_Les Baux_ (continued)
Mr. Cook had written of the inn at Les Baux that lunch was "a perilous
adventure, and any other form of hospitality impossible." This did not
frighten me, because when one takes a pack on one's back one drops
a good many prejudices. Read what the inns were like when Smollett
travelled through France, or Casanova, or Arthur Young. Probably the
inn at Les Baux, when Mr. Cook visited it, would have seemed to an
eighteenth century traveller a most desirable place of entertainment.
At any rate, the reproach is now removed altogether, for there is an
excellent inn at Les Baux. It is called the Hôtel de la Reine Jeanne.
The other inn is called the "Hôtel de Monte Carlo," which recalls
a curious episode in the history of Les Baux--the last in its long
history.
It was after Richelieu had wrecked it, and was caused, says Mr. Cook,
by the ambition of Spain to become possessed of Monte Carlo.
"The young Honoré de Grimaldi, seeking the protection of Louis XIII,
who had no desire to see the Spaniards conveniently planted between
Genoa and Nice, so near to his own territories, arranged by the Treaty
of Péronne for the independence of Monaco, and the protection of a
French garrison, in 1641, together with sufficient lands in France to
compensate for the loss of any Italian revenues confiscated by Spain.
Grimaldi got the Spaniards out of Monaco by a cleverly audacious
ruse, and was rewarded by lands in France which were called his
Duchy of Valentinois; and in 1643 Les Baux was created a marquisate
in the possession of the Grimaldis, Princes of Monaco, and Dukes of
Valentinois. The title that had been held by Diane de Poitiers, and
by Cæsar Borgia, added perhaps the last touch of sinister romance
that was needed to complete the history of Les Baux. A little country
pleasure-house, beneath the ruins of the fort, was enough for the
Grimaldis; and even that was knocked to pieces by the Revolution,
which also cut down every forest on the mountain-slopes."[10]
This "Hôtel de Monte Carlo" used to be called "A la Chevelure d'Or."
Some years ago when the pavement of the church was undergoing repair
there was found the body of a beautiful young girl, wrapped in a mantle
of her own golden hair. It fell to dust when exposed, all but the long
strands of hair which the innkeeper possessed himself of and displayed
in his tavern. When he left Les Baux he took the "Cabelladuro d'Or"
with him, but a tress of it is now in the Musée Arlaten at Arles. The
rock beneath the church is honeycombed with graves of the knights and
ladies of old time, and this fair girl is supposed to have been the
Princess Strella of Florence, who came to Les Baux to marry the Reine
Jeanne's seneschal, but died instead, and was buried beneath the stone
on which she would have stood to be wedded. A sad little story, very
real at the time, then forgotten for four hundred years, and now again
real enough to touch the heart!
All that afternoon and evening I wandered about among the ruins of the
deserted city. I call it deserted because the greater part of it is
actually so, and the life of the part that is inhabited is so different
from the life it once enshrined that it has little power to change the
meaning of the old buildings in which it shelters.
The church is perhaps an exception, for so many churches as ancient
as this have survived. But if you sit in its darkness and silence for
a time the present drops away from you and you are back again in the
days when it rang with the tread of mailed knights and rustled with the
silks and satins of their ladies. It has been clumsily enough restored
without, but inside it is much as it was centuries ago. The south aisle
is the oldest, and it has three chapels, as well as an altar, scooped
out of the living rock. Mr. Cook reminds us of Dumas' visit to it. "As
he entered the little, cold, dark building (in the days before its
restoration) he heard a sound of sorrow at the eastern end. Upon an
open bier, before the high altar, lay the dead body of a little girl.
Her two tiny sisters knelt on either side. Her mother sat crying in
a corner, and continued sobbing after the good Alexandre had thrown
her his whole purse. Her little brother tried to toll the bell for a
service at which no priest was present. A dozen or so of beggars had
looked in to see the sight. They comprised the whole population of Les
Baux."
In front of the church is a terrace overlooking the valley in which is
the garden with the pavilion. In one corner of it are the ruins of a
chapel of the White Penitents. On the other side the rock rises sheer
and steep, and in it is hollowed out a semi-circular cistern called
the Deïmo. Into this the vassals of the Lords of Les Baux poured their
tithes of wine and corn and olive oil.
One can picture this terrace on a sunny spring morning filled with the
people who had just come out from hearing Mass in the church. They
would linger awhile to gossip by the stone parapet, or round the steps
of the cross in the middle of the little _place_, before they went off
to their fine houses in the narrow streets. Les Baux was a favourite
residence of the Provencal nobility in its more peaceful days. Hardly
less interesting than the ruins of the castle and the older houses are
those of the fifteenth and sixteenth century mansions, with their noble
proportions and their rich decoration.
One of them, hard by the church, is still standing, and is used as a
school. You can get permission to see its vaulted frescoed hall. It
belonged to the noble family of the Porcelets, the origin of whose name
is legendary.
A proud lady of the family drove away a beggar woman, rebuking her
for bringing into the world more children than she could provide for.
The beggar chanced to be a witch, as so frequently happened in such
circumstances, and prophesied in return that the lady herself would
bear as many children as there should be little pigs in the litter of a
sow that was near them. The sow produced nine _porcelets_, and the lady
as many children, who with their descendants were thenceforward called
Porcelet.
If only one could catch just one glimpse of the place as it was in
the days of high romance! It would be impossible to dip anywhere into
the history of song and chivalry in the south during the Middle Ages
without coming across mention of Les Baux. Some of its princes were
noted Troubadours, knights and ladies thronged its Courts of Love, and
the names of its queens ring musically through the poetry that was made
there. Passe-Rose, Douce, Etiennette, Adélasie, Briande, Clairette,
Barbe, Aybeline, Baussette--how sweet they sound! And there are stories
to be told of all of them.
Characteristic of the times is that of the fair Azalais, wife of
Count Barral des Baux. Her charms were sung by the famous Troubadour,
Foulquet of Marseilles, but "neither by his prayers nor by his songs
could he ever move her to show him favour by right of love." Whether
or no he actually transferred his affections to his lady's young
sister-in-law, Laura, or only pretended to do so, Azalais took umbrage,
and "would have no more of his prayers or fine words." So, "he left
off singing and laughing, for he had lost the lady whom he loved more
than the whole world." But his homage continued, and we hear no more of
Laura.
Barral des Baux grew tired of his countess and divorced her, but
Foulquet, in spite of his friendship with her husband, maintained his
allegiance to Azalais. At last he wearied of his fruitless sighing, and
took the cowl. He rose to be Bishop of Toulouse, and his name lives,
not as one of the greatest poets of his time, which he was, but as the
cruel persecutor of the Albigensian heretics.
As one mounts towards the summit of the rock one sees the ruins of yet
other churches and chapels, and on the grassy plateau is a wide space
that was once used as an arena for bull-fights, but before that was the
site of a hospital for lepers, of which there were many in Les Baux
during the seventeenth century. In the foundations of the walls that
are left can be seen the recesses for the beds of the patients cut into
the rock.
It rained a good deal that afternoon, but as I was standing on the
summit of the rock in the evening, looking out over the plain, the sun
sank into a clear belt of sky between the clouds, and the whole wide
landscape, with its encircling hills, was bathed in a glory of golden
light. I turned, and almost held my breath at the beauty that was
revealed to me. The setting sun had caught the ruins of the castle,
and it was glowing in the unearthly light, like a fairy palace, while
the walls and roofs below it were still in shadow. The deep blues and
purples of the hills beyond were indescribably lovely. I could not
expect to get a reminder of their beauty; but the castle, standing out
like that--I might get it in a photograph. I turned and ran down the
steep street to get my camera. I had carried it about with me all day,
but had left it behind for my evening stroll. As I hurried up to the
top again, the sun was just touching the lower bank of heavy cloud. As
I ran towards the first place from which I could possibly get a view,
the light slowly faded from the towers and battlements; as I reached
it, it died away altogether. The ruins were once more cold and grim and
forbidding.
It was the more disappointing because it is very difficult to get any
view of Les Baux that is characteristic of the place as a whole. The
castle stands up boldly from the north-east, but even there the rock on
which it is built does not show its height. The view of the town taken
from the castle gives some idea of its situation, with the rocks on the
other side of the valley and the plain spread out below; but it is only
a fragment, after all, and the only photograph I took of it that "came
out" was when there was a driving scud of rain that blotted out the
view, and shows few details of the foreground.
Another trouble came upon me that night. I was walking through a
narrow street in the darkness when a big dog rushed out of a doorway
and made for me. I turned quickly to defend myself, and at the same
time a man standing in the doorway shouted at the dog and picked up
a stone to throw at it. I felt a sudden pain in the calf of my leg,
and thought that the dog had bitten me, or a stone had hit me, very
sharply. But it was a split muscle, and it kept me laid up in Les Baux
for two days longer than I had intended. And that produced the greatest
disappointment of all. On Sunday I should have gone to Maillane, on
my way to Avignon, and seen Mistral, who was then quite well, and who
liked to see visitors. But on Monday I could not walk so far, and put
off the visit till later; and on Monday Mistral was taken ill with the
illness from which he died on Wednesday.
[Illustration: LES BAUX FROM THE CASTLE RUINS]
[Illustration: ONE OF THE BEAUTIES OF LES BAUX
_Page 152_]
But this further disappointment was hidden from me at the time, and
I spent the next two days hobbling about Les Baux and getting an
indelible impression of it, as familiarity with its nooks and corners
increased. It became, by degrees, not so much a ruined city as a city
of ruined houses, with a character to each. There are many intersecting
streets and lanes, and as one poked about them here and there, some
faint shadow of reality made itself felt above the destruction. Little
bits of staircases, windows, hearths, chimneys, stood out from the mass
of heaped stones. One could imagine the houses whole and clean and
occupied. From some life seemed only recently to have departed, though
they had been left to decay for centuries. The ghosts of the men and
women of the past were very near to showing themselves, especially at
dark, when what is preserved and what is destroyed was difficult to
distinguish.
I spent much time on the quiet grassy summit of the rock. A few sheep
are fed there, and the shepherds watch them, as they always do in this
country, sitting in the shade of some ruin or leaning over the rough
stone parapet to look at the valley below. An old inhabitant came up
to read his paper there, as he told me he did every evening when it
was fine, and we saw the first swallow of the summer as we talked. The
children came to cut plants for salads, busily turning over the stones
and filling their wire baskets. They are very friendly, the children of
Les Baux. When I had been there two years ago a slim little dark-eyed
girl of twelve had shown me the church, and I had taken her photograph
sitting on the steps of the cross. Now I found her grown into a young
woman, and present her here as one of the beauties of Les Baux. Her
name is Martha Montfort and I wondered if perhaps she was a descendant
of the great Montforts. For our Simon de Montfort's father was Count of
Toulouse, and campaigned it here against the Albigenses.
The people at the inn were very kind to me over my accident, provided
me with embrocation and cotton wool and the best of advice, and sent
me away nearly cured. Mistral had visited them in the early days of
their occupancy, and had written in their visitors' book, in his fine
delicate hand, the following poem:
Fiéu de Maiano
S'ère vengu d'ou tèms
de Dono Jano
Quand èro à soun printems
e soubeirano
Coune èron autre-tèms
S'ènso autro engano
que soun regard courons,
aurieu, d'elo amourouns,
trouva, j'eu benurons
vaur fino canvouneto
que la bella Janeto
m'aurié donna'n mantèu
pèr parèisse au cassèn.
One can get the lilt of the soft Provençal, in which the poet sings so
sweetly, and with the French translation, added in his own hand, make
out the sense.
Fils de Maillanne,
Si j'étais venu au temps
de Madame Jeanne,
Comme ou l'était dans sa fleur
et Souveraine,
Comme on l'était jadis,
sans autre politique
que son regard brillant,
j'aurais, amoureux d'elle
trouvé, moi bienheureux,
chansonette si fine
que la belle Jeanette
m'eût donné un manteau
pour paraître au château.
Mistral would certainly have been rewarded if he had appeared at the
castle of Les Baux in the time of the Troubadours. He sings in the same
tongue, poems at least as beautiful as any that they have left behind
them. He was anxious that the _patronne_ of the inn should wear the
Provençal costume, and I do not wonder at it, for although she is a
Swiss from Valais, she has the regular features and the stately bearing
of the Arlesiennes who are said to be the most beautiful women in
Europe.
I found an English artist settled at Les Baux. He had bought one of the
old houses and restored part of it, a great deal with his own hands. We
sat and talked in a large upstairs room with a fine open fireplace and
the window open to the western valley and the hills beyond it. And on
Sunday we visited the Val d'Enfer together, and the chapel of the Trois
Maries, or the "Trémaïé."
The carved stone in front of which this little shrine is built--it
lies under the castle rock to the west--supplies the key to much that
we have already heard about. It is one of the great limestone rocks
with which the hillside and the valley are littered--about twenty-five
feet high, and is a semi-circular niche twelve feet or so from the
ground containing the weathered carving of these draped figures, nearly
life-size.
At first sight they appear to be those of three women, and for
centuries the tradition has been that they were the three Marys who
landed with the other saints at Stes. Maries de la Mer. But the carving
is Roman, and the figures are Roman, dressed quite recognizably in
togas and tunics, the right-hand figure facing us is a man, the other
two are women, the one in the middle, taller than the others and
wearing a sort of turban and carrying a rod decorated with foliage,
though this is not easy to make out now. But it is not difficult to
identify the three figures. There is a wealth of evidence to show that
they are contemporary portraits of Caius Marius, his wife Julia, and in
the middle Martha the prophetess who attended Marius in his campaign
against the barbarians.
"For he had with him," writes Plutarch, "a Syrian woman named Martha,
who was said to have the gift of prophecy. She was carried about in a
litter with great respect and solemnity, and the sacrifices he offered
were all by her direction. She had formerly applied to the senate in
this character, and made an offer of predicting for them future events,
but they refused to hear her. Then she betook herself to the women, and
gave them a specimen of her art. She addressed herself particularly
to the wife of Marius, at whose feet she happened to sit when there
was a combat of gladiators, and fortunately enough told her which of
them would prove victorious. Marius's wife sent her to her husband,
who received her with the utmost veneration, and provided for her the
litter in which she was generally carried. When she went to sacrifice
she wore a purple robe lined with the same, and buttoned up, and held
in her hand a spear adorned with ribbons and garlands."
* * * * *
The inscription below the figures has almost entirely disappeared; but
enough remains to show its date, and the name of the sculptor, Caldus.
Mr. Cook makes the interesting suggestion that this may have been "that
plebeian partisan of Marius, who forged his own way to the front, was
made tribune in 107 B.C., and won his honours by hard work like his
master." For "he was lieutenant at Les Baux with Marius before he went
to Spain; and in memory of his Spanish campaigns he struck the gold
medals which record his rise to the consulate in 97 B.C."
Here then are the three Marii: Caius Marius, Martha Marii, and
Julia Marii; and as is the way of such things they became presently
transformed to the three Maries, and a whole new tradition was attached
to them. There is little doubt either that Martha the sister of Mary
who rid Provence of the scourge of the dragon derived from Martha the
companion of Marius, who rid it of the scourge of the barbarians.
Not far from the rock of the Trémaïé is that of the Gaïé which bears
the much mutilated carving of two figures which are probably those of
Caius Marius and his wife Julia, or possibly of Martha.
These two stones, and especially the Trémaïé, are from one point of
view the most interesting remains in the whole of Provence; for they
join on the past to a past still more remote, and a story that took two
thousand years in the telling is made plain.