_Saintes-Maries de la Mer_
I was on the road early the next morning with a twenty-mile walk before
me to Saintes-Maries de la Mer. I had to follow the canal for a couple
of miles to the north, then to strike across the plain to the westward,
then to follow the course of the Little Rhône to the south. This took
me through country that has been for the most part reclaimed, and grows
acres upon acres of vines. To the south and west of Aigues-Mortes it
is nothing but _étangs_ and unreclaimed marsh, and if there is a way
through it all I could hardly have expected to find it and should
certainly have been cut off by water besides.
The walk was not very inspiring. Any one who knows the reclaimed fen
lands of Lincolnshire and Cambridgeshire will agree that, fertile
though these flats may be, they provide the modicum of picturesque
scenery. I imagine that the vine-growing industry hereabouts is a
comparatively new thing, but it is already a big one. After walking
along a straight road between vineyards--flat fields regularly planted
with vines about the size of small gooseberry bushes--for five miles,
I saw ahead of me an enormous castellated, spired building which I
afterwards learnt to be a wine lodge, but which was not on my map at
all. And just outside the walls of Aigues-Mortes they have recently
erected a building having to do with the shipping or storage of wine
over which there has been a good deal of controversy; for it is built
in a sham castellated style, and interferes with the effect of the
ancient fortifications.
My road turned before I came to the big building I have mentioned, and
presently the fields became less ruled and planed, and little bits of
untouched marshland began to encroach upon them. I came to the hamlet
of Sylvéreal at a turn of the Little Rhône, where there is a bridge
and a road running to Saintes-Maries on either side of the river. I
refreshed myself at a poor little inn and was heavily charged for sour
bread and hard cheese. But these regions are really out of the world,
habitations are sparse and communications rare. Five miles further on
I came to a ferry--the Bac du Sauvage--and was put across the Little
Rhône, which is not little at all, but a big river with a rapid flow.
Except for the quite good road, one might well have imagined oneself
during these last miles in a new country gradually being opened up.
The river carries no merchandise, its banks are deserted. Since
Aigues-Mortes, in sixteen miles or so, I had passed no village except
Sylvéreal, and there cannot be more than a dozen houses there. I
could not rid myself of the feeling of being somewhere in the bush of
Australia, which I know best of the new countries. Even the occasional
wayside shanties were not absent--little groups of them occasionally,
in which there was nearly always one announcing itself as that of a
_coiffeur_.
The feeling vanished when I came within sight of the fortress church
of Saintes-Maries towering above the low roofs of the village that
surrounds it. It could be seen from afar across the plain, and
immediately carried the mind back to the past, which is never very far
away from you wherever you go in Provence. And this is one of the most
ancient and storied places of the whole country. The walls and towers
of Aigues-Mortes are new beside it. If you reject the story of the
landing of the New Testament saints here--and you will find it hard to
reject in Saintes-Maries itself--still the church itself dates partly
from the tenth century; it was built on the site of another church
destroyed by the Saracens; and that church was built on the site of a
temple erected by Augustus. In Roman times there was a sort of island
here, and a prosperous settlement. The state of almost destitution
to which the wretched little town has come must be owing to the
defertilization of the Camargue, of which I have already written. But
in the time of King René it was a prosperous town with many privileges,
afterwards confirmed to it by the kings of France, and at least since
that time the church has been the object of a yearly pilgrimage that
has kept its fame alive to an extent that is perhaps not equalled
anywhere in France, except at Lourdes.
I cannot but think that "Les Saintes," as it is commonly called, must
be now at the very nadir of its poverty. It is right on the edge of the
Mediterranean, and beautiful firm sands backed by sand dunes stretch
away from it on either side. It is on a little line of railway from
Arles; and by far the nearest possible watering-place to that city, and
even to Avignon. In fact, Le Grau du Roi, near Aigues-Mortes, would be
its only rival for the central cities of Provence. In England, a place
of this historical importance and advantageous situation would be a
prosperous town instead of a squalid village.
I need scarcely say that to the sentimental traveller the present
dejected state of Saintes-Maries, in which nothing detracts from
the extraordinary interest of its shrine, is a boon almost beyond
gratitude. But one can hardly help being struck by its possibilities,
and the difference between France and England in respect of making use
of such; nor by the fact that at any time the whole aspect of the place
may become changed.
There are two inns in Saintes-Maries, and I went to the worst of them,
because it faced the sea. It was the dirtiest inn I struck in Provence,
but that was not altogether the fault of the proprietors, as part of
it was rebuilding. Perhaps the visitors to Saintes-Maries have already
begun to demand more accommodation, and this is the sign of it. I
did come across one honeymoon couple, or one that looked like it,
sunning themselves below the stones of the dike in view of the shining
Mediterranean, but I walked along the sands to the mouth of the Little
Rhône, a distance of about two miles, without seeing any one else,
except a few fishermen. And at the mouth of the river there were only a
few scattered huts. It seemed almost ludicrous that a mighty and famous
river--even if only the lesser branch of it--should be allowed to take
to the sea with so little ceremony. Again the likeness to a stretch of
coast in a brand-new country was overwhelming. But one only had to turn
round and see that ancient church for the odd sensation to pass away
again; and only the peace and the windy solitude of the sea remained of
it.
[Illustration: SAINTES-MARIES, THE FORTRESS CHURCH]
[Illustration: SAINT-GILLES, THE CENTRAL PORCH
_Page 268_]
The church is, I think, the most compelling thing in Provence. The
photograph will give an idea of its fortress exterior, but not of the
way it dominates the country for miles around. That is a thing to
remember, but unfortunately my own photograph, taken from the shore
some little way off, went wrong.
The first thing that strikes one in the dark interior--what windows
there are are mere slits in the thick wall--are the rows of rough deal
seating that run round three sides of the church in a sort of narrow
gallery. These are for the crowds that come on May 24th, and during
the following week for the great annual festival, when the coffin
containing the bones of the blessed saints is let down from the chapel
above the apse, and the church is packed full of pilgrims. They are a
makeshift affair and do not add to the dignity of the church, although
they serve to remind one that this church does not depend for its fame
on its age or architecture.
The high altar with its simple decoration of wrought iron stands
forward. The priest celebrates facing the congregation; it is a
privilege granted by the Pope to this church. Immediately in front of
it is the entrance to the crypt. In front of that, just aside from
the main aisle, is the miraculous well, with pitcher and pulley all
complete.
When the saints landed near to this place, they set about building
a little oratory, "erecting an altar for the celebration of the holy
mysteries, as near as possible like to the one which Moses constructed
by the order of God. The two Marys, with Martha and Magdalene, prepared
the ground for this purpose, and God made known to them how agreeable
in his eyes were their devotion and their sacrifices, by causing to
spring up a fountain of sweet water in a place where hitherto only salt
water had been known."
This well must have been of the utmost value to those who stood a
siege in the church some hundreds of years later, and may be thought
to have been sunk for that purpose. But its miraculous properties are
still recognized, and its waters are resorted to by "persons bitten by
enraged animals."
The narrow little chapels that line the church are fuller of votive
offerings than any others I have seen. Besides the usual _ex voto_
tablets, and chaplets and ribbons of first communions, there is a
regular picture gallery of miraculous escapes, most of them, it must be
confessed, of the lowest possible artistic value, but going a long way
back, and telling a series of tales of considerable interest.
A characteristic one, which bears the date of 1777, is of a man being
attacked by five dogs. His companion is not going to his assistance,
but is represented on his knees, and in an upper corner of the picture
appear the two Marys, who presumably saved the victim from any ill
effects of the attack. Another rather well-executed pencil drawing
represents a man dragging a horse out of a swollen river. Another is of
a child being run over--or possibly just not run over--by a cart. Many
are of elderly people in bed with friends and relatives standing around
them--and the saints in their usual corner.
In one of the chapels are the old carved wood figures of the two Marys
in their boat, which are carried every year in procession to the sea,
and into it, in commemoration of the miraculous voyage which ended at
this place.
I don't know how it was that I did not realize on my first visit to the
church that the chapel containing the sacred remains, the outside of
which can be seen in the photograph above the apse, was to be seen by
taking a little trouble about it. From the inside of the church appear
the doors from which the double ark is let down by ropes and carried in
procession, but I had not thought that there was rather an elaborate
chapel up there behind the doors. It was rather late in the evening
when the old priest came out from his presbytery to take me up to it.
It is approached by a narrow, winding stairway from the outside of
the church, and is about forty feet from the ground. It was enriched
in the time of Louis XV, but its decorations were much damaged by
the Revolutionaries. The pictured coffer containing the relics of
the saints is in a chamber closed by ornamented double doors, in
which are also the pulleys and cords by which it is lowered to the
floor of the church on the great day of the pilgrimage. All round
the little chapel are the crutches and other offerings of those who
have been cured by attendance at the shrine. One of the latest is a
sort of strait-waistcoat left behind by a cripple who had used it for
many years, but went away, as the curé told me, on his own feet, and
praising God and the blessed saints.
I walked all round the strong battlements, from which a glorious view
extends itself, of the plain with its bright sheets of water on the one
side, and the sea and the sands on the other. It was a lovely, peaceful
evening, and the old priest admired it as much as I did. He said he
liked to come up here away from the world, and often said his Mass in
the quiet chapel high above the low roofs of the town. I bought from
him the little book he has written about his church, which contains the
hymns and prayers and canticles, partly in Latin, partly in French,
partly in Provençal, that are used during the days of pilgrimage.
Of the church as a work of defence, he writes: "It is a fortress,
with its sentry's walk, its watch tower, its crenellations and
machicolations. When Saracens or pirates invaded us, and during the
wars of religion, the men went up to the high chapel for defence,
at the summons of the watchman, who gave the alarm, while the women
and children were shut up in the church, which communicated by two
staircases with the roof. During the religious wars, the church was
smoked out several times by the assailants."
It was nearly dark when we went down into the crypt, and what I saw of
the tomb of the servant Sarah was by the light of a candle which the
curé lit for me, dropping the grease about plentifully, as seems to
be the way of those who show sacred treasures. It will be remembered
that this black servant of the holy ladies accompanied them on their
miraculous voyage to Provence. Her body, exhumed with theirs, under the
auspices of the good King René, and in his presence, was reburied here,
and this half subterranean chapel at Saintes-Maries has been from time
immemorial the centre of a cult, the strangest of any with which we
have to do.
At the time of the yearly pilgrimage, when good Catholics come to
venerate die remains of the saints, there come also hordes of gipsies,
who prostrate themselves before the tomb of the servant Sarah, and
practise strange rites which have nothing to do with the Christian
religion. The good curé in his book mentions the fact that they come
in, but says nothing about their worship, which is said to include the
adoration of fire, and other mysteries of an immemorially old religion.
I have been able to find nothing very illuminating that bears upon this
strange survival and its origins. The Marquis de Baroncelli-Javon has
published a little illustrated pamphlet which is of some interest on
the subject of gipsies in general, and those that are to be found in
this stretch of seaboard in particular, but he is not able to suggest
why St. Sarah, as he calls her--but I do not think that she was ever
canonized, or regarded as a Christian saint--should have attracted
to herself this ancient worship, except by reminding us that she was
commonly supposed to be an Egyptian, which is hardly convincing. But
that the gipsies should gather at this particular spot and perform
their rites, he does find some reason for, and his theories are at
least interesting.
He says, first of all, that there are two distinct races of _Bohémiens_
different in feature, in bone formation, colour, character, language
and traditions; that they have nothing in common and treat each other
not only as strangers but often as enemies. "A gipsy who traffics in
horses will never have anything to do with one who leads about dancing
bears or works in copper; there will be no understanding between them
and they will treat one another with indifference if not with hatred.
But this trafficker in horses will immediately recognize as his blood
brother another _maquignon_ at Saintes-Maries, it matters not where he
comes from."
Now at Saintes-Maries the gipsies with performing bears, or the
tinsmiths, are never to be met with. These are the Zingaris, and their
home is in the east of Europe. They talk the languages of the north and
the east willingly and easily, but with difficulty those of the south.
The gipsies who are to be found in Spain, Languedoc, Provence and
parts of Italy call themselves Gitanos or Gitans. These are they who
come once at least during their life wanderings to Saintes-Maries, "to
salute the earth, to fulfil strange rites, and to regard the sea, their
eyes fixed in ecstasy." Where do they come from?
"From the parts where the sun sets," they say of themselves; and if you
ask an American Indian the same question he will tell you that he comes
"from the parts where the sun rises." They are the ancient inhabitants,
says M. de Baroncelli-Javon, of the lost Atlantis, which lay between
the old world and the new.
The resemblances between the Gitanos and the Redskins are curious, not
only in appearance and language but in many small details and habits.
They use, for instance, exactly the same actions when they examine a
horse's teeth. The author adds to the list of survivors of Atlantis
the Basques, the Bretons and perhaps the Copts of Egypt, and finds
resemblances in them too. My small ethnological knowledge prompts me to
reject the Bretons, but the Basques have always been a puzzle, and seem
to fit in with this theory. There is also a hint, in a footnote, of the
inclusion of the Laps, Samoyeds, and Esquimaux, whom we might perhaps
accept in place of the Celts.
But to continue. The Egyptians and the Gitanos--probably two
branches of the same family--found themselves on either side of the
Mediterranean. The Egyptians moved westwards to the Nile and the Red
Sea, the Gitanos took up a roving life and were to be found everywhere
along the coast, from the Gaudalquiver to the Var. They are thus not
descendants, but brothers of the Egyptian race.
"Little by little arrive the Iberians, and then others and still
others. The Gitano flies before the invader; he finds refuge nearer
and nearer to the coast, following the last wild horses into the
most lonely places, among the lagoons and the unhealthy marshes,
uninhabitable by all except him, the aboriginal. There he erects
his temples, in which he adores Fire and the Sun, like the Redskin
and the Egyptian, where he buries his chiefs and his wise men, thus
consecrating special places. And he is always moving on, with the
wild horse, along the line of the sea. Centuries and centuries pass,
Christianity shines forth, which founds the altars of its saints on
those of the pagans, and it is not unscientific to think that the
pilgrimage to the place of the Saintes-Maries existed long before
Christianity, and honoured first the gods of the soil, then those of
the Iberians and Ligurians, before it honoured our saints."