THE ROAD TO THE MOUNTAINS--ST. JEAN-PIED-DE-PORT--ST.
JEAN-DE-LUZ--MARRIAGE OF LOUIS XIV.--ISLAND OF PHEASANTS--THE
ROADS IN SPAIN--THE SOLDIERS OF SPAIN--SAN SEBASTIAN
The Bay of Biscay roars in a sullen monotone this morning, but the
clouds are high up and in the warm sunshine the valleys glow with
the blossom of the fruit trees while the air is laden with the
perfume of flowers and sweet grasses. We are bowling along toward St.
Jean-Pied-de-Port, some fifty miles away at the base of the Pyrenees.
The road is fine and the machine in good condition. Jean sings as he
turns on full speed until we fairly fly down and up the hills and over
long stretches of curving road. This is quite off the grand route and
we meet no autos all the distance. The natives are more than usually
surprised at our advent and the animals have evidently not known enough
about such machines to be afraid of them. As we speed down a hill I
notice in the road what appear to be small piles of brush; but as we
near them, they begin to move and, as Jean with a swish and a jerk
passes to one side, some small ears and a nose or two emerge from the
bundles which have paused in a startled sort of fashion and a loud,
scared "Hee-haw, hee-haw" rends the soft spring air. Those are quite
the smallest donkeys I have ever seen impressed into service; in fact,
later on, one sturdy boy simply picks up his beast and deposits it in
a place of safety. They are always amusing animals to me. They never
lose their ruminating tendencies inherited from ancestors bred in the
silence of distant deserts, and save, as now, by the pointing of an ear
or by a loud "hee-haw," take no notice of our rushing progress. They
were here before auto cars and will be here when autos are things of
the past.
We find St. Jean-Pied-de-Port deep in a dell in the foot-hills, and in
a quaint little inn, furnished chiefly by dishes hung on the wall, we
are served with refreshment for the inner man. As I enter the little
dining-room, I find there two groups; in one is an Englishman and
his wife, in the other, two Frenchmen. The former studiously avoid a
glance, when I am looking in their direction; we must be in no way
aware of the existence of each other--we have "never been introduced."
The Frenchmen both bow as they meet my eye and in a few moments we are
pleasantly conversing. You can make your choice, but to me the latter
custom is more agreeable in travelling. Not that I do not like the
English, for I most certainly do, still one cannot have too many of
these small courtesies in one's fleeting life, and after all, it is the
minute things which make our sunshine.
After luncheon I am recommended by the landlord to visit the castle
which rises on a hill near the hotel. I have mounted but part way to
the height where it stands when a soldier warns me off, "It is not
permitted." I suppose the same regulations must hold all over the
republic, but it would certainly seem an altogether useless rule off
in these mountains, and one would have imagined from the peremptory
gestures made that that old ruin was the key to France.
On our return trip we make a long detour to the west, where the roads
are not so good and we are glad to strike the main highway once more
and speed back to Biarritz.
While Spain is not commended for an auto tour, one can at least go so
far into the ancient kingdom as the city of San Sebastian, her great
watering place in the north.
The route hence, as far as the French frontier, is a delight to the
automobilist. It rises and falls like the lines of a roller coaster or
"Montagnes Russes" and you sail up on one side and down the other with
a most delicious motion. Hills rise and fall, one's heart is gay and
the scene is charming. To the right sparkles the deep blue Atlantic,
while to the east and in front and far off to the westward, along the
Spanish coast, range the sparkling Pyrenees.
[Illustration: MAISON DE L'INFANTE AT ST. JEAN-DE-LUZ
From a photograph]
As we roll into the plaza of St. Jean-de-Luz the people are dancing a
fandango and I pause awhile to view the sight. The quaint old place
is surrounded on three sides by its ancient houses. That of King
Louis XIV. is to your left, while the square towers of the one which
sheltered the Infanta are across the plaza, and those are seen in
the accompanying illustration. Through the portals of the queer old
church the fragrance of frankincense rolls out to you, while the air
is full of the wild barbaric music of the land and the sound of the
neighbouring ocean. In couples or singly as the humour seizes them, the
people are dancing, dancing with a life and a motion known only to the
Spaniards and Italians. Flashing eyes and snapping fingers keep time
to the shaking of the many tambourines and the clash of sabots. Then
the music changes to that of the beautiful Spanish _danza_; fingers
cease to snap and the eyes to flash, and the motion becomes wavy and
dream-like, as the dancers float hither and thither over the grass.
Then suddenly the multitude falls upon its knees with bowed heads and
crossed hands as the Host is borne along to some passing soul.
Passing onward, we pause a moment, to inspect the house where the grand
Louis rested the night before he bestowed his affections, together with
the crown matrimonial, upon the Infanta of Spain and then turn to her
old palace, a quaint red and white brick structure, to which it is said
strangers are admitted. A dainty maid answered my clamors of the bell
but would not admit me; even the silver key had no effect. I think, had
I been younger, matters might have prospered more to my advantage--as
it was, I failed ingloriously and took refuge in the church of St.
Jean, a very quaint old edifice where the influence of Spain is plainly
evident in the rich gilding of the entire choir. Here also the men and
women may not worship God together. The women have the whole body of
the church while the men are confined to three galleries which rise one
above the other on either side. The custom is still in force, but one
wonders whether these galleries are over-crowded. If so, the men must
be more religious than those in America.
[Illustration: INTERIOR OF THE CHURCH OF SAINT JOHN AT SAINT JEAN-DE-LUZ
By permission of Messrs. Neurdein]
The marriage of Louis and the Spanish princess was celebrated in this
church of St. Jean, to which the bride advanced over a raised platform
from yonder palace of the Queen-mother, Anne of Austria. Robed in
white with a mantle of violet-coloured velvet, she is described as
undersized, but well made, of fair complexion, and having blue eyes
of charming expression; her hair was a light auburn. If she had been
taller and had had better teeth, she would have been one of the most
beautiful women in Europe.
Louis at that period was at his best, and is described as a head taller
than either of his ministers.
Of the celebrated Island of Pheasants, where the Treaty of the Pyrenees
and the contracts for this marriage were signed, there is little
left. We passed it later on our ride to San Sebastian, turning off to
Fontarabia for the purpose. Here, in a room half in France and half
in Spain, French in its decorations in one half, Spanish in those of
the other half, the Kings of Spain and France met, each advancing
from doors exactly the same distance from two arm-chairs, two tables,
and two inkstands--one of each in France and one of each in Spain.
Neither monarch left his own kingdom but they embraced each other at
the border line. We do not enter the Kingdom of Spain here but at
Irun where we spend quite half an hour getting the auto and ourselves
admitted. We must pay a toll of three francs and also deposit seven
francs for the auto with the customs, but this is returned when we come
back. Irun is a spot where the millions who have passed this way have
paused in their progress to and fro. From the stately caravans down to
these automobiles what a procession it has been.
How instantly the type of the people changes as we cross the border!
What superb-looking women gaze at one over the line of this frontier!
How deep and magnificent are their great black eyes! Yonder is a
Spanish blonde with golden hair and brown eyes; what a subject for a
painter, in that picturesque dress and framed by that window, draped in
wisteria in full bloom!
The little soldier guarding here is funny to look at,--one cannot
imagine his meeting fire and ball. Were our late opponents such boys?
If so, we committed rank murder. His features are regular and he has
fine eyes, but he certainly does not weigh one hundred and twenty
pounds and is not five feet tall. However, his conceit is colossal, and
he struts up and down with all the dignity of a Don Carlos, paying no
attention to me until I happen to dismount near him and he gasps at my
six feet and over. After a little, he attempts conversation, and asks
if I am English. "No." And I hesitate to add "American," and when I do
his eyes look doubtfully into mine until I smile and offer him my hand,
which he smilingly accepts, and two francs seal our acquaintance;
rather cheaper that than the unnecessary twenty million dollars we
paid his country for a possession very doubtful in profit to us, some
think, but----. We are off over the road into Spain and at once note
the difference in its quality, bumpy and dusty and dirty, all the way,
and I think on the whole that the people would rather like a break-down
on our part. However, we roll into the modern town of San Sebastian and
after a pause of some time turn back to France.
San Sebastian has no interest for the traveller unless there is a bull
fight on at its fine amphitheatre, but there is none now and this is
not the season here, so we coast back to the protection of the French
republic, pausing an instant at the frontier to receive the seven
francs.
The little soldier then shows me a wife and baby which he knows is more
than I can do. So he smiles at me in happy content and would not think
of changing places--that is if he had to leave wife and baby. At all
events there is no envy in his glance as my red car speeds off towards
France.