;_' whichever way we turn, we
cannot get rid of these staring affiches; even upon the 'footsteps of
the Conqueror' the bill-sticker seems master of the situation.
We must now speak of Caen as we see it on fête days, but for the
information of those who are interested in it as a place of residence,
we may allude in passing to the very pleasant English society that has
grown up here of late years, to the moderate rents of houses, the good
schools and masters to be met with; the comparative cheapness of
provisions and of articles of clothing, and to the good accommodation at
the principal inns. The situation of Caen, although not perhaps as
healthy as Avranches, is much more convenient and accessible from
England.
_Caen, Sunday, August_, 186-. It is early on Sunday morning, and Caen is
_en fête_. We have reason to know it by the clamour of church bells
which attends the sun's rising. There is terrible energy, not to say
harshness, in thus ushering in the day. On a mountain side, or in some
remote village, the distant sound of bells is musical enough, but here
it is dinned into our ears to distraction; and there seems no method in
the madness of these sturdy Catholics, for they make the tower of St.
Pierre vibrate to most uncertain sounds. They ring out all at once with
a burst and tumble over one another, hopelessly involved, _en masse;_ a
combination terribly dissonant to unaccustomed ears. Then comes the
military _réveille_, and the deafening 'rataplan' of regimental drums,
and the town is soon alive with people arriving and departing by the
early trains; whilst others collect in the market-place in holiday
attire with baskets of flowers, and commence the erection of an altar
to the Virgin in the middle of the square. Then women bring their
children dressed in white, with bouquets of flowers and white favours,
and a procession is formed (with a priest at the head) and marshalled
through the principal streets and back again to where the altar to 'Our
Lady' stands, now decorated with a profusion of flowers and an effigy of
the Virgin.
All this time the bells are ringing at intervals, and omnibuses loaded
with holiday people rattle past with shouting and cracking of whips. The
old fashion and the new become mingled and confused, old white caps and
Parisian bonnets, old ceremonies and modern ways; the Norman peasant and
the English school-girl walk side by side in the crowd, whilst the
western door of the Church of St. Pierre, to which they are tending,
bears in flaming characters the name of a vendor of '_modes
parisiennes_' Men, women, and children, in gay and new attire, fill the
streets and quite outnumber those of the peasant class; the black coat
and hat predominate on fête days; a play-bill is thrust into our hands
announcing the performance of an opera in the evening, and we are
requested frequently to partake of coffee, syrop, and bonbons as we make
our way through the Rue St. Pierre and across the crowded square.
Stay here for a moment and witness a little episode--another accidental
collision between the old world and the new.
[Illustration]
An undergraduate, just arrived from England on the 'grand tour,' gets
into a wrangle with an old woman in the market-place; an old woman of
nearly eighty years, with a cap as old and ideas as primitive as her
dress, but with a sense of humour and natural combativeness that enables
her to hold her own in lively sallies and smart repartees against her
youthful antagonist.[18] It is a curious contrast, the wrinkled old
woman of Caen and the English lad--the one full of the realities and
cares of life; born in revolutionary days, and remembering in her
childhood Charlotte Corday going down this very street on her terrible
mission to Paris; her daughters married, her only son killed in war, her
life now (it never was much else) an uneventful round of market days,
eating and sleeping, knitting and prayers; the other--young, careless,
fresh to the world, his head stored with heathen mythology, the loves of
the Gods, and problems of Euclid--taking a light for his pipe from the
old woman, and airing his French in a discussion upon a variety of
topics, from the price of apples to the cost of a dispensation; the
conversation merging finally into a regular religious discussion, in
which the disputants were more abroad than ever,--a religion outwardly
represented, in the one case by so many chapels, in the other by so many
beads.
It is a '_fête_' to day (according to a notice pasted upon a stone
pillar) '_avec Indulgence plénière_,'
GRAND MESSE à 10 a.m.,
LES VÊPRES à 3 p.m.,
SALUT ET BENEDICTION DU SACRAMENT,
SERMON, &c.'
Let us now follow the crowd (up the street we saw in the illustration)
into the Church of St. Pierre, which is already overflowing with people
coming and going, pushing past each other through the baize door,
dropping sous into the '_tronc pour les pauvres_,' and receiving, with
bowed head and crossed breast, the holy water, administered with a
brush.
We pay two sous for a chair and take our places, under a fire of glances
from our neighbours, who pray the while, and tell their beads; and we
have scarcely time to notice the beautiful proportions of the nave, the
carving in the side chapels, or the grotesque figures that we have
before alluded to, when the service commences, and we can just discern
in the distance the priests at the high altar (looking in their bright
stiff robes, and with their backs to the people, like golden beetles
under a microscope); we cannot hear distinctly, for the moving of the
crowd about us, the creaking of chairs, and the whispering of many
voices; but we can see the incense rising, the children in white robes
swinging silver chains, and the cocked hat of the tall 'Suisse' moving
to and fro.
Presently the congregation sits down, the organ peals forth and a choir
of sweet voices chaunts the 'Agnus Dei.' Again the congregation kneels
to the sound of a silver bell; the smoke of incense curls through the
aisles, and the golden beetles move up and down; again there is a
scraping of chairs, a shuffling of feet, and a general movement towards
the pulpit, the men standing in groups round it with their hats in their
hands; then a pause, and for the first time so deep a silence that we
can hear the movement of the crowd outside, and the distant rattle of
drums.
All eyes are now turned to the preacher; a man of about forty, of an
austere but ordinary (we might almost say low) type of face, closely
shaven, with an ivory crucifix at his side and a small black book in his
hand. He makes his way through the crowded aisles, and ascends the new
pulpit in the centre of the church, where everyone of the vast
congregation can both see and hear him.
His voice was powerful (almost too loud sometimes) and most persuasive;
he was eloquent and impassioned, but he used little gesture or any
artifice to engage attention. He commenced with a rhapsody--startling in
the sudden flow of its eloquence, thrilling in its higher tones, tender
and compassionate (almost to tears) in its lower passages--a rhapsody to
the Virgin--
'O sweet head of my mother; sacred eyes!'
* * * * *
and then an appeal--an appeal for us 'true Catholics' to the 'Queen of
Heaven, the beautiful, the adorable.' He elevated our hearts with his
moving voice, and, by what we might call the electricity of sympathy,
almost to a frenzy of adoration; he taught us how the true believer,
'clad in hope,' would one day (if he leaned upon Mary his mother in all
the weary stages of the 'Passage of the Cross') be crowned with
fruition. He lingered with almost idolatrous emphasis on the charms of
Mary, and with his eyes fixed upon her image, his hands outstretched,
and a thousand upturned faces listening to his words, the aisles echoed
his romantic theme:--
'With my lips I kneel, and with my heart,
I fall about thy feet and worship thee.'
A stream of eloquence followed--studied or spontaneous it mattered
not--the congregation held their breath and listened to a story for the
thousandth time repeated.
The preacher paused for a moment, and then with another burst of
eloquence, he brought his hearers to the verge of a passion, which was
(as it seemed to us) dangerously akin to human love and the worship of
material beauty; then he lowered our understandings still more by the
enumeration of 'works and miracles,' and ended with words of earnest
exhortation, the burden of which might be shortly translated:--'Pray
earnestly, and always, to Mary our mother, for all souls in purgatory;
confess your sins unto us your high priests; give, give to the Church
and to the poor, strive to lead better lives, look forward ever to the
end; and bow down, oh! bow down, before the golden images [manufactured
for us in the next street] which our Holy Mother the Church has set up.'
With a transition almost as startling as the first, the book is closed,
the preacher has left the pulpit, the congregation (excepting a few in
the side chapels) have dispersed; and Caen keeps holiday after the
manner of all good Catholics, putting on its best attire, and disporting
itself in somewhat rampant fashion.
Everybody visits everybody else to-day, and a fiacre is hardly to be
obtained for the afternoon drive in _Les Cours_, the public promenade.
We may go to the Jardin des Plantes, which we shall find crowded with
country people, examining the beautiful exotic plants (of which there
are several thousand); to the public Picture Gallery, established at the
beginning of the present century, which contains pictures by Paul
Veronese, Perugino, Poussin, and a number of works of the French school;
and to the Museum of Antiquities, containing Roman remains, vases,
coins, &c., discovered in the neighbourhood of Dives. There are also
excursions to Bayeux, Honfleur, and Trouville for the day; and many
tempting opportunities of visiting the neighbouring towns.
But we may be most amused by mixing with the crowd, or by listening to
the performance on the _Place royale_ of a company of foreign
musicians--shabby and dingy in aspect, enthusiastic and poor--who had
found their way here in time to entertain the trim holiday makers of
Caen. They were of that ragged and unkempt order of slovenly brotherhood
that the goddess of music claims for her own; let them call themselves
'wandering minstrels,' 'Arabs,' or what not (their collars were limp,
and they rejoiced in smoke), they had certainly an ear for harmony, and
a 'soul for music;' a talent in most of them, half cultivated and
scarcely understood. A woman in a German, or Swiss, costume levied rapid
contributions amongst the crowd, which seemed to prefer listening to
this performance than to any other 'distraction,' not excepting the
modern and exciting performance of velocipede races outside the town.
The streets are crowded all day with holiday people, and somewhat
obstructed by the fashion of the inhabitants taking their meals in the
street. We also, in the evening, dine at an open café (with a marble
table and a pebble floor) amidst a clamour and confusion of voices,
under the shadow of old eaves--with creepers and flowers twining round
nearly every window, where the pigeons lurk and dive at stray morsels.
The evening is calm and bright and the sky overhead a deep blue, but we
are chattering, laughing, eating, and smoking, clinking glasses and
shouting to waiters; we drown even the sound of the church clocks, and
if it were not for the little flower girls with their '_deux sous,
chaque_' and their winning smiles, and for the children playing on the
ground around us, we might soon forget our better natures in the din of
this culinary pandemonium.
But we are in good company; three tall mugs of cider are on the next
table to our own, a dark, stout figure, with shaven crown, is seated
with his back to us--it is the preacher of the morning, who with two lay
friends for companions, also keeps the feast.
_DIVES._
Before leaving the neighbourhood of Caen, the antiquary and historically
minded traveller will naturally turn aside and pay a visit to the town
of DIVES, about eighteen miles distant, near the sea shore to
the north-east, on the right bank of the river Dives. It is interesting
to us not only as an ancient Roman town, and as being the place of
embarkation of the Conqueror's flotilla, from whence it drifted, with
favourable winds, to St. Valery--but because it possesses the remains of
one of the finest twelfth-century churches in Normandy. We find hardly
any mention of this church in 'Murray,' and it stands almost deserted by
the town which once surrounded it, and by the sea, on the shore of which
it was originally built. At the present time there are not more than
eight or nine hundred inhabitants, but we can judge by the size of the
old covered market-place, and the extent of the boundaries of the town,
that it must have been a seaport of considerable importance. Dives was
once rich, but no longer bears out the meaning of its name; in
comparison to the thriving town of Cabourg (which it joins), it is more
like Lazarus sitting at the gate.
The interior of the church at Dives has been restored, repaired, and
whitewashed; but neither time nor whitewash can conceal the lovely
proportions of the building; the pillars and aisles, and the carving
over the doorways which the twelfth-century mason fashioned so tenderly
have little left of his most delicate workmanship; half of the stained
glass in the chancel windows has been destroyed, and the pinnacles on
the roof have been broken down by rude hands. Nevertheless it is a
church worth going far to see; and it will have exceptional interest for
those who believe that their ancestors 'came over with the Conqueror,'
for on the western wall there is a list of the names of the principal
persons who were known to have accompanied him. Some of these names are
very familiar to English ears, such as PERCY, TALBOT, VERNON, LOVEL,
GIFFARD, BREWER, PIGOT, CARTERET, CRESPEN, &c.; and there are at
least a hundred others, all in legible characters, which any visitor may
decipher for himself. There is a small grass-grown church-yard
surrounded by a low wall, but the tablets are of comparatively modern
date.
If, before leaving Dives, we take a walk up the hill on the east side of
the town, and look down upon the broad valley, with the river Dives
winding southwards through a rich pasture land, flanked with thickly
wooded hills--and beyond it the river Orne, leading to Caen--we shall
see at once what a favourable and convenient spot this must have been
for the collecting together of an army of fifty thousand men, for the
construction of vessels, and for the embarkation of troops and horses,
and the _matériel_ of war; and, if we continue our walk, through one or
two cornfields in the direction of Beuzeval, we shall find, on a
promontory facing the sea, and overlooking the mouth of the river, a not
very ornamental, round stone pillar placed here by the Archæological
Society of France in 1861; 'AU SOUVENIR DU PLUS GRAND ÉVÉNEMENT
HISTORIQUE DES ANNALES NORMANDES--LE DÉPART DU DUC GUILLAUME LE BÂTARD
POUR LA CONQUÊTE DE L'ANGLETERRE EN 1066;' and, if the reader
should be as fortunate as we were in 1869, he might find a french
gentleman _standing upon the top of this column_, and (forgetting
probably that Normandy was not _always_ part of France) blowing a blast
of triumph seaward, from a cracked french horn.
[Illustration]