Hotel Gassion, Pau,
_December 14_.
Dear Universal Provider of Love and Cheques,
Thank you a thousand times for both, which have just been forwarded
along the route of this "wild-goose chase," as you call it. Well, if it
is one, I don't know who the goose is, unless Aunt Mary. She is rather
like that sometimes, poor dear; but we get on splendidly. Oh, I would
get on splendidly with five Aunt Marys (which Heaven forbid!), for I'm
_so_ happy, Dad! I'm having such a good time--_the_ time of my life, or
it would be if you were in it.
If you ever lose all your money and come a nice, gentlemanly cropper in
the street called Wall, we might come to Biarritz to live, just you and
I. We _would_ have fun! And we could stop in our pretty little cheap
villa all the year round, for one season only waits politely till
another is out to step in; it's always gay and fashionable, and yet you
needn't be either unless you like. And the sea and sky have more
gorgeous colour in them than any other sea and sky, and the air has more
ozone; and the brown rocks that go running a hippopotamus race out into
the beryl-green water are queerer and finer than any other rocks. So
you see everything is superlative, even the hotels, and _as_ for a
certain Confectioner; but he, or rather she, deserves a capital. There
are drives and walks, and curio-shops where I spent my little all; and
there's fox-hunting, which would be nice if it weren't for the poor tame
fox; and golf, and _petits cheveaux_ at the casino, where Aunt Mary
gambled before she knew what she was doing, and kept on a long time
after she did; and mysterious Basque persons with ancestors and costumes
more wonderful than anybody else's, who dance strange dances in the
streets for money, and play a game called La Pelotte, which is great
sport to watch. And you walk by the sea, with its _real_ waves, like
ours at home, not little tuppenny-ha'penny ones like those I saw in the
English Channel; and you look across an opal bay through a creamy haze
to a mystic land made entirely of tumbled blue mountains. And then, one
of the best things about Biarritz is that you're next door to Spain. Ah,
that door of Spain! I've knocked and been in through it, but just across
the threshold. The way of it was like this--
I'd been up early and out to the golf course for a lesson from the
professional; when I came home a little before eleven Brown was waiting.
He wanted to know if I wouldn't care to have a peep at Spain, and said
that we could easily go there and back by dinner-time. Aunt Mary and I
were ready in a "jiffy," so was the car, and we were buzzing away along
a beautiful road (though a little "_accidentee_," as the French say)
near the ocean. There were the most lovely lights I ever saw on land or
sea, over the mountains and the great, unquiet Atlantic; and St. Jean de
Luz, which we came to in no time, as it seemed, was another charming
little watering-place for us to come and live if you get poor. A good
many English people do live there all the year round, and whom do you
think is one of them? George Gissing. You know how I made you read his
books, and you said they seemed so real that you felt you had got into
the people's houses by mistake, and ought to say "Excuse me"? Well, he
has come to live in St. Jean de Luz, the all-knowing Brown tells me. His
master admires Mr. Gissing very much, so the Honourable John must be a
nice and clever man.
As for history, Brown is an inexhaustible mine. I simply "put in my
thumb and pull out a plum." But I forgot--there _aren't_ usually plums
in mines, are there, except in the prospectuses? Anyhow, it was Brown
who made me realise what tremendously interesting things _frontiers_
are. That imaginary line, and then--people, language, costumes, and
customs changing as if a fairy had waved a wand. The frontier between
France and Spain is a great wide river--on purpose to give us another
bridge. Doesn't the name, "Bidassoa," suggest a broad, flowing current
running swiftly to the sea?
This time we would have none of the bridge. It was too much bother
paying duty on the car, and having a lot of red tape about getting it
back again in an hour or two; so we left Balzac, as I have named it, at
the last French town and rowed across, on past the first Spanish town,
Irun, to a much older, more picturesque one--Fuenterrabia. A
particularly handsome boatman wanted to row us, but Brown would do it
himself, either to show how well he can manage the oars, or else because
the boatman had abnormally long eyelashes, and Brown is rather sick of
eyelashes.
Even crossing the river and going down towards the mouth of the stream
(with a huge, old ruined castle towering up to mark Fuenterrabia) was
quite thrilling, because of the things in history that have happened all
around. The estuary runs down to the sea between mountains of wild and
awesome shapes. One of them is named after Wellington, because it is
supposed to look like his profile lying down, and the other mountains
had a chance to see his real profile many times, though I'll be bound
his enemies never saw his back. He fought among them--both mountains and
enemies, and the latter were some of Napoleon's smartest marshals. He
took a whole army across the ford in the Bidassoa, attacked Soult, and
chased him all the way up the mountains to the very summit of La Rhune,
a great conical peak high up in the sky. Another thing was the Isle des
Faisans, right in the middle of the river, where Philippe and Louis the
Fourteenth fixed everything up about Louis' Spanish bride. It's the
smallest island you ever saw; you wouldn't think there would be room for
a whole King of Spain and a King of France to stand on it at the same
time, much less sign contracts.
When our boat touched Spanish soil on the beach below Fuenterrabia, two
rather ferocious-looking Spaniards in uncomfortable uniforms were
waiting for us. They had the air of demanding "your money or your life";
but after all it was only the extraordinarily high, ugly collars of
their overcoats which gave them such a formidable appearance. They were
custom-house officers guarding the coast, though how they see over those
collars to find out what's going on under their noses I don't know.
Brown says that soldiers at Madrid have to dress like that in winter to
protect themselves from the terrible icy winds, and as Madrid sets the
fashion for everything in Spain, the provincial soldiers have to choke
themselves in the same way.
It did seem to me that the very air of Spain was different from across
the river in France. It was richer and heavier, like incense. It _is_
nice to have an imagination, isn't it, instead of having to potter about
leading _facts_ by a string, as if they were dogs? Well, anyway, I am
sure people have bigger and blacker eyes in Spain. Just walking up from
the beach to the strange old town, I saw two or three peasant women and
children with wonderful eyes, like black velvet with stars shining
through--eyes that princesses would give fortunes for.
I couldn't help humming "In Old Madrid" under my breath, and I fancied
that the salt-smelling breeze brought the snapping of castanets. The sun
was hot; but coolness, and rich, tawny shadows swallowed us up in a
silent street, crowded with fantastic, beautifully carved,
bright-coloured houses, all having balconies, each one more overhanging
than the other. Not a soul was to be seen; our footsteps rang on the
narrow side-walk, and it seemed rude of our voices when we talked to
wake the sleepy silence out of its afternoon nap. But suddenly a
handsome young man appeared from a side street, and stopping in the
middle of the road, vigorously tinkled a musical bell. Immediately the
street became alive. Each house door showed a man; women hung over the
gaily-draped balconies; children ran out and clustered round the
bell-ringer. He began to speak very fast in guttural Spanish, and we
couldn't understand a word he said, though Brown has a smattering of the
language--enough to get on with in shops and hotels. When he had
finished everyone laughed. All up and down the street came the sound of
laughter; deep, bass laughter from the men; contralto laughter from the
women. The handsome bell-ringer laughed too, and then vanished as
suddenly as he had come. All the life of the quaint street seemed to
fade away with him. Slowly the people took themselves indoors; the
balconies were empty; the street silent as in a city of the dead. It was
like something on the stage; but I suppose it's just a bit of everyday
life in Fuenterrabia and old, old Spain.
We went on up to the castle we had seen from the beach, and I turned my
eyes away from a big, ugly round building, like a country
panorama-place, for that was the bull ring, and the one thing that makes
Spain hateful to me. I didn't want even to think of it. The gateway of
the palace--for it had been a palace--was splendid--an arch across the
street. But on the other side I burst out laughing at a sign, in what
was meant to be English, advertising the castle for sale. Capitals were
sprinkled about everywhere; the painter had thought they would look
pretty, and evidently it was held out as a lure to Britishers and
Americans that Charles the Fifth had built it and lived in it. I know
Mrs. Washington Potts would love to buy it, and then go home and mention
in an absent-minded manner that she'd "acquired a royal palace in Spain
as a winter residence." Can't you hear her? But oh, poor palace! It's as
airy a mansion now as most castles in Spain, though what's left of its
walls is about fifteen feet thick. Still, the glorious view of sea and
mountains from the roof would be worth paying for, and wouldn't need
thousands of dollars' worth of restoration, like the house.
While we lingered in Fuenterrabia absorbing the atmosphere of old Spain,
the time was inconsiderate enough to run away and leave us with only a
twisted channel among sand-banks to remember it by. So we took an oddly
shaped carriage with a white tasselled awning on it and drove back to
Hendaye and our motor-car. But the day was a great success, and I
congratulated Brown, which Aunt Mary said it was silly to do, as it is
his business to think of everything for us.
Now, as you see by the date of my letter, we're at Pau, to which we came
from Biarritz in a delicious morning's run through a pearl-coloured
landscape trimmed with blue mountains. As we got into the town the
Lightning Conductor, who was driving, whisked us through a few streets,
swooped round a large square, and suddenly stopped the car on a broad
terrace with an air as though he said, "There! what do you think of
_that_?" I think I gasped. I know I wanted to by way of saluting what
must be one of the most wonderful views in the whole world.
We had stopped on a terrace not the least like a street. At one end was
an old grey chateau; then a long line of imposing buildings, almost too
graceful to be hotels, which they really were; a church sending a white,
soaring spire into the blue sky; an open, shady _place_, with a statue
of Henri Quatre; villas hotels, hotels villas in a sparkling line, with
great trees to cut it and throw a blue haze of shadow. That is one side
of the terrace. The other is an iron railing, a sudden drop into space,
and--the view. Your eyes travel across a park where even in this
mid-winter season roses are blooming and date palms are flourishing.
Then comes a hurrying river, giving life and music to the landscape;
beyond that a wide sweep of hills, with bunches of poplars, and valleys
where white villages lie half concealed; and further still, leaping into
the sky, the immense line of the Pyrenees, looking to-day so near and
sharply outlined that they seemed to be cut out of cardboard. When I was
able to speak I told Brown that the very first thing I should do would
be to walk to those delectable mountains. "I don't think you could quite
manage it, miss," he said, with his quiet smile, "for they are nearly
forty miles away." Then we turned round and drove into the courtyard of
the hotel, which faces the great view.
It looked tremendously swell, and Aunt Mary and I tried to live up to it
by sweeping haughtily in as if we hadn't collected any of the historic
dust of France on our motoring coats and hats. Just as we were
acquitting ourselves quite creditably who should step out from a group
of the very people we were hoping to impress with our superiority but
Jimmy Payne! Oh, you wicked old man, I believe you must have wired or
written him a hint. You know you have a weakness for Jimmy, or rather
for his family. But I can't go about marrying the sons of all the pretty
ladies you were in love with in your vanished youth. Probably there were
dozens, for you're as soft-hearted as you are hard-headed, and you can't
deny it.
Still, I don't mind confessing that I was rather pleased to see Jimmy,
not a bit because he is _Jimmy_, but because he seemed to bring a breath
of homeyness with him, and it is nice to have an old friend turn up in a
"far countree" when you've got dust on your hat and the other women who
are staring at you haven't. If only the friend doesn't proceed to bore
you by insisting on being something more than a friend, which I hope
Jimmy is by this time tired of doing, I think I shall rather enjoy the
encounter than otherwise. As for anything else, it doesn't appeal to
_me_ that he's his mother's son, or that he's clever in stocks, or that
he's got as much money as you have. So now you know, and I hope he does.
Well, we talked a little, and then I found that Aunt Mary was chattering
like mad with the Garrisons (one "talks" oneself; other people
"chatter"; foreigners "jabber"); so we were all glad to see each other,
or said so, which comes to the same thing.
"How's your automobile?" was almost the first thing I asked Jimmy, for
the last time I'd seen him it was the pride of his heart. "I suppose," I
said, "that, like us, you're making a tour around Europe on it?"
I thought his face changed a little, though I don't know why it should.
"Oh," said he, "I've lent it to my friend Lord Lane; charming fellow I
met last year in Paris. He'll meet me with it a little later. Where are
_you_ going after this?"
"We're working slowly on to the Riviera," said I.
"Oh, isn't that funny," said Jimmy, "that's where Lord Lane and I are
going to meet! At Cannes, or Nice, or Monte Carlo; it isn't quite
settled yet which. I suppose you're going to all of them, as you're
driving about on a car?"
I said that we expected to, and pointed through the glass door at my
automobile, with Brown superintending the hotel servants who were
lifting down the luggage. He looked hard at the car and the _chauffeur_,
as if he envied me both, and I think he had something more to say which
he considered important, but I was in a hurry to change and make myself
prettier--_much_ prettier--than the Garrison girls.
By the way, they--the Garrisons--suggested that we should sit at a small
table with them, where they've already given a place to Jimmy. We
accepted the invitation, and now we've just dined together. My frock was
a dream; it's always nice to come to the sort of hotel where one can
wear something pretty, as here and at Biarritz. Afterwards we all put on
coats and cloaks and strolled in the moonlight on the terrace. Jimmy
tried to call up from the "vasty deep" of his broken (?) heart the
spirit of the Past, with a capital P, but I would force him into the
track of automobilism instead. I don't believe he knows a bit more than
I do about it, if as much, now that I've learned such a lot from the
Lightning Conductor, and if he takes to boasting I'll just _show_ him.
Now, good-night, my dear old Dad. I shall treat myself to a "night-cap"
draught of mountain air before I go to bed on my balcony facing the
Pyrenees.
Your
Molly-who-loves-only-you.