VENCE
The most picturesque bit of mountain railway on the Riviera is the
fourteen miles from Grasse to Vence. Yielding to a sudden impulse, we
took it one afternoon. The train passed from Grasse through olive
groves and fig orchards and over two viaducts. A third viaduct of
eleven arches took us across the Loup. We were just at the season when
the melting snows made a roaring torrent of what was most of the year a
little stream lost in a wide gravel bed. The view up the gorge gave us
the feeling of being in the heart of the mountains. And yet from the
opposite windows of the train we could see the Mediterranean. Then we
circled the little town of Tourettes at the foot of the Puy de
Tourettes, with high cliffs in the background, and a wild luxurious
growth of aloes below. We almost circled the village, crossing the
ravines on either side on viaducts. A sixth long viaduct brought us to
Vence. We had a rendezvous that evening at Cannes. There was no time
to stop. We kept on to Nice to make the only connection that would get
us back to Cannes.
Afterwards the Artist and I spoke often of Vence. Twice we planned to
go to Vence, but found the fascination of Villeneuve-Loubet and
Saint-Paul-du-Var justifiable deterrents.
On the terrace of our favorite café in the Allées de la Liberté at
Cannes on Easter evening we announced the intention of making a special
trip to Vence the next day.
"Tomorrow is Easter Monday, and the children have no school," said the
Artist's hostess. "We shall make a family party of it, train to Cagnes
where I may have a chance to see your Mademoiselle Simone, a trout
luncheon at Villeneuve-Loubet with the rest of that bottle of which you
boys spoke, and Vence in the afternoon."
The orders had been given. There was an early morning stir at the
Villa Étoile, a scramble to the Théoule railway station, and before
nine o'clock we were all aboard for the hour's ride to Cagnes. When we
got off the train, there was just one _cocher_ available. He looked at
papa and mamma and Uncle Lester and the four babies and their nurse,
and raised his hands to heaven. But Villeneuve-Loubet was not far off
and we were careful to say nothing of the afternoon's program. Léonie
and the children were packed into the carriage. The rest of us
followed afoot.
Our cheerful host at Villeneuve-Loubet greeted us effusively. He had
many holiday guests, but he remembered the Artist and me, and the
splendid profit accruing from every drink out of the bottle only _les
Anglais_ called for. There were plenty of trout, fresh sliced
cucumbers, and a special soup for the kiddies. The _cocher_ was so
amenable to Léonie's charms and to drinks that cost less than ours that
he consented to further exertion for his horse. But the climb to Vence
was out of the question--a physical impossibility, he declared. And
we, having seen the horse at rest and in action, could only sorrowfully
agree. It was too much of a job to maneuver all the children (the baby
could not walk) to the tramway halt, nearly a mile away, and on and off
the cars. The mother said that she could not be a good sport to the
point of abandoning all her handicaps for several hours in a place
where the river flowed fast and deep. So it was agreed that she would
have at least the excursion to Saint-Paul-du-Var, and the Artist and I,
determined this time on Vence, would see her the next evening for
dinner at Cannes.
So we made our adieux, and hurried off to get the tram at the
bifurcation below the castle. Half an hour later our tram passed the
carriage jogging up the hill. As luck had it, we turned out just then
on a switch to let the down car pass. The temptation of Vence was too
much for Helen. The _cocher_ seemed a fatherly sort of a man. There
was a quick consultation from tram to carriage. A reunion with the
handicaps was set for two hours later in front of the triple gate of
Saint-Paul-du-Var, and another passenger got on the tram.
Around a curve we waved farewell to our children. After all, Vence was
only three miles beyond Saint-Paul. As we passed the Saint-Paul halt,
our old friend, the postman, was on the platform to receive the
mailbag. We told him that the kiddies were coming, and slipped him ten
francs to look after them until our return.
"_Soyes tranquilles, M'sieu-dame,_" he reassured us. "_Moi, je suis
grand'père._"
Beyond Saint-Paul the tramway left the road and climbed over a viaduct
to Vence.
Ventium Cassaris was a military base of great importance in the days of
imperial Rome. It was the central commissariat depot for the armies in
Gaul, and had a forum and temples. During the Middle Ages it was a
stronghold of the Holy Roman Empire. It stands on the side of a
fertile hill more than a thousand feet above the sea. The site was
probably chosen because of the wall of rocks on the north which shelter
it from the mistral, a wind that the Romans found as little to their
liking as later interlopers. In peace as in war the outside world has
never been able to keep away from the Riviera.
The Artist announced his intention of spending a couple of days
sketching, and left us to seek a hotel. Helen and I found that there
was no tram to Saint-Paul-du-Var that would enable us to pick up the
children in time for the train to Théoule unless we returned without
seeing Vence. So we decided to give an hour to the town and walk back
to Saint-Paul.
As at Grasse a boulevard runs along the line of the old fortifications.
Some of the houses facing it have used the town wall for foundations or
are themselves remnants of the wall. But at Vence the _boulevard de
l'enceinte_ is circular--a modest _Ringstrasse_, marking without
interruption the old town from the new. We dipped in and out of alleys
under arches, and made a turn of the streets of the old town. Much of
the medieval still survives in Vence, as in other hill towns of the
Riviera. But only behind the cathedral did we find a remnant of
imperial Rome. A granite column supporting an arch, and reliefs and
inscriptions built in the north wall of the cathedral, are all that we
saw of Vence's latinity.
The cathedral, however, is the most interesting we found on the
Riviera. It is a Romanesque building, built on the site of the
second-century temple, and its tall battlemented tower harks back to a
tenth-century _château fort_. The interior is striking: double aisles,
simple nave with tiers of arches of the tenth century, a choir with
richly carved oak stalls, a fourth-century sarcophagus for altar, and a
font and lectern of the Italian Renaissance.
It was just a glimpse. But sometimes glimpses make more vivid memories
than longer acquaintance. At the end of our hour we left Vence and
hurried down the broad road of red shale past meadows thick with
violets. We went through the deep pine-filled ravine over which we had
crossed on the viaduct. Then the climb to Saint-Paul-du-Var.
[Illustration: "Down the broad road of red shale past meadows thick
with violets."]
We might have taken our time. Christine and Lloyd and Mimi came
running to greet us, bringing with them little friends who had probably
never before played with children from Paris. We did not need to ask
what kind of a time they had been having. Children are the true
cosmopolitans. Hope lay under a tree on her blanket playing with her
pink shoes. Nearby, at a table in front of the Café de la Porte,
Léonie was treating the _cocher_ and the postman to a glass of beer.
"I got bread and honey and milk for the children's _goûter_," explained
Léonie, "and _Monsieur le cocher_ and I are having ours with _Monsieur
le facteur_."
As the children did not seem to be tired and the _cocher_ was in no
hurry, Helen and I made a tour of the walls, and took a photograph of
our handicaps and their faithful attendants in front of the great gate
built by Francis I, who prized Saint-Paul-du-Var as the best spot to
guard the fords of the river against Charles V.
A reader of this manuscript declares that the chapter on Vence ought to
be struck out.
"They [I suppose she means the home folks] will never understand," she
insists.
I am adamant.
"When they come to the Riviera, they will understand," I answer.
Between Saint-Raphaël and Menton the most sacred responsibilities do
not weigh one down all the time.