VILLENEUVE-LOUBET
On a hill a mile or so back from the Cannes-Nice road, just before one
reaches Cagnes, a castle of unusual size and severity of outline rises
above the trees of a park. The roads from Cagnes to Grasse and Vence
bifurcate at the foot of the hill on which the castle is built. What one
thinks of the castle depends upon which road one takes. The traveler on
the Vence road sees a pretentious entrance, constructed for automobiles,
with a twentieth-century iron gate and a twentieth-century porter's
lodge. The park looks well groomed. The wall along the Vence side is as
new as the gate and the lodge. The stone of the castle is white and
fresh. One dismisses the castle as an imitation or a wholesale
restoration by an architect lacking in imagination and cleverness. But
if the left hand road toward Grasse is taken, one sees twelfth-century
fortifications coming down from the top of the hill to the roadside.
There are ruins of bastions and towers overgrown with bushes and ivy.
Farther along an old town is revealed climbing the hill to the castle.
There is nothing _nouveau riche_ about Villeneuve-Loubet. The only
touches of the modern are the motor road with kilometer stones, the iron
bridge over the Loup, and the huge sign informing you that the hotel is
near by.
Had we limited our inland exploration to the Vence side of the hill, the
Artist and I would not have discovered Villeneuve-Loubet. Had we been
hurrying through toward Grasse in automobile or tram, we would probably
have exclaimed "how picturesque" or "interesting, isn't it?" and
continued our way. Luck saved us.
A scissors-grinder at the gate of Saint-Paul-du-Var recommended the trout
and beds of the Villeneuve-Loubet hotel. Just as the moon was coming up
one April evening, we got off the Vence-Cagnes tram at the junction of
the Grasse tramway, and walked to the revelation of what the castle
really was. We decided to eat something in a hurry, and go around the
town that very evening.
When, helped by the sign, we reached the Hôtel Beau-Site, the proprietor
came forward with his best shuffle and bow. Trout? Of course there were
trout, plenty of them. Alas, in these days when business was very, very
bad, when people had no money to travel, and visitors accordingly were
scarce, there were too many trout. But that was to the advantage of
_messieurs_. He, Jean Alphonse, could give a large choice, and the
dinner would have all his attention. It was his pride and rule to give
personal attention always to every dish that left his kitchen, but with
the _monde_ of a regular season, he could not take every fish out of the
pan himself, and see that the slices of lemon were cut, and the parsley
put, just as he had always done when he was the _chef_ of Monsieur Blanc.
We knew Monsieur Blanc. Monsieur Blanc died eight years ago, but that
was the way of the world. Now messieurs could go right along with him
and pick out their own fish. The net was down by the pool, and he would
get a lamp in just one little minute. For that would be best. The moon
was coming up, true. But one could not trust the moonlight in choosing
fish.
The garden of the Hôtel Beau-Site contains a curious succession of bowers
made by training bamboo trees for partitions and ceilings. As we went
through them, Jean Alphonse explained that these natural _salons
particuliers_, where parties could have luncheon out-of-doors and yet
remain sheltered from the sun and in privacy, combined with the trout to
give his hotel a wonderful vogue in tourist season. We, of course,
insisted that the reputation of the chef must be the third and
controlling attraction. The pool was full, and the trout had no chance.
It was not a sporting proposition; but just before dinner one does not
think of that. Even our choice out of the net was gently guided by Jean
Alphonse. Since human nature is the same the world over, is it
surprising that the tricks calculated to captivate and deceive are the
same? I recalled a famous restaurant in Moscow, where one went to the
fountain with a white-robed Tartar waiter and thought he picked his fish.
I have no doubt that Jean Alphonse believed that his idea was original,
and that we were experiencing a new sensation.
Jean Alphonse did not boast idly of his cuisine. He possessed, too, the
genius of the successful boniface for knowing what would please his
guests. He sensed our lack of interest in the wines of the Midi, and,
helped by the Artist's checked knickers and slender cane, set forth a
bottle of old Scotch. We refused to allow him to open the dining-room
for us, and had our dinner in a corner of the café. Villeneuve-Loubet's
_élite_ gathered to see us eat. The _garde-champêtre_, the veteran of
1870, the chatelain's bailiff, the local representative in the Legion of
Honor (rosette, not ribbon, if you please), and two _chasseurs alpins_,
home from the maneuvers on sick leave, ordered their coffee or liqueur at
other tables, but were glad to join us when we said the word. Soon we
had a dozen around us. The history of the war--and past and future
wars--and of Villeneuve-Loubet was set forth in detail.
Had it not been for the moon, we should certainly have gone from the
table to our rooms. But the full moon on the Riviera makes a more
fascinating fairyland than one can find in dreams. We did not hesitate,
when the last of our friends left, to follow them out-of-doors.
Villeneuve-Loubet might prove to be a modest town tomorrow, old, of
course, and interesting: but we were going to see it tonight under the
spell of the moon. We were going to wander where we willed, with all the
town to ourselves. We were going to live for an hour in the Middle Ages.
For if there was anything modern in Villeneuve-Loubet, the moonlight
would hide it or gloss it over; if there was anything ancient, the
moonlight would enable us to see it as we wanted to see it. I pity the
limited souls who do not believe in moonshine, and use the word
contemptuously. One is illogical who contends that moonshine gives a
false idea of things; for he is testing the moonshine impression by
sunshine. It would be as illogical to say that sunshine gives a false
idea of things on the ground that moonshine is the standard. If sunshine
is reality, so is moonshine. The difference is that we are more
accustomed to see things by sunlight than by moonlight. Our test of
reality is familiarity, and of truth repetition.
Villeneuve-Loubet is built against a cliff. The houses rise on tiers of
stone terraces. They are made of stone quarried on the spot. Red tiles,
the conspicuous feature of Mediterranean cities, are lacking in
Villeneuve-Loubet. The roofs are slabs of stone. The streets are the
surface of the cliff. We climbed toward the castle through a ghost-city.
The moon enhanced the gray-whiteness that was the common color of ground,
walls and roofs. The shadows, sharp and black, were needed to set forth
the lines of the buildings.
The picture called for a witch. The silence was broken by the tapping of
a cane. Around the corner the witch hobbled into the scene, testing each
step before her. She was dressed in black, of course, and bent over with
just the curve of the back the Artist loves to give to his old women.
She was a friendly soul, and did not seem amazed to find strangers
strolling late at night in her town. We were "_Anglais_," and that was
explanation enough to one who had seen three generations of tourists.
She stopped to talk with us. When had we arrived at Villeneuve-Loubet?
Had we come up from Nice that afternoon and did we plan to stay for a day
or two with Jean Alphonse at the Hôtel Beau-Site? Did we not agree that
Villeneuve-Loubet was superb? Perhaps we were artists? So many artists
came here to paint and sketch the old houses. What was our impression of
her country? We knew that she meant by "country" not France but
Villeneuve-Loubet, and mustered our best vocabulary to admire the town,
the solid foundations, the houses, the protecting castle, and above all,
the unique streets of stone.
"But it must be very difficult to go up and down in winter. How do you
manage when the rock is frozen over with snow and ice?" I asked.
"It does not freeze here," she answered.
The moon-whiteness had made me think of winter, and it had not occurred
to me that there would be no snow and ice. Ideas are pervasive. We
place them immediately and unquestioningly upon the hypothesis that
happens to fit.
The church, of eighteenth-century architecture, is the last building at
the upper end of the town. It stands on a terrace outside the lower wall
of the castle, an eloquent witness of the survival of feudal ideas. In
order that the lord of the manor need not go far to mass, when there
happened to be no private chaplain in the castle, the town-folk must
climb to their devotions. I tried the church door from habit. It was
not locked. The Artist refused to go in.
"Why should one poke around a church, especially at night and this
night?" he remonstrated, and walked over to the wall of the terrace.
"There may be something inside," I urged.
"There _is_ something outside," he answered, with his back turned upon
the castle as well as church.
I could see my way around, for the windows of nave and transept were
large, and had plain glass. Moonlight was sufficient to read
inscriptions that set forth in detail the pedigree of the chatelains.
The baptismal names overflowed a line, and were followed by a family name
almost as long, MARCH-TRIPOLY DE PANISSE-PASSIS. Longest of all was the
list of titles. The chatelains were marquesses and counts and knights of
Malta and seigneurs of a dozen domains of the northlands as well as of
Provence. March-Tripoly and some of the seigneural names told the story
that I have often read in church inscriptions near the sea in Italy, in
Hungary, in Dalmatia and in Greece, as well as in Provence and Catalonia.
The feudal families of the Mediterranean are of Teutonic and Scandinavian
origin. They were founded by the stock that destroyed the Roman Empire,
barbarians, stronger, more energetic, more resourceful, more resolute
than the southerners whom they made their serfs. When feudalism, through
the formation of larger political units by the extension of kingly
rights, began to decline, the chatelains preserved their prestige by
supporting the propaganda to redeem the Holy Sepulcher. They took the
Cross and went to fight the Saracens in Africa and Asia. When climate
rather than culture latinized them, later northmen came and dispossessed
them. The men of the north have always been fighting their way to the
Mediterranean. Are Germans and Russians disturbing the peace of Europe
any more or any differently than Northern Europeans have always done?
Since the dawn of history, the Mediterranean races have had to contend
with the men of the north seeking the sun.
Behind the church, ruins of centuries, overgrown with shrubbery and ivy,
cling to the side of the cliff from the castle to the valley road. The
great square mass of the castle rises on top of a slope far above the
church terrace. A moat, filled with bushes, is on a level with the
terrace, and beyond the moat is a wall. An unkept path leads through the
moat to a modest door. From the towers and arch above one can see that
the former entrance to the castle, by means of a portcullis, was on this
side. But the outer wall has been rebuilt, leaving only a servants'
door. Evidently the chatelain used to enter by climbing up through
Villeneuve-Loubet as we had done. Since the motor road was made on the
other side of the hill, he and his guests can ignore Villeneuve-Loubet.
The Artist was sitting on the wall of the terrace, engrossed in midnight
labor. He was willing to stop for a pipe. Above us the castle,
dominated by a pentagonal tower, rose toward the moon. Below us, the
blanched roofs of Villeneuve-Loubet slanted into the valley. As long as
the pipe lasted, I was able to talk to the Artist about the men of the
north seeking the sun. But when the bowl ceased to respond to matches,
he said; "All very well, but I know one man of the north who is going to
seek his bed."
Before reaching the Hôtel Beau-Site, however, a street on the left
attracted us. It seemed to end in a flight of steps that dipped under
arches, and we could hear the swift rush of water. We were not so sleepy
as we thought, for both of us were still willing to explore. The steps
led to the flour mill. We followed the mill-race until we reached the
Grasse tram road near the river. By the tram station, a light was
shining from the open door of a café in a wooden shanty. We went in, and
found Villeneuve-Loubet's officer of the Legion of Honor smoking his pipe
over a cup of _tilleul_.
"There has been an accident in the gorge of the Loup," he said. "The
last tram from Grasse was derailed, and two automobiles from Cagnes went
up an hour ago. As I am the _maire_, I must wait for news. There may be
something for me to do."
Monsieur le Maire told us that he had spent his life in the West African
coast trade, with headquarters in Marseilles. If he had stayed there to
end his days, he would have been one of a hundred thousand in a great
city, cast aside and ignored by the new generation. But in his native
_pays_ he was in the thick of things. To return to their old home is not
wholly a question of sentiment with Frenchmen who retire from business in
the city or the colonies. Money goes farther, and one can be an
official, with public duties and honors, and enjoy the privilege of
writing on notepaper bearing the magic heading, _République Française_.
Monsieur le Maire told us that the chatelain came often, and never forgot
to invite him to meet the guests at the castle. Some years ago I used to
think that it was a peculiar characteristic of the French to enjoy being
made much of and exercising authority. But since I have traveled in my
own and many other countries I have come to realize that this
characteristic is not peculiarly French.
When Monsieur le Maire spoke of the chatelain, I had my opening. Full of
the idea of the men of the north seeking the sun, I was ready to spread
to others the impression I had made upon myself of my own erudition and
cleverness. At the risk of boring the Artist, I repeated and enlarged
upon my deductions from the inscription of the March-Tripoly de
Panisse-Passis. Monsieur le Maire looked at me with malicious amazement.
"_La-la-la!_" he cried. "Not so fast. You haven't got it right at all,
at all, at all! The castle of Villeneuve-Loubet is the only one in this
corner of Provence that belongs to its pre-Revolutionary owners, but
there are many centuries between feudal days and our time. Castles
remain, but history changes. The March-Tripoly de Panisse-Passis are not
a feudal family, and they do not come from the north. The African part
of the name is due to an unproven claim of descent from a French consular
official in Tripoli of the sixteenth century. The château, after a
succession of proprietors, came to the Panisse family through marriage
with the daughter of a Marseilles notary, who got the château by
foreclosing a mortgage. During the Revolutionary period, the property
was saved from confiscation by a clever straddle. The owner stayed in
France, and supported the Revolution, while the son emigrated with the
Bourbons. The peerage was created just a hundred years ago by Louis
XVIII, in reward for the refusal of the Panisses to follow Napoleon a
second time after the return from Elba."
Another pervasive idea!
"The Moon got you," was the laughing comment of the Artist.
Historical reminiscences died hard, however. We discussed the possible
Saracen origin of the pentagonal tower, and the vicissitudes of the
castle during the struggles between Mohammedans and Christians, feudal
lords and kings, Catholics and Protestants, Spaniards and French.
Monsieur le Maire was a Bonapartist, and he insisted that the chief glory
of Villeneuve-Loubet was the association with Napoleon.
"When Napoleon was living at Nice," he said, "he used to come out here
often. Napoleon thought that the view of sea and mountains from
Villeneuve-Loubet was the finest on the Riviera. He could stand up there
and look out towards his native island, and contemplate the mountains the
crossing of which was his first great step to fame. Napoleon (and here
Monsieur le Maire winked at the Artist) was a man of the sun seeking the
north--just like Caesar, ho! ho!"
The arrival of the tram, which had recovered its equilibrium, helped me
to recover mine. We said good night to Monsieur le Maire, and before
turning in went out on the iron bridge that spanned the Loup.
The river, swollen by the spring thaw and rains, had overflowed its
banks, and was swirling around willows and poplars. It was not deep, and
the water flashed in the moonlight as it rippled over the stones. There
was a smell of fresh-cut logs. We looked beyond a sawmill into a gorge
of pines that ended in a transversal white mountain wall.
[Illustration: The river was swirling around willows and poplars.]
"Bully placer ground!" I exclaimed.
The Artist leaned over the bridge, looked down, and sighed just one word,
"Salmon!"
We sought the Hôtel Beau-Site in silence.
Monuments of men's making create a diversity of atmospheres and call
forth a diversity of reminiscences. They cause imagination to run riot
in history. But nature is the same the world over, and there would be
reactions and yearnings if one knew nothing of the past from books.
There is no conflict. Nature transcends. We dreamed that night not of
crusaders, but of Idaho and the Bitter Root Range.