THE ROAD TO ARLES--THE CAMARGUE--RUINS OF ARLES--THE "ALISCAMPS"
Leaving Aix down in her bowl in the hills with the silvery olive and
flowering almond and plum trees framing her quaint old face, we roll
on over the finest stretches of highway I have ever imagined. This is
the level land of the mouth of the Rhone and in the next two hours we
have three bits of road of ten miles each, and all as straight as a
string drawn taut. What speed we seem to make; how the wind sings, and
how exhilarating! The machine, a ---- of some twenty-four horse-power,
makes now about forty-five miles an hour; yet we feel when one of
ninety horse-power passes as though we were at a stand-still.
During the morning hours our route lies through many old towns; each
of which has its memories. This one of Salon holds the castle of the
astrologist Nostradamus and in her church of St. Laurent he lies buried.
From Salon our way leads directly west and we skim along for twenty
miles through the flat land but see nothing of the Rhone until we reach
and pass through Arles. Then we bring up suddenly upon its very brink
with its yellow floods rolling southward at our feet.
On our right are the gateways of the famous old city of Arles, but my
eyes are drawn off and away across the river and out over the fantastic
land of the Camargue, a land more akin to Africa than to Europe,--that
great "Field of Reeds" between the two branches of the Rhone, only a
few feet above the level of the sea, where the ibis, Egyptian vulture,
and the flamingo are to be found. The whole is so low and so covered
with salt that it glistens and glitters under the morning's sunlight,
while the air quivers and shifts above it, and is full of the mirage,
taking on strange forms and fantastic shapes as the eye wanders over it.
[Illustration: THE PORTAL OF THE CATHEDRAL OF ST. TROPHIMUS, ARLES
By permission of Messrs. Neurdein]
The people out there are as wild as the cattle which roam its plains,
and their manners and customs as oriental as those of the Arabs who
invaded the land centuries ago, while its one town, Les Saintes-Maries,
has all the characteristics of an African town of the desert, and there
Mary Magdalene, Mary of Salome, and Mary the mother of James, landed to
escape persecution.
We cannot go further into the Camargue now and so turn to where, on
our right, the entrance to the ancient city of Arles is guarded by
two great low round towers, beyond which stretches a vista of narrow
shadowy streets full of attractions and inviting exploration. The
main features of the old Roman town are too well known to justify
description, but every street holds some relic of the past worth
inspection, and on our way to the very comfortable inn, where we dine
in plenty, my eyes are constantly on the alert and yet much is
missed. There are two inns in this city of Arles situated at right
angles to each other in the same corner of the public square and it
would appear that whichever the traveller selects he will be subjected
to the pitying glances of the proprietor of the rival establishment
watching from the door of his own house; however, I find nothing to
complain of either in the house I enter or in the dinner service.
The day is one of blinding sunshine as we draw up before the
amphitheatre. Its great arches glitter against the blue sky and the
white city all around us is as silent as a tomb. There are two pictures
which must arise to the thoughts here: one, that of the place in the
voluptuous splendour of its Roman days. The vast crowds thronging
every space; the silver netting to protect them from the beasts in the
arena; the fountains in these arches casting up scented waters; the
sunlight filtering through awnings of gorgeous silks; the heat; the
smell of perfumes and of fresh blood; the roar of the beasts and the
murmur of the multitudes,--all these made Rome what she then was and
kept the people from thinking. The other picture is so widely different
that it is difficult to believe it can be of this same structure,
choked from the summit to far underground with the hovels of the
poor, every archway closed up, the whole centre a veritable rabbit
warren--thousands of outcasts found their homes in this spot. To enter
it was scarcely possible save to the initiated, to leave it also was
well nigh impossible. A murderer from the town had but to disappear
here and all trace of him vanished. If any ventured to pursue him
they never returned to tell of what they had seen. Upon this mass of
vileness the plague descended in 1640--It came many more times to
Arles--none were allowed to come out and the dead and living crowded
the place to its utmost hidden recesses. Finally they were summoned
forth to quarters beyond the town and only the dying and the dead were
left to occupy this amphitheatre of Arles. We have the scene of those
horrors and of former gorgeousness to ourselves to-day and we wander in
and out at pleasure.
[Illustration: EXTERIOR OF THE AMPHITHEATRE AT ARLES
By permission of Messrs. Neurdein]
All the world knows of the Greek theatre here of which there is much
left, but of the quaint Cathedral of the middle ages less is spoken
though it is of interest, especially the cloisters, where you may spend
a pleasant half hour back in the myths of the past. You are told again
that Martha and Mary came here from the Holy Land for there are their
figures carved in stone, and also here that Mary conquered the dragon
by a piece of the true Cross. The portal of the Cathedral is simple,
yet so beautiful that I venture to reproduce it that you may judge for
yourself. Enter, and you will find a very lofty, very plain, but very
dignified nave of the twelfth century. As I leave the sanctuary, I am
greeted by the priest in a dignified solemn salutation,--he does not
raise his eyes, and I am evidently completely forgotten before he has
turned away. A lot of boys, shut up in school in one of the chapels
for some hours back, stop to stare at me for an instant and then go
whooping away down the quiet streets of the old city.
Arles is truly a Roman town--aside from the Cathedral,--all Roman;
her amphitheatre impresses you with its majesty, her theatre charms
more in its ruins than it could have done two thousand years ago in its
prime, and you will linger long in that beautiful avenue of the dead,
"Aliscamps," (avenue of death) just outside the gates where stately
lines of cypresses march away on either side, shading in a sad sort of
fashion rows of ancient sarcophagi, ruined and empty. The place is vast
in extent and in the days of its splendour, the dead were brought here
even from Lyons. It is mentioned by Dante in his _Inferno_. Pagans and
Christians sleep here side by side until the day breaks and the shadows
flee away.
[Illustration: THE ALISCAMPS AT ARLES
By permission of Messrs. Neurdein]
The weather has all to do with one's impressions of a country. I always
associate France with a golden sunlight, for so many times I have left
London, stifling under its black fogs, and literally sailed into the
sunshine on the coast of France. So especially does sunshine form a
part and parcel of Southern France, somewhat too strong and blinding in
summer, but in the spring with its blossoms of fruit trees and in the
autumn with its splendour of color and the dreamy odor of over-ripened
fruits, the sunlight of France is,--well, just the sunlight of France,
and those who have seen it will remember it always. To-day in the high
tide of spring all nature rejoices. These ruins gleam white and pure,
the city, like an ancient dame of high degree, bears a gracious aspect,
the river dances and sparkles, and the long highways stretch off and
off until lost in the midst of olive groves and blossoming fruit trees.