the Pont du Gard, and took another look at it. Its great arches made
windows for the evening sky, and the rocky ravine, with its dusky
cedars and shining river, was lonelier than before. At the inn I
swallowed, or tried to swallow, a glass of horrible wine with my
coachman; after which, with my team, I drove back to Nîmes in the
moonlight. It only added a more solitary whiteness to the constant
sheen of the Provençal landscape.
* * * * *
The weather the next day was equally fair, so that it seemed an
imprudence not to make sure of Aigues-Mortes. Nîmes itself could wait;
at a pinch, I could attend to Nîmes in the rain. It was my belief that
Aigues-Mortes was a little gem, and it is natural to desire that gems
should have an opportunity to sparkle. This is an excursion of but a
few hours, and there is a little friendly, familiar, dawdling train
that will convey you, in time for a noonday breakfast, to the small
dead town where the blest Saint Louis twice embarked for the crusades.
You may get back to Nîmes for dinner; the run is of about an hour.
I found the little journey charming, and looked out of the carriage
window, on my right, at the distant Cévennes, covered with tones of
amber and blue, and, all around, at vineyards red with the touch of
October. The grapes were gone, but the plants had a color of their own.
Within a certain distance of Aigues-Mortes they give place to wide
salt-marshes, traversed by two canals; and over this expanse the train
rumbles slowly upon a narrow causeway, failing for some time, tho you
know you are near the object of your curiosity, to bring you to sight
of anything but the horizon. Suddenly it appears, the towered and
embattled mass, lying so low that the crest of its defences seems to
rise straight out of the ground; and it is not till the train stops,
close before them that you are able to take the full measure of its
walls.
Aigues-Mortes stands on the edge of a wide étang, or shallow inlet of
the sea, the further side of which is divided by a narrow band of coast
from the Gulf of Lyons. Next after Carcassonne, to which it forms an
admirable pendant, it is the most perfect thing of the kind in France.
It has a rival in the person of Avignon, but the ramparts of Avignon
are much less effective. Like Carcassonne, it is completely surrounded
with its old fortifications; and if they are far simpler in character
(there is but one circle), they are quite as well preserved. The moat
has been filled up, and the site of the town might be figured by a
billiard-table without pockets. On this absolute level, covered with
coarse grass, Aigues-Mortes presents quite the appearance of the walled
town that a school-boy draws upon his slate, or that we see in the
background of early Flemish pictures--a simple parallelogram, of a
contour almost absurdly bare, broken at intervals by angular towers and
square holes.
Such, literally speaking, is this delightful little city, which needs
to be seen to tell its full story. It is extraordinarily pictorial, and
if it is a very small sister of Carcassonne, it has at least the
essential features of the family. Indeed, it is even more like an image
and less like a reality than Carcassonne; for by position and prospect
it seems even more detached from the life of the present day. It is
true that Aigues-Mortes does a little business; it sees certain bags of
salt piled into barges which stand in a canal beside it, and which
carry their cargo into actual places. But nothing could well be more
drowsy and desultory than this industry as I saw it practised, with the
aid of two or three brown peasants and under the eye of a solitary
douanier who strolled on the little quay beneath the western wall.
"C'est bien plaisant, c'est bien paisible," said this worthy man, with
whom I had some conversation; and pleasant and peaceful is the place
indeed, tho the former of these epithets may suggest an element of
gayety in which Aigues-Mortes is deficient.
The sand, the salt, the dull sea-view, surround it with a bright, quiet
melancholy. There are fifteen towers and nine gates, five of which are
on the southern side, overlooking the water. I walked all round the
place three times (it doesn't take long), but lingered most under the
southern wall, where the afternoon light slept in the dreamiest,
sweetest way. I sat down on an old stone, and looked away to the
desolate salt-marshes and still, shining surface of the étang; and, as
I did so, reflected that this was a queer little out-of-the-world
corner to have been chosen, in the great dominions of either monarch,
for that pompous interview which took place, in 1538, between Francis
I. and Charles V. It was also not easy to perceive how Louis IX., when
in 1248 and 1270 he started for the Holy Land, set his army afloat in
such very undeveloped channels.
An hour later I purchased in the town a little pamphlet by M. Marius
Topin, who undertakes to explain this latter anomaly, and to show that
there is water enough in the port, as we may call it by courtesy, to
have sustained a fleet of crusaders. I was unable to trace the channel
that he points out, but was glad to believe that, as he contends, the
sea has not retreated from the town since the thirteenth century. It
was comfortable to think that things are not so changed as that. M.
Topin indicates that the other French ports of the Mediterranean were
not then "disponibles," and that Aigues-Mortes was the most eligible
spot for an embarkation.
Behind the straight walls and the quiet gates the little town has not
crumbled, like the Cité of Carcassonne. It can hardly be said to be
alive; but if it is dead it has been very neatly embalmed. The hand of
the restorer rests on it constantly; but this artist has not, as at
Carcassonne, had miracles to accomplish. The interior is very still and
empty, with small stony, whitewashed streets, tenanted by a stray dog,
a stray cat, a stray old woman. In the middle is a little place, with
two or three cafés decorated by wide awnings--a little place of which
the principal feature is a very bad bronze statue of Saint Louis by
Pradier. It is almost as bad as the breakfast I had at the inn that
bears the name of that pious monarch.
You may walk round the enceinte of Aigues-Mortes, both outside and in;
but you may not, as at Carcassonne, make a portion of this circuit on
the chemin de ronde, the little projecting footway attached to the
inner face of the battlements. This footway, wide enough only for a
single pedestrian, is in the best order, and near each of the gates a
flight of steps leads up to it; but a locked gate, at the top of the
steps, makes access impossible, or at least unlawful. Aigues-Mortes,
however, has its citadel, an immense tower, larger than any of the
others, a little detached, and standing at the northwest angle of the
town. I called upon the casernier--the custodian of the walls--and in
his absence I was conducted through this big Tour de Constance by his
wife, a very mild, meek woman, yellow with the traces of fever and
ague--a scourge which, as might be expected in a town whose name
denotes "dead waters," enters freely at the nine gates.
The Tour de Constance is of extraordinary girth and solidity, divided
into three superposed circular chambers, with very fine vaults, which
are lighted by embrasures of prodigious depth, converging to windows
little larger than loop-holes. The place served for years as a prison
to many of the Protestants of the south whom the revocation of the
Edict of Nantes had exposed to atrocious penalties, and the annals of
these dreadful chambers during the first half of the last century were
written in tears and blood. Some of the record cases of long
confinement there make one marvel afresh at what man has inflicted and
endured. In a country in which a policy of extermination was to be put
into practise this horrible tower was an obvious resource. From the
battlements at the top, which is surmounted by an old disused
lighthouse, you see the little compact rectangular town, which looks
hardly bigger than a garden-patch, mapped out beneath you, and follow
the plain configuration of its defenses. You take possession of it, and
you feel that you will remember it always.
* * * * *
In general Nîmes is poor; its only treasures are its Roman remains,
which are of the first order. The new French fashions prevail in many
of its streets; the old houses are paltry, and the good houses are new;
while beside my hotel rose a big spick-and-span church, which had the
oddest air of having been intended for Brooklyn or Cleveland....
What nobler ornament can there be than the Roman baths at the foot of
Mont Cavalier, and the delightful old garden that surrounds them? All
that quarter of Nîmes has every reason to be proud of itself; it has
been revealed to the world at large by copious photography. A clear,
abundant stream gushes from the foot of a high hill (covered with trees
and laid out in paths), and is distributed into basins which
sufficiently refer themselves to the period that gave them birth--the
period that has left its stamp on that pompous Peyrou which we admired
at Montpellier. Here are the same terraces and steps and balustrades,
and a system of water-works less impressive, perhaps, but very
ingenious and charming.
The whole place is a mixture of old Rome and of the French eighteenth
century; for the remains of the antique baths are in a measure
incorporated in the modern fountains. In a corner of this umbrageous
precinct stands a small Roman ruin, which is known as a temple of
Diana, but was more apparently a nymphaeum, and appears to have had a
graceful connection with the adjacent baths. I learn from Murray that
this little temple, of the period of Augustus, "was reduced to its
present state of ruin in 1577;" the moment at which the towns-people,
threatened with a siege by the troops of the crown, partly demolished
it, lest it should serve as a cover to the enemy. The remains are very
fragmentary, but they serve to show that the place was lovely. I spent
half an hour in it on a perfect Sunday morning (it is enclosed by a
high grille, carefully tended, and has a warden of its own), and with
the help of my imagination tried to reconstruct a little the aspect of
things in the Gallo-Roman days.
I do wrong, perhaps, to say that I tried; from a flight so deliberate I
should have shrunk. But there was a certain contagion of antiquity in
the air; and among the ruins of baths and temples, in the very spot
where the aqueduct that crosses the Garden in the wondrous manner I had
seen discharged itself, the picture of a splendid paganism seemed
vaguely to glow. Roman baths--Roman baths; those words alone were a
scene.
Everything was changed; I was strolling in a jardin français; the bosky
slope of the Mont Cavalier (a very modest mountain), hanging over the
place, is crowded with a shapeless tower, which is as likely to be of
medieval as of antique origin; and yet, as I leaned on the parapet of
one of the fountains, where a flight of curved steps (a hemicycle, as
the French say) descended into a basin full of dark, cool recesses,
where the slabs of the Roman foundations gleam through the clear green
water--as in this attitude I surrendered myself to contemplation and
reverie, it seemed to me that I touched for a moment the ancient world.
Such moments are illuminating, and the light of this one mingles, in my
memory, with the dusky greenness of the Jardin de la Fontaine.
The fountain proper--the source of all these distributed waters--is the
prettiest thing in the world, a reduced copy of Vaucluse. It gushes up
at the foot of the Mont Cavalier, at a point where that eminence rises
with a certain cliff-like effect, and, like other springs in the same
circumstances, appears to issue from the rock with a sort of quivering
stillness. I trudge up the Mont Cavalier,--it is a matter of five
minutes,--and having committed this cockneyism enhanced it presently by
another. I ascended the stupid Tour Magne, the mysterious structure I
mentioned a moment ago. The only feature of this dateless tube, except
the inevitable collection of photographs to which you are introduced by
the doorkeeper, is the view you enjoy from its summit. This view is, of
course, remarkably fine but I am ashamed to say I have not the smallest
recollection of it; for while I looked into the brilliant spaces of the
air I seemed still to see only what I saw in the depths of the Roman
baths--the image, disastrously confused and vague, of a vanished world.
This world, however, has left at Nîmes a far more considerable memento
than a few old stones covered with water-moss.
The Roman arena is the rival of those of Verona and of Arles; at a
respectful distance it emulates the Colosseum. It is a small Colosseum,
if I may be allowed the expression, and is in a much better
preservation than the great circus at Rome. This is especially true of
the external walls, with their arches, pillars, cornices. I must add
that one should not speak of preservation, in regard to the arena at
Nîmes, without speaking also of repair. After the great ruin ceased to
be despoiled, it began to be protected, and most of its wounds have
been drest with new material. These matters concern the archeologist;
and I felt here, as I felt afterward at Arles, that one of the profane,
in the presence of such a monument, can only admire and hold his
tongue. The great impression, on the whole, is an impression of wonder
that so much should have survived. What remains at Nîmes, after all
dilapidation is estimated, is astounding.
I spent an hour in the Arènes on that same sweet Sunday morning, as I
came back from the Roman baths, and saw that the corridors, the vaults,
the staircases, the external casing, are still virtually there. Many of
these parts are wanting in the Colosseum, whose sublimity of size,
however, can afford to dispense with detail. The seats at Nîmes, like
those at Verona, have been largely renewed; not that this mattered
much, as I lounged on the cool surface of one of them, and admired the
mighty concavity of the place and the elliptical sky-line, broken by
uneven blocks and forming the rim of the monstrous cup--a cup that had
been filled with horrors, and yet I made my reflections; I said to
myself that tho a Roman arena is one of the most impressive of the
works of man, it has a touch of that same stupidity which I ventured to
discover in the Pont du Gard. It is brutal; it is monotonous; it is not
at all exquisite.
The Arènes at Nîmes were arranged for a bull-fight--a form of
recreation that, as I was informed, is much dans les habitudes Nîmoises
and very common throughout Provence, where (still according to my
information) it is the usual pastime of a Sunday afternoon. At Arles
and Nîmes it has a characteristic setting, but in the villages the
patrons of the game make a circle of carts and barrels, on which the
spectators perch themselves. I was surprised at the prevalence, in mild
Provence, of the Iberian vice, and hardly know whether it makes the
custom more respectable that at Nîmes and Arles the thing is shabbily
and imperfectly done. The bulls are rarely killed, and indeed often are
bulls only in the Irish sense of the term--being domestic and motherly
cows. Such an entertainment of course does not supply to the arena that
element of the exquisite which I spoke of as wanting.
The exquisite at Nîmes is mainly represented by the famous Maison
Carrée. The first impression you receive from this delicate little
building, as you stand before it, is that you have already seen it many
times. Photographs, engravings, models, medals, have placed it
definitely in your eye, so that from the sentiment with which you
regard it curiosity and surprise are almost completely, and perhaps
deplorably absent. Admiration remains however--admiration of a familiar
and even slightly patronizing kind. The Maison Carrée does not
overwhelm you; you can conceive it. It is not one of the great
sensations of antique art; but it is perfectly felicitous, and, in
spite of having been put to all sorts of incongruous uses, marvelously
preserved. Its slender columns, its delicate proportions, its charming
compactness, seemed to bring one nearer to the century that built it
than the great superpositions of arenas and bridges, and give it the
interest that vibrates from one age to another when the note of taste
is struck.
If anything were needed to make this little toy-temple a happy
production, the service would be rendered by the second-rate boulevard
that conducts to it, adorned with inferior cafés and tobacco-shops.
Here, in a respectable recess, surrounded by vulgar habitations, and
with the theater, of a classic pretension, opposite, stands the small
"square house," so called because it is much longer than it is broad. I
saw it first in the evening, in the vague moonlight, which made it look
as if it were cast in bronze. Stendhal says, justly, that it has the
shape of a playing-card, and he expresses his admiration for it by the
singular wish that an "exact copy" of it should be erected in Paris. He
even goes as far as to say that in the year 1880 this tribute will have
been rendered to its charms; nothing would be more simple, to his mind,
than to "have" in that city "le Panthéon de Rome, quelques temples de
Grèce." Stendhal found it amusing to write in the character of a
commis-voyageur, and sometimes it occurs to his reader that he really
was one.
Arles and Les Baux
By Henry James
[Footnote: From "A Little Tour in France." By special arrangement with,
and by permission of, the publishers, Houghton, Mifflin Co. Copyright,
1884.]
There are two shabby old inns at Arles, which compete closely for your
custom. I mean by this that if you elect to go to the Hôtel du Forum,
the Hôtel du Nord, which is placed exactly beside it (at a right
angle), watches your arrival with ill-concealed disapproval; and if you
take the chances of its neighbor, the Hôtel du Forum seems to glare at
you invidiously from all its windows and doors. I forget which of these
establishments I selected; whichever it was, I wished very much that it
had been the other.
The two stand together on the Place des Hommes, a little public square
of Arles, which somehow quite misses its effect. As a city, indeed,
Arles quite misses its effect in every way; and if it is a charming
place, as I think it is, I can hardly tell the reason why. The
straight-nosed Arlésiennes account for it in some degree; and the
remainder may be charged to the ruins of the arena and the theater.
Beyond this, I remember with affection the ill-proportioned little
Place des Hommes; not at all monumental, and given over to puddles and
to shabby cafés. I recall with tenderness the tortuous and featureless
streets, which looked like the streets of a village, and were paved
with villainous little sharp stones, making all exercise penitential.
Consecrated by association is even a tiresome walk that I took the
evening I arrived, with the purpose of obtaining a view of the Rhone. I
had been to Arles before, years ago, and it seemed to me that I
remembered finding on the banks of the stream some sort of picture. I
think that on the evening of which I speak there was a watery moon,
which it seemed to me would light up the past as well as the present.
But I found no picture, and I scarcely found the Rhone at all. I lost
my way, and there was not a creature in the streets to whom I could
appeal. Nothing could be more provincial than the situation of Arles at
ten o'clock at night. At last I arrived at a kind of embankment, where
I could see the great mud-colored stream slipping along in the
soundless darkness. It had come on to rain, I know not what had
happened to the moon, and the whole place was anything but gay. It was
not what I had looked for; what I had looked for was in the
irrecoverable past. I groped my way back to the inn over the infernal
cailloux, feeling like a discomfited Dogberry.
I remember now that this hotel was the one (whichever that may be)
which has the fragment of a Gallo-Roman portico inserted into one of
its angles. I had chosen it for the sake of this exceptional ornament.
It was damp and dark, and the floors felt gritty to the feet; it was an
establishment at which the dreadful "gras-double" might have appeared
at the table d'hôte, as it had done at Narbonne. Nevertheless, I was
glad to get back to it; and nevertheless, too--and this is the moral of
my simple anecdote--my pointless little walk (I don't speak of the
pavement) suffuses itself, as I look back upon it, with a romantic
tone. And in relation to the inn, I suppose I had better mention that I
am well aware of the inconsistency of a person who dislikes the modern
caravansary, and yet grumbles when he finds a hotel of the
superannuated sort, one ought to choose, it would seem, and make the
best of either alternative. The two old taverns at Arles are quite
unimproved; such as they must have been in the infancy of the modern
world, when Stendhal passed that way, and the lumbering diligence
deposited him in the Place des Hommes, such in every detail they are
to-day. Vieilles auberges de France, one ought to enjoy their gritty
floors and greasy windowpanes. Let it be put on record, therefore, that
I have been, I won't say less comfortable, but at least less happy, at
better inns.
To be really historic, I should have mentioned that before going to
look for the Rhone I had spent part of the evening on the opposite side
of the little place, and that I indulged in this recreation for two
definite reasons. One of these was that I had an opportunity of
conversing at a café with an attractive young Englishman, whom I had
met in the afternoon at Tarascon, and more remotely, in other years, in
London; the other was that there sat enthroned behind the counter a
splendid mature Arlésienne, whom my companion and I agreed that it was
a rare privilege to comtemplate.
There is no rule of good manners or morals which makes it improper, at
a café to fix one's eyes upon the dame de comptoir; the lady is, in the
nature of things, a part of your "consommation." We were therefore free
to admire without restriction the handsomest person I had ever seen
give change for a five-franc piece. She was a large quiet woman, who
would never see forty again; of an intensely feminine type, yet
wonderfully rich and robust, and full of a certain physical nobleness.
Tho she was not really old, she was antique, and she was very grave,
even a little sad. She had the dignity of a Roman empress, and she
handled coppers as if they had been stamped with the head of Caesar.
I have seen washerwomen in the Trastevere who were perhaps as handsome
as she; but even the head-dress of the Roman contadina contributes less
to the dignity of the person born to wear it than the sweet and stately
Arlesian cap, which sits at once aloft and on the back of the head;
which is accompanied with a wide black bow covering a considerable part
of the crown; and which, finally, accomodates itself indescribably well
to the manner in which the tresses of the front are pushed behind the
ears.
This admirable dispenser of lumps of sugar has distracted me a little;
for I am still not sufficiently historical. Before going to the café I
had dined, and before dining I had found time to go and look at the
arena. Then it was that I discovered that Arles has no general
physiognomy, and, except the delightful little church of Saint
Trophimus, no architecture, and that the rugosities of its dirty lanes
affect the feet like knife-blades. It was not then, on the other hand,
that I saw the arena best. The second day of my stay at Arles I devoted
to a pilgrimage to the strange old hill town of Les Baux, the medieval
Pompeii, of which I shall give myself the pleasure of speaking.