DIJON--THE FRENCH AND FRESH WATER--THE ANTIQUITIES OF DIJON--RIDE
THROUGH THE CÔTE D'OR--ARRIVAL AT BESANÇON.
As we roll onward, Dijon comes into view, picturesquely placed at the
foot of the vine-clad hills of the Côte d'Or, backed in turn by the
Jura Mountains.
The sun shines brightly as we roll into this ancient capital of Charles
of Burgundy. It is only since motor cars have commenced to fly over
this land that any one has thought of stopping at Dijon. Its glory has
long since departed. It was absorbed into that of France under Louis
XI. after the death of Charles, when ceasing of importance as a capital
it has remained merely a prosperous provincial town, associated in
one's mind, together with its province, with much that is rich and red
and good in the shape of wine. Judging by the fat bottles all down the
dinner table of this hotel, that reviver of mankind is cheaper here
than water.
We have descended at the Hôtel du Jura, which holds out a special
inducement of "baths on every floor," an inducement I must confess,
for aside from the greatest hotels in the largest cities, one finds no
bathrooms in beautiful France,--and on arriving at an inn after a long
auto ride, a bath is an absolute necessity, unless you are so utterly
tired out, which I have never been, that nothing save bed is of the
slightest importance.
Where and how does the vast mass of the French nation bathe? I am not
scoffing, I would like to know. It is a fact that until the advent
of English and American tourists there were no baths in any hotel in
France from Brest to Nice, and even with the building of the Hôtel
Continental in Paris, in 1878, if one wanted a bath one must descend
to the basement. In 1900, there were but one or two in all the hotel
part of that vast establishment, and the rooms containing them were
usually used as bedrooms. That condition is slowly improving, but even
now they cannot understand the necessity of a bath with every bedroom.
The plumbers' bills would drive them to drink, and even in the present
Élysées Palace Hôtel, with all its paint, glass, and glitter, unless
one has a large suite one has to walk a distance down the hall to the
bath and often wait half an hour. The day may come when Europe will
boast the convenience of such hotels as one finds in every American
city, but she cannot do so now, and in Berlin it is reported that the
Royal Palace has no bathrooms, that his Majesty's tub is behind a
curtain at the end of a hall. The Empress is said to have exclaimed,
when reading of a New York hotel, "I should think myself in heaven
if I had such luxury around me." She evidently understood that
luxury in its truest sense does not mean gorgeous pageants, pomp, and
glitter, but a bathroom of your own less than a block away. How was it
at Versailles in the days of the grand Louis? One reads much of the
state function called "the toilet" where the King is represented as
washing his eyes in some spirits of wine, but one has never read of a
bath being part of the royal establishment, consequently one cannot
but imagine that under all its pomp and majesty, the Court of France
must have been a very dirty place. In fact it is necessary to look
to the extremities of Europe, Turkey and Spain, to find evidences of
the proper appreciation of fresh water as applied to the human frame.
The Turks--though unspeakably vile in all other respects--do bathe
and southern Spain holds mute testimony to the love of the Moors for
water--a trait they certainly carried away with them when they crossed
the straits.
[Illustration: THE TOWER OF STATE, PALACE OF THE DUKES OF BOURGOGNE, AT
DIJON
By permission of Messrs. Neurdein]
As I sally forth for an inspection of the city of Dijon the first
glances show an entirely modern town of wide streets and rattling
trams, while just below me the trains rush to and fro from Paris, but
pass onward on to the left, and while you will not find a Bourges or
Rouen, you will discover many quaint relics of another period. On the
corner of the Rue du Secret and the square of the Duke of Burgundy is
an ancient mansion with a turret at its angle and an image in the niche
over its doorway. The whole is black with the passing ages and one
wonders what the lives were which were lived out there in the old days
of chivalry. It's a shop now and from the windows of the adjacent
palace no faces look down. It might have housed some dainty mistress
of the duke. In the little garden which separates it from the palace
there is a fountain and under the trees the people sleep when they will
and there, as the museum is not open just yet, I wait listening to the
bells of Notre Dame and watching the progress of a love-making between
a man and girl on the same bench. They pay no attention to me. The work
in hand is too serious for any notice of a passing stranger. Poor fool!
He is a bright-eyed, honest-looking lad and she is one of the streets
in every sense of that word. They finally move away and I turn to enter
the Hôtel de Ville where I find the ancient palace of its dukes, and
where there is something of interest even now. The vast kitchen and
its six great chimney-places, all unchanged is a curious spot. There
the feasts for the "Wild Boar of Ardennes" were prepared, where whole
oxen were cooked at once. Above it you may still see his Noble Hall
with its richly carved stone work and great chimney with flamboyant
traceries, and in its Museum, the gorgeous tombs of Philippe le Hardi
and Jean-sans-peur will hold your attention by their beauty of carving
and colour. Being in a museum, one can pardon their restoration which
has been most successfully accomplished. I have never seen anything so
exquisite as these carved draperies.
[Illustration: THE TOMB OF JEAN SANS PEUR AT DIJON
From a photograph]
Passing outward, pause a moment before the Church of Notre Dame, and
allow its curious clock, brought from Courtrai by Philippe le Hardi,
to speak. If it is a quarter to the hour, it will be struck off by a
child, if a half, by a "hammer woman," if the full hour, by a "hammer
man," and all have been doing like service for the citizens of Dijon
for six hundred years and more, and will do so for thousands long
after you are dust and ashes. We would probably pull down the church
and erect a skyscraper upon the premises, but these Burgundians love
their ancient city, and so this old shrine will stand and yonder quaint
figures continue to ring these people into life and through life and
off into the realms of heaven, where I doubt not their souls will rest
more in peace if sometimes the winds from earth waft to them the tones
of their ancient bells.
As I wander through the streets of the town it is plain to be seen
that it was a Court city, for there are many stately and interesting
façades lining the way. Passing onward beyond the railway station and
its puffing locomotives, one comes to the ancient Chartreuse, once
the ducal burying-place for the house of Burgundy. Charles the Bold
slept here until carried off to Bruges. The only relic left here now
is what formed once the base of a Calvary,--a group of stone figures
surrounding the pedestal where formerly rose the crucifix. The figures
of Moses, David, Jeremiah, Zachariah, Daniel, and Isaiah are life
size, beautifully carved and very majestic. Formerly the whole Calvary
was richly gilded and was the object of many pilgrimages, for which
was accorded the remission of sins. I certainly feel better after my
pilgrimage, but I fear it is for no religious feeling, but rather the
brisk walk and the many hours of interest I have passed this sunny
morning in the fresh air of this capital of Burgundy.
[Illustration: THE WELL OF MOSES IN THE ABBEY OF CHARTREUX AT DIJON
By permission of Messrs. Neurdein]
However, luncheon is ready, and the auto waits, it would seem
impatiently, judging from the row it is raising and so we speed away
from Dijon, and enter upon the richest section of France, the Côte
d'Or, where the yellow hills for league after league are smothered
in vineyards, and all the prospect is green and gold, with villages
nestling here and there, clean and delightful to look upon. As we
ascend the terraces and speed off and away on the wide highway, winding
along the table-land on their summits, the air is full of the freshness
of the mountains and on reaching the top of a hill, George points out
Mt. Blanc far in the distance. It is Sunday, the people are abroad
and all the world goes singing onward. Everybody seems glad to see
every one else. The chickens are more reckless than usual and even the
machine moves joyously.
If you pass this way during the season of the vintage, the air will
be laden with the odour of the over-ripened grapes, and the vines
will fairly shake out at you the fragrance of Chambertin, Pommard,
or Volnay, until your senses swim as though in truth you had been
drinking, but to-day in May there is only the fragrance of green leaves
and the smell of the rich yellow earth wafted to us as we rush onward.
Our route lies through Auxonne, which held out successfully against
the Prussians in 1871;--and so on towards Dôle. Turning for a glimpse
of the land behind us, we see the spires of Dijon far down in the
valley, while before us and to the north stretch the mountains of the
Vosges, and far in the hazy distance, the greater Alps are beginning
to assume form and shape. Dôle is passed at a rapid rate, and turning
northeastward towards Besançon we fairly fly along and all goes well
until four o'clock when a storm, which has blackened the heavens in
front of us breaks in heavy rain and--then a tire gives out. While I
write, George is down in the mud putting on a new one. He does not seem
to mind the work in the least.
To-night we stop at Besançon. It is in sight all the time, but that
tire must be replaced at once. So George takes refuge under a tree
until the worst of the storm is over and then goes to work in the mud.
Yama gets out to assist and is a good second,--the flow of French,
Japanese, and pigeon English going on all the time. The work done, we
roll on again.