tempt us to make further inquiries; but we were directed to a Roman
temple, which, like that at Nismes, is called the Maison Carree. It can
only boast of the remains of lofty pilasters, and the marks of what was
once an inscription; and the inside being converted into a
paltry-looking palais de justice, will hardly repay the trouble of
waiting for the concierge. We departed from Vienne with too unfavourable
an impression of its dirty inn, and of the place in general, to render
us desirous of spending the night there. The squalid, dispiriting
appearance of the town itself, indeed, forms a strong contrast both to
the fine country in which it stands, and the capital letters which
decorate its name in the map of France. Instead of loitering in its
smoky, desolate streets, while horses are changing, I should recommend
the traveller to walk on and await their arrival at the Aiguille, an old
Roman monument so called, which stands close to the road on the right,
within about a mile of the town. This singular pyramidical relic
commands a beautiful view of the Rhone, winding into the sequestered
vallies at the foot of Mont Pilate; and the variety of coins and other
small relics, found there, indicate the ancient boundaries of the city
as extensive, and comprising both this building and the temple
above-mentioned; The inhabitants, forgetting that a person once set
afloat "in the blue rushing of the arrowy Rhone," would probably find no
grave but the gulf of Lyons, have denominated this building the tomb of
Pilate.
Near Vienne the country of silk-worms begins, every tree almost being a
mulberry; and on the steep hills, which inclose the channel of the Rhone
during two days journey from this town, the celebrated Cote-Roti wine is
chiefly produced. The vineyards are in the highest state of cultivation;
and, as in Burgundy also, the nature and position of the soil seem to
operate as a forcing-wall upon the vines, which had, at this early
season, made immense shoots from their knotty close-pruned stumps. Here
I frequently observed the industrious expedient practised in many parts
of Valencia and Catalonia. On the steepest parts of the hills, terraces
above terraces, of loose stones, are built to secure and consolidate the
scanty portion of earth which would otherwise be washed away from the
roots of their vines by the first winter storm; and not a spot is
neglected, however unpromising and difficult of access, where a
barrow-full of mould can be raked together, and increased by
hand-carriage. One cannot witness such industry without wishing that it
could procure more of the comforts of life; but here, as in Burgundy,
the exertions of the inhabitants seem hardly repaid by a bare
subsistence, if one may judge by the general appearance of their houses
and persons. Those travellers who have not yet learned to button
themselves up in total indifference, will find, that the interest and
pleasure derived from a tour depend on nothing more than on the apparent
well-being of those whom they see around them. It is this circumstance
which, viewed in the mind's eye, throws a perpetual sunshine over the
fine scenes of Tuscany and Catalonia, and lends a charm even to the flat
uninteresting corn-fields of Picardy. The absence of it, on the
contrary, disfigures the finest scenes in the south of Italy, and causes
Naples, the most delightful spot on earth, perhaps, for situation and
climate, to dwell on the recollection like a whited sepulchre, a gilded
lazar-house of helpless and incurable wretchedness. A Roman beggar,
glaring at you from the arches of a ruined temple, like one of Salvator
Rosa's Radicals, with a look at once abject and ferocious, may be,
perhaps, a characteristic accompaniment to the scene; but the active,
erect walk, the frank countenance, and cheerful salutation of a peasant
of the Val d'Arno, leave a more pleasing recollection on the mind, as
connected with the ideas of comfort, manliness, and independence.
About five miles from Vienne, we ascended a steep hill to the left,
leaving on the opposite side of the Rhone a well-wooded chateau,
belonging to a Mons. d'Arangues; which forms a good accompaniment to the
view of Mont Pilate. By the road side was a very primitive mill, near
which we saw a woman sifting corn as we walked up the hill. The corn is
laid in the circular trough, and ground by a stone revolving round the
shaft in the centre; which is probably worked by an ass. Such little
circumstances as these frequently remind us more strongly of the change
of place, than the difference of language and costume, which we are
prepared to witness in the different provinces of a wide empire.
Nothing, for instance, forms a stronger or more distinct feature in
one's recollections of the south of France, than the enormous remises
which are annexed to every paltry inn on the road from Lyons to the
southward, and which serve both as warehouse and stable to the hosts of
stout Provencal carriers, who travel with wine, oil, and merchandise to
the interior. The remise at Vienne was sixty feet square, without
compartment; its roof-timbers were worthy of Westminster Hall, and for
its folding doors
"The gates wide open stood,
That with extended wings a banner'd host,
Under spread ensigns marching, might pass through,
With horse and chariots ranked in loose array;
So wide they stood!"
Independent of the uses to which these capacious buildings are properly
applied, they furnish the most agreeable place for rest and refreshment,
during the heat of the day, being, as the traveller will frequently
experience, the coolest and the sweetest place belonging to the inn.
During the rest of our day's journey, nothing occurred worthy of
attention, until the descent into Peage de Rousillon, where we slept.
Here the Rhone, of which we had lost sight, again appears winding
through the broad rich valley which opens at the foot of the hill; and
Mont Pilate also, after you have lost sight of it for the last seven or
eight miles, and expect to see it behind you, again makes its appearance
at a distance seemingly undiminished. So difficult is it to judge of the
real bearings of objects in this clear air, which in fact is less
favourable to the display of the grander features of nature, than our
own misty Ossianic climate.
Our inn at Peage de Rousillon, although the only place in the
neighbourhood at which we could have slept in any comfort, somewhat
resembled, in its general style, those recorded in Don Quixote, and
afforded similar adventures. In the midst of our supper, (which was by
no means a bad one of the kind), in burst a fat German woman in a
transport of fury, who thought herself ill-used in the allotment of the
rooms; squabbling in a very discordant key with the landlady, who
followed her "blaspheming an octave higher." Both were apparently
viragos of the first order, and the keen encounter of their wits was so
loud, that we turned a deaf ear to the German's appeal, and insisted on
their choosing another field of battle. Battle however was the order of
the day, or rather night, for both myself and my servant were roused in
the middle of the night to put a stop to a drunken quarrel on the
staircase, which we effected by ordering down stairs the Maritornes, who
proved the bone of contention. The Hotel du Grand Monarque, is evidently
on a par with that class of inns in our English country towns, which
bear the royal badge of the George and Dragon, through some fatality
attendant on high names and dignities.
From Peage de Rousillon to St. Vallier, you traverse eighteen miles of
flat road, only enlivened by the hills to the right of the Rhone, which,
becoming gradually more rocky and abrupt, meet at length with a
corresponding barrier on the left, and enclose the river in a narrow
valley. Just beyond its entrance, which we had distinguished from above
Peage de Rousillon, stands the town of St. Vallier, where the conducteur
intended that we should breakfast. The Hotel de Poste is a most dismal
hole indeed, in every respect, and no appearance of any other inn: but
soon after we learnt by experience, that wherever there is a cafe of
tolerable appearance, it affords a much better chance for breakfast than
any inn of the same rank. Neatness is the more the trade of the
cafetier, and his notions of breakfast much more English, than those of
the inn-keeper, who is usually put completely out of his way by our
habits.
"Eh! Messieurs," said a well-dressed bourgeoise, who saw us sauntering
about near the door of her shop, "vous irez sans doute voir notre beau
chateau: il fut donne par Jean de Poitiers au premier Seigneur de St.
Vallier, et il a descendu jusqu'a Mons. de St. Vallier l'actuel
proprietaire." Nothing could be more acceptable to idle wanderers than
this information, and off we set at a round pace up a most filthy
street, according to our directions; our heads full of crenelles,
pont-levis, donjon, fosse, and the proper etceteras. I am not sure that
we did not half expect to meet M. de St. Vallier himself, (a good
baronial name) cap-a-pie at the barbacan gate, his lance in rest, and
his visor down, like Sir Boucicault, or the Lord de Roye, or the
doughtiest of Froissart's heroes. A long white-washed mud wall, with
green folding gates, began somewhat to cool our Gothic
enthusiasm--. "Perhaps the portcullis was destroyed at the Revolution." A
bell hung at the gate. "Pshaw, it ought at least to have been a
bugle-horn." When we had rung, instead of sounding a blast, not a dwarf,
but a slipshod dirty girl, not much bigger, opened the door cautiously.
"Il ne faut pas entrer: Monsieur ne permet personne de voir le chateau."
We made involuntarily two steps forward; when lo! the end of a modern
house, with a pea-green door and sash windows, and a shrubbery of lilacs
interspersed with Lombardy poplars, blasted our sight. No longer
ambitious of pursuing the lord of St. Vallier in flank, we hoped at
least that a front view of his castle from the road to Avignon might
afford some remains of feudal splendour. Off we set accordingly, and
emerging from the dirty town as quickly as possible, beheld on turning
round!--a large modern front, in the full smile of complacent ugliness,
with a Grecian portico, not of masonry, but of red and yellow paint a la
Lyonnaise; the whole edifice quite worthy of the Hermitage du Mont d'Or.
The two short round towers on the sides might have been originally
Gothic; but if really so, they had been most effectually disguised by
white-washing, and new tiled tops, which very much resembled Grimaldi's
red cap and his whited face. In front of the windows, instead of the
sweeping lawns and dark avenues of which Mrs. Ratcliffe is so liberal,
stood a large close-pruned vineyard, inclosed by a high white wall; at
one end of which, and facing the front of his red and yellow chateau, M.
de St. Vallier had built a red and yellow summer-house, with green
shutters, to keep it in countenance. Very much diverted at our ludicrous
disappointment, we sauntered along the road, which followed the course
of the Rhone. At two miles distance, just where the river winds with a
broad and rapid sweep into a woody gorge, with one blue mountain peeping
over it, a black venerable old ruin, with turret and watch-tower, and
every thing to render it complete, stood cresting an abrupt rock which
hung over the river. Nothing, said I, shall persuade me that this castle
is not the genuine gift of John of Poitiers, and the real object of our
search. Down we sat at all events to sketch it, and meeting by good
fortune a communicative young officer on the road, we learnt that this
castle, called[12] Chateau la Serve, had in reality been the residence
of the lords of St. Vallier; that many years ago it had been reduced by
an accidental fire to its present state, and was finally wrested from
the family at the Revolution. Of the present Chateau St. Vallier, and
the estate annexed, they have remained in uninterrupted possession; and
all admirers of the Gothic must rejoice that the ruin has been
purchased by the commune of La Serve: for, standing as it does within
view of the new chateau, no doubt it would have been brought to the
state of that delectable domicile by the aid of the trowel and
paint-brush.
[Footnote 12: Vide Cooke's Views.]
From La Serve to Tain, the same style of country continues, without much
alteration. The utmost exertions of the inhabitants seem necessary to
struggle against the stony ungenial nature of the soil; and a black
storm which was rolling to the right over Mont Pilate, appeared to
menace the scanty crops of vines which their labour had produced. In
every hamlet we heard the bells ringing, and saw the poor peasants
crowding to the church to put up prayers against the coming hail, which
at this season of the year is peculiarly fatal. If this be a
superstition, it is surely not a contemptible or uninteresting one to
witness: nor can one wonder at the influence gained over peasants thus
instructed to associate Heaven with their daily hopes and fears. To our
great satisfaction, after two or three vivid flashes of lightning, the
clouds broke away to the north-west, and a light rain fell partially,
more beneficial to the parched vineyards than hurtful to the hay, which
even at this early season was in great forwardness in most places. On
the whole, I should say that the district lying fifty miles south of
Lyons, is a month more early than our own in point of climate and
productions.
At Tain, the Rhone forces for itself a narrow passage into the vale of
Valence, from among the rugged skirts of Mont Pilate, leaving on the one
side Tain, and on the other Tournon; both backed by strong heights,
which seem to guard the entrance of the defile. The situation of Tournon
is striking, and very much corresponds with the ideas which one forms of
a strong baronial hold upon the Rhine. A large portion of the
precipitous hill which commands it, is connected with the town by a
broken line of grim old walls and towers, which betoken the former
importance of this position. Its castle, a building of a heavy
conventual style of architecture, and standing on a fortified terrace,
formerly belonged to the Prince de Soubisc, but is now converted, as we
were informed, into a prison. To this purpose it is well adapted, as a
leap from one of the round towers which breast the river at the angles
of its terrace, would be fatal; and the character of despotism impressed
on its walls seems to say, that in former times its uses were not very
different. The resemblance indeed which it bears to the Chateau
d'Amboise on the Loire, the scene of the Duke de Guise's murder, may
possibly assist its effect on the imagination.
On issuing from this gloomy but not uninteresting spot, the eye opens
upon an extensive prospect, rich in many of those features which we find
scattered through the works of Claude and Salvator. To the right, the
hills which hung[13] over the road to Tain, recede into a long
perspective, terminated in the distance by a ruined castle on a
pyramidical rock, near Valence; and the Rhone, following the same
direction, winds away from the road in a slower and wider current than
before. To the left, the outskirts of the Dauphine Alps form a
singularly wild and fantastic barrier, sometimes rising in abrupt
pinnacles, and sometimes rent as if by an earthquake into precipices of
some thousand feet of sheer perpendicular descent. The vale inclosed
between these rough walls, and in the centre of which the Isere unites
itself to the Rhone, appears a perfect garden in point of richness,
cheerfulness, and high cultivation. We crossed the Isere, a strong and
rapid stream, by a ferry, for our Itineraire, with its usual accuracy,
forgot to mention that the bridge of which it speaks was broken down by
Augereau on the advance of the Austrians. Within two or three miles of
Valence, a rising ground, fringed with scattered oak underwood, affords
a more distinct and striking semicircular view of the mountains to the
left; and glimpses of others yet more distant, bordering an immense
plain, through which the Rhone takes its course towards Avignon.
[Footnote 13: Vide Cooke's Views.]
As we approached Valence, the ancient Civitas Valentinorum, we again
observed the ruined castle which we had at first remarked, called
Chateau Crussol. It stands on a conical cliff on the opposite side of
the river, overlooking the town at about two cannon-shots distance. On
inquiring into the history of this eagle's nest, we found that it had
been in days of yore the fortress of a petty free-booting chieftain, who
kept the inhabitants of Valence in a perpetual state of war and
annoyance; a history which almost appears fabricated to suit its
appearance and character. It bears a very strong resemblance, in point
of situation, to the ruin within a mile of Massa di Carrara; which the
tradition of the peasants assigns as the abode of Castruccio Castracani,
the scourge of the Pisans. Seeing it relieved by a gleam of sunshine
from a dark evening cloud behind it, we could fancy, without any great
effort of imagination, that, like the bed-ridden Giant Pope in honest
John Bunyan, it was grinning a ghastly smile of envy at the prosperity
which it could no longer interrupt. Or, if this idea should seem
extravagant, at least the two opposite neighbours present as lively a
personification as stone and mortar can afford, of their respective
inhabitants; the town of Valence flourishing in industrious
cheerfulness, and the castle domineering, savage, poverty-stricken, and
formed only for purposes of plunder and mischief.
In the suburbs of Valence we found an excellent inn, called the Croix
d'Or, worthy to be recommended both for comfort, civility, and fair
charges. A walk into the town of Valence itself has very little in it to
repay the traveller, with the exception of the Champ de Mars, a sort of
public garden bordering on the Rhone. Certainly no place ever united
such a degree of dirt and closeness to so smiling an exterior. Its old
Gothic walls still remain, and the streets therefore are probably built
on the same scale as in those times when they crowded together for
security against feudal aggressors.
May 9.--To Loriol five miles. The road passes through a country as
beautiful and diversified as before, seldom deviating above a mile or
two from the course of the river: corn and hay-fields, the latter fit
for cutting, mulberry, almond, and fig-trees, cover every inch of
ground. About a mile before we reached Loriol, and just after passing a
small town called Livron, we crossed the Drome, over a noble bridge of
three arches, constructed of a rough sort of whitish marble, and
reminding us somewhat of a reduced section of the Strand bridge. Its
massy solidity is not misplaced, as a view up the mountain glen to the
left of it convinced us. Though the river was at this time low, the
immense extent of dry beds of gravel showed what its volume and force
must be when swoln by rain; and the cluster of gloomy mountains which
close the valley from whence it issues, seem the perpetual abode of
storms. In one of them I recognised the Montagne de Midi, whose form is
so remarkably perpendicular when seen from Tain; and altogether, I have
no idea of forms more wild and extraordinary upon so large a scale. The
rocks of St. Michel, in Savoy, near St. Jean de Maurienne, are a
miniature resemblance of them; but a better idea as to size and
wildness, may be formed by those who recollect the mountains of Nant
Francon, in Wales, and can imagine them not yet settled into place,
after the first confusion of the Titanic war.
"Ter sunt conati imponere Pelio Ossam
Scilicet, atque Ossa frondosum involvere Olympum;
Ter pater exstructos dejecit fulmine montes."
The view is worth several hours of an artist's time, and its effect is
considerably increased by a solitary tower, resembling a moss-trooper's
abode, which stands in the middle distance. It is called, as we
understood, the Chateau de Crest, and is the relic of a state prison. On
passing a corner of rising ground this wild valley disappears, and the
same rich and cheerful country as has been already described
recommences. The same unbroken rocky barrier bounds the Rhone on the
right, while in front numberless peaks of very distant mountains become
visible over the plain through which its windings are traced.
The neat-looking inn at Loriol probably affords better breakfasts than
the cafe, which, in spite of its neat outside, is dirty and imposing, an
exception to the usual rule.
To Montelimart fifteen miles: the first three we walked, and rested on a
rising ground, commanding in each direction a long day's journey through
this fine district. Our walk perhaps made us relish the more a bottle of
the vin du pays, which Derbieres, a little village a mile or two farther
on, afforded; but I have no doubt that worse is sold in Paris at seven
or eight francs a bottle, under the name of pink champagne: it is at
least worth the while of any thirsty traveller to try the experiment, if
it were merely for the sake of the civil old landlady of the little inn.
We could obtain no information from her respecting the history of a
singular ruin on the opposite side of the river, excepting that it was
called Chateau Crucis, and about seven hundred years ago was an abbey.
Somewhat beyond this black pile stand two or three pyramidical rocks,
projecting from the general line of hills, the same probably which the
French Itineraire mentions as commanding a celebrated view, and
exhibiting in themselves a geological curiosity. I doubt, however,
whether any person would do well to cross the Rhone to explore them,
upon the mere credit of that wise octavo.
Montelimart is a large old town, the ancient fortifications of which,
as of Valence, remain in perfect preservation. The approach to it from
Loriol gives by no means so favourable an idea of it as it deserves; and
to estimate its beauties fully, it is necessary to visit the citadel,
now used as a prison, which stands on a height above the town.[14] The
view which it commands is uniformly mountainous in the back grounds, and
flat and rich in its nearer details; but the finest part of it is
towards the east. The snowy Alps near Grenoble, and the line of
mountains from whence the Drome issues, and at whose foot Chateau
Grignan is situated, are its prominent features; and the little
farm-houses and tufts of trees in the rich pasture grounds which
intervene, seem disposed by the hand of a painter.
[Footnote 14: Vide Cooke's Views.]
Not to omit the luxuries of the palate as well as those of the eye, it
is worth while to procure at Montelimart a wedge or two of the nogaux,
or almond-cakes, which Miss Plumptre so particularly recommends. The
genuine sort is as glutinous as pitch, and made in moulds, from whence
it is cut like portable soup; and the makers at Montelimart, like the
rusk-bakers of Kidderminster, have, I understand, refused a large sum
for the receipt. Another of the good things of Provence, to which Miss
Plumptre's Tour introduced us, was the confiture de menage, or fruit
boiled up with grape juice instead of sugar. This is a preserve which
you meet with in most of the commonest inns, but which is so easily made
and little esteemed, that they do not bring it without a particular
order. It is very much like asking for treacle at an English inn;
nevertheless I, for my part, felt obliged to the fair tourist for an
information which has served to mend many a bad breakfast; and a bad
breakfast, as the world doth know, is the stumbling-block, or the
grumbling-stock, of most Englishmen, travelled or untravelled.
The inn at Montelimart is excellent; but Madame must not be left to make
her own charges. We should, however, have parted from her in good
humour, had not her avarice affected persons less able to help
themselves. The poor maid, who appeared jaded to the bone, confessed
that her mistress detained half her etrennes, and I have reason to
believe that she spoke truth.
To the classical ground of Chateau Grignan, which we visited next day, I
shall devote a separate chapter.
CHAP. V.
CHATEAU GRIGNAN.
MAY 10.--This was the day of the greatest interest and fatigue which we
had as yet passed; and moreover afforded us a tolerably accurate idea,
at the risk of our bones, of the nature of French crossroads. Having
understood that the road from Montelimart to Grignan was inaccessible to
four-wheeled carriages, we set off at four in the morning in a patache,
the most genteel description of one-horse chair which the town afforded.
Let no one imagine that a patache bears that relation to a cabriolet
which a dennet does to a tilbury; for ours, at least, would in England
have been called a very sorry higgler's cart. The inside accommodations
were so arranged, that we sat back to back, and nearly neck and heels
together, after swarming up a sort of dresser or sounding-board in the
rear, which afforded the most practicable entrance. "Mais montez,
montez, Messieurs, vous y serez parfaitement bien," quoth our civil
conducteur, haranguing, handing, and shoving at the same time. The
alacrity with which he and his merry little dog Carlin did the honours
of the vehicle, and the stout active appearance of the horse (to say
nothing of the whim of the moment, and the fine morning), reconciled us
to a mode of conveyance no better than that which calves enjoy in a
butcher's cart; and for the first few miles we forgot even the want of
springs.