THE RIDE TO BEAUVAIS--DEAD DOGS--GREAT CHURCHES--BEAUVAIS BY
NIGHT--VAST WEALTH OF THE CHURCHES OF FRANCE--WONDERFUL TAPESTRIES
Two days of gloom and mist in London, London during the holidays, which
means a desert, rendered our return to France doubly agreeable. The sun
streams out its light as we enter the harbour at Boulogne, and Jean
waves his cap at us while the auto is snorting a welcome.
The important custom-house officials insisted upon examining my bundle
of home papers but finding the _Enquirer_ harmless, passed it and we
sailed away. Collecting the wash and traps at the windy, disagreeable,
and most expensive Hôtel Pavilion Impérial we started off once more,
gladly shaking the dust of Boulogne from our wheels. It's a sadly
dreary place where indigent English come over to enjoy the risk of
gambling at a dead sort of casino,--good church members at home, very
pillars of the sanctuary, who gamble like street arabs all the time
they are here. Let us leave it and roll off and away into the fair land
of France.
The ride to Beauvais proves to be one of the most delightful of the
journey. The roads are superb and we meet many autos which, while they
add to the danger, also give zest to the sport as they go shrieking
past us. Just now we killed one poor dog so suddenly that he never
knew what hurt him. Rushing at us from an out-house he got his neck
just in the spot for our flying wheels to pass over it, and he never
moved after that. It was over in a flash, all his wild rollicking life
snuffed out like the flame of a candle. We regretted the accident but
could in no way have prevented it.
Skirting the town of Abbeville and leaving Amiens well to our left, we
go directly south via Poix, Grandvilliers, and "Marseilles the Little."
Once during the afternoon, though the sun shines brilliantly the air
becomes suddenly very cold and a short, sharp shower of hail forces
us to slow down and draw up the cover. We are moving very rapidly and
our momentum added to the force of the hailstones causes us to feel as
though suddenly subjected to an assault of the enemy, but it lasts for
a moment only, and with top again thrown back, we are speeding onward.
If you would feel the elixir of life and youth pouring into your
veins, take such a ride on such a day. There is nothing with which to
compare it, save the wild flight of a toboggan. An eagle may know the
sensation as he soars through space, but until mortals shall have put
on immortality or wings we can know it only in auto cars or toboggans,
for I am told that in a balloon one feels no motion unless one falls,
and it does not last long even then,--mercifully so.
The ride is superb all the way to Beauvais. It is Easter Sunday, all
the villages are rejoicing. Giddy-go-rounds are in full swing, and the
Beauvais hotel is occupied by boys from Paris and their best girls,
the latter are not above flirting even with an elderly gentleman
like myself. The fact that _his_ arm is around her waist and _his_
head on her shoulder does not in the least interfere with her double
actions,--she can squeeze _his_ hand while she throws languishing
glances at me.
But dinner is over and the old town presents greater attraction to me
than these passers-by within her limits. Darkness has come down upon
the narrow streets, where, as I wander along, the lamps cast queer
shadows under the eaves of the gabled houses. There is a mass of
something over there that should be the cathedral, it towers so high
into the sky and I pause before it in doubt. Part is Gothic and as the
light will permit, I fancy very beautiful. The remainder is evidently
a building of another century, certainly of a totally different style
of architecture. While I am pondering, a foot-step draws nearer and
nearer, the only sound of life in the city, and its owner, a little
man, in answer to my question, assures me that this is not the
Cathedral, but St. Étienne--a structure as old as the greater church
which stands quite on the other side of the town, and "If Monsieur
visits it, let him go at noon and ask for the old clock, it is well
worth an inspection and very curious."
So he patters off into the silence of the night, and I wander on
through street after street until the Cathedral looms up before me.
Only a piece of a church, but what a piece, how gigantic! Why, since
there would be few if any rivals on the earth, does not the nation
complete it to its own glory? It may lose some of its majesty by
daylight,--that often happens,--but to-night it is superbly solemn and
most majestic, even though but a fragment.
These great religious temples are all in place here in old Europe,
but I cannot but think that the erection of a vast cathedral for the
Episcopal Church in America is money ill spent and but to gratify
vanity. These structures were built when great temples were almost a
necessity for the processions of the Church of Rome, but they are of
little use, save the choir, for any other purpose even in that church
of to-day and, aside from the Cathedral of Westminster in London, the
Church of Rome has erected no such structures since that of Orleans.
The good people of Beauvais in the year 1225 evidently bent upon
building a church which would dwarf that of their neighbors in Amiens,
began this one before me; and if they had completed it they would
have succeeded in their intention, for that vast edifice could then
have been placed bodily within this structure, as the ridge pole of
this roof is one hundred and fifty-three feet above the pavement or
thirteen feet higher than that of Amiens, and three feet higher than
the Cathedral of Cologne; but, money and the genius of the architect
both failed,--the former want calling a halt on further progress,
and the latter, through his desire to have as few inner supports as
possible over-shot his mark, so the walls bulged and roof collapsed in
1284. With the repair of that damage came a cessation of all work, and
so the cathedral stands to-day. As I wander around it in the darkness,
I stumble upon a little structure at its western end, evidently much
older than its gigantic neighbour, as it is Roman in design, and in the
shadow farther on rise two great round towers of some château; exactly
what it is one does not know or care to inquire, leaving all facts for
the plain daylight of the morrow and allowing the darkness of to-night
to claim what it may.
Even in the shadows one may discern that Beauvais is a very curious
old place. Ancient it certainly is, as Cæsar mentions this district,
but its most memorable day was that upon which it closed its gates in
the face of a vast Burgundian army, and kept them closed until succour
arrived from Paris. Women took such a prominent part in the siege that
Louis XI. complimented them and declared that they should forever march
first in the commemorative procession,--this they do in this year,
1905. One can well imagine that Louis cared little for the women, but
it gave him another opportunity of humiliating his noblemen.
On my return to the inn, I have the great square all to myself save
for a rising moon,--in fact, I wonder whether I have not the whole
of Beauvais to myself, for I have not met a dozen of my kind since I
started out,--but as the air is cold and the moonlight seems very
old to-night, let us to bed, where I, at least, dream of disjointed
churches and queer round towers when I dream of anything at all,--which
is not often, for sleep after these rushing rides is as profound as
death.
Daylight brings another state of affairs. The inn is alive with the
noise of departing autos, and there is much wonderment that I will
linger in this "queer place," with Paris and all it holds so near.
There are even doubtful glances cast at my red car and insinuations
that it will not go. It certainly will not now, nor for several hours
to come.
Passing out into the sunny street I find a busy little bustling city,
alive to its own concerns. Yonder old gentleman in that postal card
shop is very much alive to the fact that I have not patronised his
wares, which I do at once, and he is delighted that I really take an
interest in his beloved old town. His preference is for the ancient
city but he does not forget her attractions of to-day and trusts that
I will not depart without an inspection of the factory where the
tapestries are made. This factory was established before the Gobelins,
and these good people of Beauvais consider their work far superior to
that of the better known fabric near Paris.
[Illustration: THE GRAND PORTAL OF THE CATHEDRAL OF BEAUVAIS
By permission of Messrs. Neurdein]
As I enter the Cathedral, even the majesty of the building is for a
time secondary to the interest excited by the splendid specimens of
this work, which hang upon the walls. They are vast in size and very
rich in colouring, as well as beautiful in design, and represent the
histories of St. Peter and St. Paul after the cartoons of Raphael.
These tapestries are worth a million and a half of francs, and it
has been proven by the returns made to the Minister of Fine Arts from
all over France, that the art treasures of the churches far surpass
in beauty and value those of the great public institutions of Paris,
Versailles, the Louvre, Luxembourg, de Cluny, and Carnavalet. In fact
those vast collections are but a small part of the artistic wealth of
France. Its real wealth is in its churches, and if brought to a sale
would realise the fabulous sum of six thousand millions of francs, or
twelve hundred millions of dollars.
The little Roman church of Conques, hidden in the mountains of the
Aveyron, possesses a treasure,--shown at the Exhibition of 1900, for
which a syndicate offered thirty-two million francs. It is well for
France that it is inalienable. It holds the finest enamels in the
world, reliquaries given by the kings, and Roman statues in gold and
silver. For the silver Virgin of Amiens, eight hundred thousand francs
was offered, and the one at Le Mans is valued at a million, while the
Cathedral of Rheims possesses in its panel, representing the Nativity,
the most valuable piece of tapestry extant.
That these treasures were not dispersed by the Terrorists is a marvel;
they certainly would have produced far more money for their cause
than the melting down of a few bells. The colouring of these pieces
in Beauvais is of a freshness and strength which surprises one. They
evidently have been shut off from the light through most of the many
years since they were made.
This cathedral in the daytime still impresses by its immensity, and
now one sees the painted glass of the sixteenth century. There is
so much of it and the windows are so close together that the effect is
like that of the Sainte Chapelle in Paris enlarged enormously, and the
church has the appearance of a glass house as the stone work is far
less prominent than in other cathedrals.
I spend some time in the adjacent château. The great round towers
observed last night are but the guardians of the entrance to the court,
across which rises the old palace of the Archbishop, now the Hôtel de
Ville. The whole is picturesque, but the interior is not of interest.
[Illustration: OLD HOUSES ON THE RUE DE LA MANUFACTURE, BEAUVAIS
By permission of Messrs. Neurdein]
There is much indeed of the picturesque in Beauvais and one may spend
many hours wandering through her streets, but the attraction of motion
is upon me and I am certain to secure it in yonder red car, which
to-night will deposit me in the capital. But before that we shall have
a delightful ride, all too speedily a thing of the past.